Calli | 25 | She/her occasional NSFW reblogs, occasionally write imagines, one-shots, drabbles Mainly Supernatural, Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Marvel Requests: Closed Inbox: Open More on Wattpad/Ao3 @ ForeverYours_xox
DESCRIPTION: Your boyfriend, Jack, works the night shift. So you made yourself a nighttime routine of pouring a glass of wine and dancing to music so you can fall asleep …that is, until Jack comes home early one night and catches you dancing to Sabrina Carpenter.
WORD COUNT: 1.8k (Blurb!)
WARNINGS: Established relationship! Fluff. Domestic fluff. Drinking wine. Implications of smut. Singing and dancing :3
READ ON AO3! - MASTERLIST
Having a boyfriend who worked the night shift was something to get used to. As much as Y/n wanted to fall asleep lying on top of him every night, she did her best to understand. The ED was his career. She couldn’t possibly pull him away from that. Anyways, she definitely took advantage of the weekends where they’d nap all day, tangled in a mess of blankets warmed by the sun.
So she had a little nighttime tradition to put herself to sleep. She’d get back from work a few hours before Jack left for the night, so she’d spend as much time as she could with him. And after he’d leave, she’d turn off all the overhead lights, leaving only the warm lamps on. Pour herself a glass of wine. Turn the TV on to Spotify. And she’d dance around the house in her pajamas until she exhausted herself. It was a fun way to get some movement in after sitting at a desk all day, and it put her right to sleep.
Friday night, she’d gotten back from work a little later and didn’t see the usual sight of Jack packing his duffel. She checked the time and figured he’d left for work early. She decided to send a text anyway.
Y: Hiiiiii, did you leave for work early today?
Setting her phone on the counter, she took a shower, singing along to her playlist. Warming up her voice for the prestigious performance about to take place. Then got into her matching PJ set of a red gingham tank and matching booty shorts. As she rubbed coffee-scented lotion on her skin and even spritzed some matching body spray, her stress from the day started to dissipate.
She strutted back out to the main area of the house, grabbing the TV remote. It was definitely a Sabrina Carpenter kind of day. Putting her two latest albums on shuffle, she skipped to the kitchen as Good Graces started to play. The choice made a hard laugh bubble up as she had just had a rough day with her hellish supervisor. She put a middle finger up to an invisible camera as she poured herself a glass of red wine.
Mmm mmm mmm. This was gonna hit the spot.
Forty-five minutes later, she was a decent bit tipsy. She had alternated between scrolling on her phone and dancing. By this point, she was singing along to Bed Chem and looking at herself in the mirror. That full-length mirror by their bed had been witness to rounds upon rounds of… unspeakable things. Occasionally, she also loved to torture Jack at work with mirror selfies of herself scantily clad. So she took some pictures of her kneeling on the bed and sent them to Jack, who hadn’t replied quite yet. That was another aspect she had to get used to… he was a very busy man.
OOO- she should cue Busy Woman next.
Jack Abbot got home at a normal time for once in his life. As he stepped down from his Jeep, he slung his duffel over his shoulder. He could hear something muffled from the inside. The TV? Maybe Y/n was watching a movie?
As soon as he opened the door, he froze a little at the sound of a glitzy pop song playing. It sounded like a disco was happening as the fun music echoed off the walls. He recognized that it was definitely Sabrina Carpenter from the times he gave her AUX in the Jeep. But he didn’t really remember the song.
“HOUSE TOUR! I COULD TAKE YOU TO THE FIRST, SECOND, THIRD FLOOR!” His girlfriend’s voice sang out from down the hall.
A smile grew on his face as he shut the door as quietly as possible. He looked over and saw Spotify open on the TV. A coffee-scented candle permeated the air, and it relaxed his tense shoulders. Looking over to the kitchen counter, he could see an open bottle of wine. Well, he certainly was gonna help himself to that soon.
He set his duffel down and slowly meandered toward the sound of her voice. The smile behind her voice was apparent in her giggles at every innuendo.
Reaching the bedroom, he leaned against the door and took in the sight of his girlfriend dancing with her eyes closed. The reflection in the mirror provided him with all angles. It was the most perfect view to come home to after a long shift. He crossed his arms and bit back a shit-eating grin. The way her hips swayed to the beat. Her arms in the air. The little red gingham shorts rode up her ass, creating the most perfect view for him.
“I PROMISE NONE OF THIS IS A METAPHOR. I JUST WANT YOU TO COME INSIDE.” She put out a pointer finger and started rocking her ass to the beat, “BUT NEVER ENTER THROUGH THE BACK DOOR!”
Her laugh cut through the air. His brow raised. What the hell kind of lyric was that?
She opened her eyes and let out a horrified scream at the sudden sight of Jack’s silhouette in the mirror. She collapsed to the floor on instinct.
“OHMYGOD.”
Jack laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. He ran over to her, hiding behind the side of the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare ya. You were just so cute-” He reached his hand out.
She took it, and he pulled her up, causing her to stumble into his grip. She smacked his chest multiple times.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack! What are you doing here?! I thought you left for work.”
He chuckled, brushing her messy hair out of her face. “Robby was sick, so I took over for the day shift today. Did I not tell you?”
“NO!” She put her hands to her face, “And you didn’t respond to my texts either.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was exhausted. Long, long shift… Though seeing you dance woke me right back up.” His big hands held her waist. His thumb brushed up and down under her loose tank.
“I just- Well- I-” She stammered as if she needed to explain herself.
He kissed her. The wine on her lips made his head buzz.
“Don’t be embarrassed. Seems like you were having fun.” He reassured, “And with the wine on the counter? I’d love to join… if that’s okay.”
She looked up at him and nodded excitedly, “I’ll pour you a glass.”
With a quick peck to the lips, she took his hand and led him to the kitchen. Her legs wobbled a bit under the influence.
In the kitchen, they flowed like water. He grabbed the wine glass from over the fridge and slid it over to her. She caught it and poured him a hefty glass. He grabbed her wrist, prying the wine glass back upright.
“Whoa whoa whoa. Tryna get me drunk, baby?”
“Absolutely.” She giggled as Sugar Talking started playing.
He took a sip and leaned down to kiss her. “I’m such a lucky man. Coming home to my pretty girl, all happy and dancing. Looking gorgeous as always.” He kissed her cheek.
She rubbed her hands up and down his chest. “Mmm… Wanna know a secret? I do this every night you go to work.” She pushed the wine glass back up to his lips.
“Oh?” He asked before taking another long sip.
“I get lonely, and it’s hard to sleep without you here. So I… do this to relax. Unwind.”
His eyes softened, and he set the wine glass down onto the marble island.
“I’m sorry I can’t be here.” He said softly.
“Don’t be. It’s your career. I’d never ask you to change it for me.”
“I’m glad you’ve found this… routine. My very capable girl.” He smiled, and he started nodding along to the song, “Which one’s this one? I like it.”
“Sugar Talking. By Sabrina Carpenter.”
She felt his hands wrap around her waist. He started to sway them together. She giggled, much more tipsy than him at this point. He traced a finger from her shoulder down to her hand and took it. They danced in the dimly lit kitchen. The warm candlelight lit them just enough to make out their eyes sparkling in each other’s gaze. His forehead pressed against hers. A deep sigh relaxed his whole body.
“Just what I needed.” He murmured.
“Me too.”
They swayed a little more, and he started to listen to the lyrics. Put your loving where your mouth is. Yeah, your paragraphs mean shit to me.
His brows furrowed, “This isn’t a very romantic song.”
“Shhh… Don’t listen to the lyrics.”
“What were the lyrics to that other one you were dancing to?” He asked, chuckling, “‘Never enter through the back door?’”
Her face flushed bright red, and she tucked her forehead into his chest as she laughed.
“She’s a very genius songwriter, okay?”
He nodded with a small smirk and kissed her temple, “Okay.”
An hour later, they were both sufficiently tipsy. They spent the time sharing music and talking about the lyrics. She played through some Sabrina Carpenter, some Djo, and a little bit of Ethel Cain- at least the songs he may actually like from each artist. And he played through some classic 80s and 90s grunge and rock.
By the time he got to some of the popular Soundgarden songs, she was curled up on the couch with him. His head tilted down to admire her, cuddled up against him. Her eyelids were heavy from the wine. His hand scratched the back of her scalp, and the motion was soothing to both of them. He was also getting pretty tired, the exhaustion from the day settling in. He leaned down and whispered into her hair,
“Your nighttime routine is very efficient… Wanna go to sleep?”
She nodded and kissed his shoulder before getting up. The chorus of Black Hole Sun hung in the air as she stretched. He stood up and turned the TV off, leaving them both in a cozy quiet. The first bit of silence Abbot had experienced since he woke up. He let out a relaxed sigh and reached out to hold her hand.
They made their way into the bedroom with their hands intertwined, and they moved as if they had done this a hundred times before, despite the fact that Jack worked most nights. She collapsed onto the bed dramatically, and he chuckled as he crawled into bed beside her. He took the comforter out from underneath her and tucked her in. She scooched over to drape her leg over his waist. Her face tucked into the natural crevice of his neck and shoulder.
“I like saying goodnight to you.” She murmured.
“I do too… Goodnight, Y/n.”
A small, sleepy smile grew on her face. “Goodnight, Jack.”
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
♡ synopsis: when the day of your birthday rolls around, no one but you seems to know about it. what you'd hoped would be a good day ends in upset when robby lays into you for making a mistake. come the following afternoon, he & jack are made aware of how they screwed up & make strides to set things right.
♡ content: angst, grumpy!robby, they're both pining for reader as always, mohan is a sweetie, you get (1) sad cupcake
♡ a/n: based off this request. ty!
For some birthdays in the Pitt—given people are aware one is upcoming—a couple balloons and a store-bought cake might be brought into the Employee Lounge for all to enjoy in spare moments between the never-ending flow of emergent patients. Granted, a show isn't exactly made out of the celebration with colorful streamers, decorative party hats, and screeching noise makers, but even so, just the possibility of other people making a grand display out of your "special day" is a horrifying thought.
Being the center of attention for even a moment while someone else lies but a few yards away bleeding from a bullet wound? Couldn't be you.
Nevertheless, you can't help but wish for one holiday—personal or otherwise—where a flower delivery or gift box might be delivered to your place of work with a romantic message attached.
Today is no different in you entertaining such wishful thinking when you come walking through the ED's sliding doors.
There's a pin-up in the Lounge with a long list of everyone's birth dates with balloon clipart placed crookedly at the top, so surely someone will have remembered and gotten you a cheap cupcake, or even just a basic card with a couple signatures scrawled within.
As you take a peek inside while passing by, however, you see nothing of the sort awaiting you. Just an empty table, and counter space full of upside down mugs and a coffee machine—same as ever.
Deflating, you mentally shrug and make your way to your locker. It's better this way. Had anyone remembered—or just known in general—then word would spread like wildfire all the way up to reception, meaning you'd have to awkwardly thank every well wisher who crossed your path for the remainder of your shift.
Saves you the trouble.
You're working up an individual who came in complaining of lower back pain and difficulty urinating—which you've pretty well chalked up to most likely being kidney stones—when Robby raps his knuckles against the propped open door behind you.
Glancing to him over your shoulder, you briefly halt your assessment of your patient. "Yeah?"
He beckons you forth with an index finger. "C'mere, something I need to talk to you about." He feigns a smile for the middle-aged man in front of you and states that you'll be back momentarily.
Following him out, Robby pulls you into an empty room and shuts the door after you've entered.
"Is something wrong?" You ask innocently while gazing up at him with furrowed brows.
"Do you remember the woman from earlier? Mrs. Jacobson?"
You nod.
"She's been up in Plastics waiting for an hour to be seen because her chart was never finished down here."
Your stomach sinks. You'd meant to get to that before being side-tracked by needing to use the restroom, and then there'd been a thing with Whittaker's patient vomiting all over the floor, so you'd fetched housekeeping, and then—
"So imagine my surprise when one of their nurses takes time out of her day to come down asking after it and I find out you've already moved onto another patient."
You open your mouth to reply, until he holds up a palm to stop you.
"You know our protocol," Robby says sternly. "If they're being referred to another floor or physician, you make sure their information is up to date and their chart complete before you begin work on anything else." He takes a small step forward, and you shrink into yourself.
With him towering over you like this, you feel like a child being scolded by its parent after it forgot to do an assigned chore on the daily chart.
"So I trust you have a good reason why you didn't do as much," he states while folding his arms.
You blink back tears. "I—I forgot. I'm so—"
He throws his head back, pinches the bridge of his nose, then returns to his previous stance. "That's no excuse for being neglectful. Gloria is up my ass all day long about patient satisfaction bullshit and now this!"
Your chin wobbles.
"Get back in there," he says while pointing at the wall to the right, where your patient awaits your return on the other side, "Finish up with what you're currently doing, then get both charts done. Understood?"
You nod while sniffling. "Y-Yes."
He rolls his eyes, then steps past you to the door. Once he's opened it and waved you out, you scurry past him in a panic.
You keep your head down for the remainder of the day. Figuratively and literally. You're diligent in your work, and hold your bladder so long at one point—just to get a bit more charting done—that you nearly have an accident in the hallway.
When evening time rolls around and your workday is coming to a close, Robby goes in search of you to apologize for his earlier treatment after his temper has cooled, but when he comes into your line-of-sight, you turn and hurry in the other direction.
Thinking he may be able to catch you outside, he makes for the doors to the ambulance bay and only just catches the sight of you speed-walking past Abbot while mumbling a quick 'Goodnight' before marching on.
"The hell did you do to our girl?" Abbot asks while readjusting the strap of the camo backpack that's slung over his shoulder.
Robby sighs and sinks his hands into the pockets of his coat. "She got behind on a patient's chart who went upstairs and I might've been a little hard on her about it because I was already in a mood. She's been avoiding me all day because of it."
Jack glares at him. "So, in other words, you've been taking frustrations with HR bullshit out on our star pupil?"
He shakes his head and goes to step away.
"Do you want her to leave us for Westbridge?" Jack calls from behind him.
Gritting his teeth and looking skyward, Robby huffs in irritation before turning back on his heel. "She isn't that damn fragile, Jack."
He shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. But you get snippy with her again and I'll put her on night shift with me."
Robby curses lowly. "It was one conversation. You don't need to jump to extremes just because you want her all to yourself."
Jack purses his lips and Robby smirks. "Since we both know that that's what this whole conversation is truly about—less her and more you."
Turning his back on him, the vet shoots up a middle finger before hobbling inside.
On the way home, you pick up a small cupcake that's your favorite flavor and decorated with pretty, sparkly swirls of icing on top, as well as a small pack of multi-color birthday candles.
Once you're settled in for the night, you save the sugary treat for dessert after eating a filling dinner.
Sitting in the silence of your apartment, you quietly sing 'Happy birthday to me' before blowing out the singular candle stuck in the middle of your pastry before plucking it out and taking a bite.
Somehow by eating it alone, however, it doesn't taste as good as you'd hoped.
"Oh! Oh, Y/N!" Mohan calls from the nurses station.
You glance up from the manilla folder you're currently carrying to Trauma 4 and meet her smile with a raised brow.
"We're playing this game that involves astrological signs," she explains.
Santos shakes her head. "It's stupid. Trust me, you do not wanna bother."
Whittaker grins. "I dunno, I think it's kinda neat."
"What's yours?" Samira asks.
You clutch the folder to your chest and snicker. "No offense or anything, but I don't believe in all that. I just think the definitions are broad enough that you can make things fit if you really want to."
When you make to step away, she shrugs and begins typing. "Well, I could just pull up your employee profile to figure it out for myself."
Your eyes grow wide when you turn back in her direction. Tripping over your own feet, you stumble over to where she sits. "Oh, no, that's fine! I could just tell you what it is. I'm a—"
"Oh," she says with slight surprise.
"What, is she the crab or whatever?" Trinity asks.
Mohan looks up to you with knitted brows. "Your birthday was yesterday."
You don't see it, but Robby, who's standing a handful of feet behind you reading over an EKG, turns to look in your direction over his glasses.
Jack, who's just exited an exam room, meets his gaze and shakes his head. Not because he's disappointed in Robby per se, but rather the both of them for not knowing, or so much as making an effort to keep such an important date in mind.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Mel questions while walking over.
"I..." You grasp for explanation.
"Yeah, we would've gotten you something," Mohan reassures sweetly.
"Maybe Huckleberry could get you a pumpkin from the farm," Trinity adds sarcastically.
"It's just another day on a calendar," you say quietly. "It isn't important." Just another year spent alone, you think.
Jack's heart shatters for you.
"Well that's depressing," Trin commentates before pushing off the counter and getting back to work.
You swallow thickly while taking a step back. "I'm just gonna—" You wave the folder you currently hold in the air before walking away.
"How did you not know?" Jack questions from beside Robby.
Throwing his glasses down on the surface before him, which his elbows rest upon, he runs his hands down his face. "I had other things on my mind, like taking care of patients. Not cake and balloon animals," he says while clasping his palms together and turning his head in Jack's direction.
Jack crosses his arms. "She got you a gift for yours, or have you already forgotten that fact?"
It'd been simple, but handmade. Which made the item mean even more to him: an embroidered piece. The Shema Prayer in Hebrew. When you found him during PittFest in Peds, you'd heard him reciting it. Had gone so far as to ask quietly about it later.
He cried the night he hung it up in his home because you had cared enough to make such a loving gesture in the first place while the others simply purchased a cheap card from a Hallmark store down the street.
"Of course I remember," he says lowly. "I touch it every night when I get home and every morning before I leave. Because she's the one it came from."
You'd pulled him aside that day—had held the tips of his fingers as you led him into the Lounge before presenting it to him with shaking hands.
"The letters might be a little crooked," you'd explained quietly. "But I did my best."
His eyes had grown glassy as he cradled it between his palms.
"Do... Do you not like it? That day... Maybe I've upset you—"
He'd shook his head while sniffling. And then he'd smiled. "No, sweetheart, it's perfect. Thank you...for being so thoughtful."
It'd felt so right when he pulled you against his chest before wrapping his arms around you.
"Then we need to fix this," Jack retorts.
He nods. "I know."
"Hey, doll," Dana calls to you while adjusting her hair clip.
"Yes?"
"Somebody dropped off some snacks earlier in the Employee Lounge. One of those assorted chip boxes. Go grab ya a couple before everybody else takes 'em."
"Oh. Okay."
Heading in that direction, you secretly hope that there's Cheetos. Or maybe white cheddar popcorn. Classic Lays sounds good, too, though.
Alright, so maybe you're feeling just a bit peckish.
Swinging around the corner and into the aforementioned room, you halt in your tracks. Sitting atop the table that's pushed off to the side is a glass vase filled to the brim with soft pink roses and baby's breath. Clutching it is a fluffy brown teddy bear.
It's not... It's not for you, though. You know that.
Glancing around, you fail to spot the box in question. Maybe it's already been emptied?
Sighing with disappointment, you turn to exit, but are stopped by Robby blocking the doorway. Leaning against it with crossed arms, he smiles warmly at you. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
Your eyes flit between his as a lump develops in your throat. "It... It's for me?"
He nods, then glances to it while jerking his chin in the direction of your gift. "Read the card."
Turning around yet again, you wander over to it and pull the item in question from the cardette.
The day of your birth is more than worth celebrating. Without it, we wouldn't be able to look forward to seeing you every day.
Love, J & R
Tears brim in your eyes and you sniffle quietly. Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you keep hold of the item while repeatedly telling yourself not to cry.
You jump slightly when the chair next to you is pulled out and Jack seats himself heavily upon it. "Do you like it, then?"
You nod and a tear slips down your cheek.
Coming to stand at your side, Robby pulls you against the wealth of his chest just like before, which you snuggle contentedly against, appreciating the softness and warmth it provides.
"I always wanted flowers delivered," you whisper. "On my birthday. Or...Valentine's Day."
Jack's eyes flit to Robby, who smirks and gives him a knowing look. Future plans.
"But never had anyone who'd..." You trail off. "Well, never had anyone."
Jack grabs your hand and tugs you down onto his thigh. "Getting a cake delivered last minute was sort of out of the question, but—"
You shake your head. "I got myself a cupcake last night."
Somehow, that makes the pair of them feel impossibly worse about the whole situation: the thought of you at home having just a singular cupcake on your lonesome. They'll certainly be unlikely to forget your birthday next year, if nothing else.
Running his palm down your back, Jack leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. "Happy birthday, honey."
♡ summary: after another grueling shift, you feel like you're at your wit's end. on the verge of a mental break & about to make an irreversible decision, jack finds you on the rooftop & talks you down... both literally & metaphorically.
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, suicidal ideation, mention of an abused child, mention of strangulation/reader being attacked, reader has a panic attack, jack is soft & possessive but only for her
Overlooking the glass and concrete structures which neighbor PTMC, a hand flutters toward your bruised throat which is still in the process of healing. It has been for two weeks now. It's no longer an angry purple—a sight which has earned you numerous uneasy stares, accompanied by whispered questions as patients glanced to your bare ring finger—but has morphed into an ugly, vomit-colored green shade instead.
The shape of fingerprints still remain, though. Thumbs imprinted onto your windpipe while the remaining digits wrap around the back of your neck.
When you think back on what happened, it seems like a mirage. Unclear, blurred, with the series of events jumbled and out of order. The clearer image only ever comes to you when you sleep.
That's when you wake up screaming.
The reasons as to why differ greatly. The one thing they all have in common is their origin. The hospital being the source of all your wounds—visible or otherwise.
A couple months ago, the reasons for your unrest had stemmed from a ped's case. A four-year-old boy who continually wavered in and out of consciousness. When he was alert, or as much as he could be, given his situation, all he did was scream. Ceaselessly.
When one of your legs is hanging on only by the tendons, you suppose such a reaction is more than reasonable.
The parents were carted away by the police, and the boy eventually by CPS.
There's hardly ever happy endings here, where you feel stationed at the end of all things. At the end of... people's lives.
How many have you failed to help save now? You think the number has spilled past the fingers on both your hands.
You blink and more hot tears slip down your cheeks. You're so tired. As you stare down at the plummeting depths below, you take comfort in knowing there's still yet one way to find rest, albeit permanently. Trying to confide in another hasn't gotten you very far. Indeed, it made things impossibly worse, in fact.
Since starting your position here at the hospital, Dr. Robinavitch is someone you've admired. In many ways. His skill, knowledge, and quick thinking. How he can always be relied upon when one finds theirself between a rock and a hard place. So when the roof became all you could think about—it, and a bottle of pills, coupled with a tall glass of potent wine—you thought to go to him to unburden. He more than anyone would understand, right? Would know what to say to let you know that you weren't drowning; that a hand was being held out for you to hold onto.
Of course you'd considered going to Jack instead, but with him being the attending you spend hours on end with every night, you didn't want him to see you any differently. Weak. Unstable. Unreliable.
Him treating you like fine China after a frenzied patient cornered you in their room, slammed you to the floor, and crawled on top of you before wrapping their hands around your throat and screaming all the horrible things he was going to do to you once he killed you has been difficult enough. The others see it now: how he's begun to baby you—is constantly asking if you need to take a break or go get a snack like a damn toddler—so divulging that you've been having self-destructive thoughts was absolutely out of the question.
It had been at the tail end of Robby's daytime shift when you finally felt you'd gathered the courage to finally speak up, assuming it was the best moment to approach him, with nothing being left on his plate before he was due to go home.
He's been struggling lately as well, though. A fact that was made abundantly clear to you when he proceeded to berate you in the middle of the hall, pulling no punches as he unleashed a torrent of pent-up frustration, while all you could do in response was stare up at him in terror, flinching each time one of his hands flapped in exasperation at his side, sure that it would soon make contact with one of your cheeks that were flushed from humiliation.
That was the day you made your decision. A decision which brought you to where you now stand.
No one cares.
No one will miss you when you're gone.
You know that now.
It's easier this way. No more fighting, no more fear, no more feigning smiles and 'Yes, I'm fine' or 'Just tired is all' in response to questions you wish people would stop asking, thus forcing you back into those darkened moments you desperately wish you could forget.
Just as you make to step forward, a door swings open, squeaking on metal hinges.
“Starting to think I may need to find a new spot,” calls a familiar voice a handful of feet behind you.
Jack.
Sorry for the inconvenience, you want to say. I'll be leaving soon.
There's a quiet scuff of sneakers against tar and crunching gravel. “Pretty close to the edge there.”
You've great skills of deduction, doctor.
“Y/N.”
He comes closer, unsettled by the unmoving sight of you. It's a familiar one, like he's looking in a shattered mirror.
You jolt when a heavy hand settles on your tense shoulder. “Don't.”
Your chin wobbles. Just the thought of opening your mouth to formulate a reply feels equivalent to ascending Mount Everest.
“We can talk about this, just come back over the railing. I'll stay out here all night if I have to. C'mon.”
You shake your head fervently while biting down on your lower lip. Your resolve is unraveling. Your mind unwinding. Why didn't you do it earlier? Why did you waver?
“It's been a rough couple of weeks. I know. Just—”
You jerk your shoulder away. A movement which sends you teetering.
A scream rips past your lips and your arms flail helplessly at your side as your balance shifts. Panic swallows you whole. You've changed your mind. You've made a terrible, terrible mistake. Not like this. God, please, not like this!
Jack yanks against your wrist, forcing you slam into his chest before he reels back and you both fall, but against the safety of the rooftop.
Wide-eyed and trembling, you're unable to make your limbs cooperate, despite your best efforts. They feel heavy now—leaden, even—and your mind petrified from what just nearly happened.
Jack forces himself into an upright position before situating you next—his hands roaming and adjusting your limbs, bringing you in closer so that he can assess you for injuries. He lifts your head, checking for alertness. “Hey, hey, Y/N, look at me.”
Your head swims while you glance around frantically, searching for a way out. He can't see you like this. No one can see. You can feel it rising up, about to overcome you.
“Y/N, look, I'm here. It's alright now. You're fine. Everything is gonna be fine.”
You shove against his chest while gritting your teeth. “Let me go! I have to—ha-have to—”
Your chest constricts and your throat tightens. It's happening again. You're being strangled. Breath is being cut short, and— You raise a hand to your throat. Unable to swallow or speak or breathe, you stare at Jack in a panic, clawing at his chest to help you. Intubation, or CPR, or—
He cups your face in each of his hands to keep you steady. “Five things. Alright? We're gonna do five things. Five things you can see. Now. Go.”
You bunch up the dark blue material of his scrubs and yank.
“No, honey, tell it to me. Say it. What is it?”
“S-Shirt!” You spit.
“Goood,” he drawls with a slow nod. “Four more. Go on.”
From the corner of your eye, you catch a glint of metal. “Watch.”
Your eyes flit to the door behind him. “Door. AC.”
Looking at him again, you study his lips. “Lips.”
They twitch then, verging on a smirk accentuated by grey and silver stubble. “Smell. Five things you can smell.”
“Food. Something—something fried.”
He chuckles.
You don't laugh in return. But you do take note of a slight loosening. Of your chest. Your shoulders. Your throat.
You can breathe easier now. The world isn't narrowing around you, ready to enclose you within it's suffocating boundaries.
“Sanitizer. Like rubbing alcohol.”
“Three more,” he commands.
“Just...the night air. Your cologne,” you whisper, now loosening your grip. “I—” You shake your head. “I don't have any more.”
He nods in approval. “Tell me what you feel.”
You blink wet lashes set around tired eyes. “Tears.”
He rubs the pad of his thumb along the apples of your cheeks, wiping them away. “You're doing good, sweetheart.”
“Your hands.”
He slides one from your cheek to the back of your head, cupping it gently.
You run your tongue along the back of your teeth. “My lungs expanding. The roof beneath me.”
Loosening your grip, you release his shirt, leaving it now wrinkled. “Your chest.”
You hang your head between your shoulders and slump over in defeat. “I'm sorry.”
Jack slips his other hand against your back and brings you close, coddling you. He settles his chin atop your head, leaving the two of you in silence so as to allow you to catch your bearings.
“Robby told me what happened the other day,” Jack mumbles, now rubbing slow circles against your spine with his thumb. “Safe to say I ripped him a new one for it.”
His voice rumbles comfortingly, and your eyes flutter closed.
“He felt shitty about it, if it makes you feel better. It's why I came up here. Dana told me she saw you heading this way. I didn't know...” This is what I'd find. “I didn't know,” he finishes with a sigh.
But he had known you were struggling. Severely. Before you were assaulted, yes, but especially after. Each time he tried to pry even a little, however, it only served to make you shut down and walk away from him as quickly as you could manage.
It made him worry before long that perhaps you were afraid of him. After the way he handled the asshole who put hands on you, he wouldn't blame you. The sheer brute strength he displayed when he wrenched him away, threw him against a wall, and berated him before tying him to a gurney so tightly it left bruising before the cops came to escort him away had taken most of the ED's staff by surprise.
He readjusts, lying his cheek against your head while his arms snake around your middle. “You wouldn't talk to me. I thought giving you some space would help. I had no idea what the hell it would lead to.”
“I didn't wanna bother anybody else,” you murmur. “I didn't think...it'd be this horrible. We're supposed to be healers, but people just keep dying,” you retort—your words punctuated for emphasis. “Even when we do save them, all they do is complain about how we accomplished it! Every time the EMS pull up, I walk in the other direction because I just don't care anymore. What does that say about me, huh? What sort of monster—”
“You're not the monster,” he snaps.
You wince, and he shooshes you, running a hand along your arm in comfort. “I think we all get these unrealistic ideas when we're just starting out. ED has to be the worst place to do so. It sucks the optimism right out of you, sometimes by the end of your first shift. But somebody's gotta do it. Frustration with bureaucratic bullshit road stops is one thing. Baby, what you went through is another. You have every right to be afraid. To have doubts about what you want for yourself going forward. What you don't have a right to do,” he begins while gently peeling you away. “Look at me,” Jack says while turning your face back in his direction. “Is not talk to me.”
His eyes flit between your own. “And you sure as hell don't get express permission to throw yourself off the fucking roof. You have any idea what the hell that'd do me—to any of 'em? Look, you're not the first to consider it. I've taken the tour of hell more times than I can count. But the one thing that remained consistent was coming out the other side, because there's an end to everything. You just don't get to expedite your own. Understand?”
You sniffle, followed by a shrug.
He runs a hand down his face in exasperation. “I will cuff your ass to my side if that's what it takes to keep you safe. Got it?”
Your brows furrow and you hiccup in upset. “Why do you care?”
He snorts, and you wonder how he can find so much as a modicum of humor in all of this. “You really gotta ask?” Jack inquires before pursing his lips.
And then he leans in. So close that you can smell the mint gum on his breath. “You're my favorite,” he whispers before pressing an index finger to his lips, playfully insinuating to keep it a secret.
He lowers his hand and runs his thumb along your bottom lip. “I'm not gonna let anything else happen to you. Promise. You have a soldier's solemn vow in that.”
“But—”
Jack swoops in, cutting your protestations short by crushing his lips to your own. “Don't tell the others,” he mutters before pouring all that he's still yet left unspoken between you into the affectionate gesture.
pairing — michael robinavitch x fem! doctor! reader
summary — you’ve always had a problem integrating yourself into situations, not quite understanding how other people do it so easily. you spend a lot of time in your own head, and can confirm it’s not always a lovely place to be. it’s one of robby’s favourite places to be, if you’d just let him make space.
word count — 8.6k words
warnings — reader is very lonely, brief brief mentions of panic attacks, ermployee/boss relationship, age gap (robby’s early 50s reader’s late 20s), mentions of child loss (not reader or robby, she has a 7 year old patient who doesn’t make it), probably cringe and melodramatic but who cares
note — sorry for falling off the face of the earth whoops!! started working on this + an abbot fic + a carter fic (yay) and got tunnel vision i hope it’s long enough that it makes up for my absence <3333
The human body is mostly even.
It comes with a lot of pairs; eyes, lungs, hands, they’re all paired all the way down to the chromosomes. Bilateral symmetry develops in the womb, most human beings are reflections of each side, separated vertically. A line right down the spine - not perfect mirrors, but close enough to the naked eye.
It shows in the way you examine newcomers. Two pupils needing checking, breath sounds are equal, two hands able to grip the same. But you don’t treat pairs. One patient at a time - well, two every hour as Robby loves to remind you. One heart, tachy but normal. One consciousness, words slurring under the morphine. One person who arrives whole and will leave uneven.
The body wants to be divisible by two. You’ve wondered why that is. Why one heart failing feels louder than two lungs breathing.
Or, in the case of the fourteen year old girl you have sitting in North-5, one lung breathing and one lung hypoventilating. You’re looking at her x-rays now, knowing you’re going to have to get her into surgery and bracing yourself to tell her parents.
“They’re lungs.”
Robby is standing behind you, squinting down at you under the flickering hospital lights. He’s not wearing his glasses, so you almost want to hit him back with a quip about how does he know they’re lungs, old man. Your mouth is dry and you sit there for too long that it wouldn’t be witty if you did say it.
“You okay, kid?” He presses when you don’t respond.
You know you’re being strange, can’t help it when you feel like this (though exactly what this is, is up for debate. Amongst yourself), and you have to scramble to say something. “Yeah, hi. Sorry. Lungs.” Your voice sounds strange. Too soft. Inauthentic.
“One’s got a pneumo?” He asks.
You nod, practically shoving the pictures into his hand. “Yeah, I’m getting her up to the OR now.” He examines the lungs for a moment, long enough that you think something must be wrong. Confidence in your diagnoses is something you struggle with - you assume (there’s still that voice in the back of your head that tells you confidence isn’t the problem, instead it’s the diagnoses that need working on). Every time Robby or Abbot or even Shen, who doesn’t really feel like your boss, checks over your work your pulse starts rushing like they’re going to decide you’re actually such a bad doctor that there’s no point in you even completing your residency so you might as well go home now.
“Good, yeah, she needs it.” Robby nods affirmingly, passing you back the images. His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should. You’re the one who has to break eye contact, not liking the way that his eyes seem to bare straight into you.
You don’t like it when Robby looks at you, not like that anyway. Not in like, a HR violation way, just like he’s examining you in a way you aren’t ready to be seen in.
“We’re going to round for handoffs soon.” He speaks up again, softly. “You’re off the rest of the week aren’t you?” Robby’s voice goes high at the end of his sentence and he shoves his hands in his pockets.
You really do like Robby, there’s a reason you turned down the night shift residency offer you got from Gloria. It had been a tempting offer too.
It’s a rare moment of quiet in the ER, and you’re hoping silently to yourself it stays that way. Not daring to actually utter the hope, not wanting to jinx it. You’re not necessarily superstitious, but you’re not going to utter the Q-word so close to the end of your shift.
“Yeah, three whole days off.” You try and say it casually, but the words don’t sound right coming out of your voice. You have a lot of different voices, a lot of pitches and tones. You genuinely have no clue which one is your natural state.
Robby sounds even when he talks, a sound you could pick out with your eyes closed. “That’s good. You deserve it, you’ve been running on fumes.” There’s a tenderness that catches you off guard. Robby’s not a mean boss, he’s exceptionally kind. But he’s also not comforting if he doesn’t think you need it, not the type to throw out pleasantries for pleasantries sake. “Any good plans?”
It’s not something you’ve thought about, it feels kind of pathetic to admit. Like, having plans is actually something you haven’t considered. You work long hours, about sixty most weeks, so it makes sense that on your few precious days off you like to spend it resting and recuperating. Catching up on your laundry or your sleep, or even a TV show that everyone is talking about. Those things are just as important as going out and seeing friends.
If they’re easier and more accessible, then that’s just an added bonus.
“Uh,” you have never felt more unnatural than in this moment. You’re certain Robby can tell you’re not being entirely truthful, as if he has some sort of innate sense for when people are doing things for the first time. It’s the teacher in him. “Yeah, maybe. I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’m doing yet.”
You feel so transparent it’s as if he’s looking directly through you. Perhaps he is - already looking for ways out of the conversation, ways to speak to someone more interesting. Someone who isn’t pretending to maybe have plans.
Someone who regularly had plans wouldn’t be embarrassed to admit they don’t have plans. It could be cool, casual: “No, not this weekend. I have a date with my couch and some take out.” Instead, you’d given what feels like the only wrong answer to a question about yourself.
“I hope you have a good time,” Robby nods at you.
The ER is cold, especially at night, especially in December. You’d discarded your jacket when you had entered, worried about being sweaty so early in your shift. Going to get it feels silly now, like you’d made the wrong choices.
Most of your coworkers make something of their scrubs. Javadi has a collection of pastel hoodies she rotates between, jewellery more often than not sitting under the neckline of her top. Santos has tattoos and wears graphic tees under her scrubs rather than just the standard block colours. Mel doesn’t even usually wear scrubs, instead opting for one of her own shirts without the added layer.
Your scrubs are standard, your undershirt is black, your winter coat is thrifted and warm but a neutral navy. You’d liked it when you bought it, but you feel silly whenever you wear it.
You slip it on at the end of your shift, grabbing your backpack. You can hear Santos and Mateo chatting amicably about how a music artist they both listen to is coming to the city the week after next and how they both have tickets and are thinking of coordinating.
You shut your locker, keenly aware of the other people in the room and even more astute to the fact that none of them are looking at you.
You slip out the doors, not bothering to untangle your earbuds until you’re down the street.
I’m not cold, I’m not cold. The woman singing has a lovely voice. It hits you like thorns down your ears, scratchy and uneven in a way that is only beautiful. The burn masks the sting of your eyes. Take my hand, take ahold.
—
You take the train to and from work. The station is close enough to your house that the dishes in your kitchen cabinet rattle when a particularly zealous one goes past. You were told when you moved in that eventually you wouldn’t even notice the noise - it would become apart of you and you would absorb it and be able to go about your day.
You wake in the late hours of the night from the tremors, convinced you’re going to die.
You’re not entirely sure what time the train stops running. You never check the time in the moment.
The apartment you’ve lived in your entire residency has been good to you. You had applied for a lot of places, starting out in Allegheny west and eventually settling for Bethel Park. It’s nice and small, not too much to clean after a long week. You’re on the third floor so laundry is a bit of challenge lugging your basket to the basement but you also get a fire escape which is nice enough that you like being so high up.
Days off have become a sort of anomaly in your life. You never quite know what to do with them. Your coworkers always have plans, both together and separately, you’ve noticed. Santos and Whitaker live together, the nurses all seem close, even Robby and Abbot talk about going to the Pirates games together.
You walked a lot when you first moved in. Pittsburgh has been your home for the last eight years - from student housing in Oakland during med school, then into your current place - but it hadn’t always been.
There are lots of pretty places close to your apartment. Even more the further you walk, corner stores and community gardens. Sometimes you leave your phone at home and just wander, taking note of each and every street. Every facade, every storefront, every alley. It all stayed in your head. You could recreate the city in your sleep. Well, the city within an hour’s walk of your apartment.
The deli on Library road is open when you finish work. Sometimes you get off the Blue early and go sit in the stark white of the fluoros. The floor is linoleum, speckled with colours too small to identify but you know they’re there.
You sit cross legged by the window at one of the two tables in the shop. It shakes under your elbow every time you shift, and the guy behind the counter, nametagged as Jeffrey, eyeballs you strangely every time it makes a noise.
Your sandwich is misshapen in your hands. Red and white paper wrap up the second half, ready for you to stash it in the work fridge behind one of Langdon’s Redbulls. It’s printed real small on the bottom of the laminated menu they’ve taped to the table - $4.99 for a sandwich with a random assortment of ingredients on it. You’ve always been indecisive, this had felt like a nice way to make a choice without making a choice.
They pick something different every time, condiments, vegetables, protein, even fruit sometimes. Once they’d given you one that included both mangoes and ranch. That hadn’t been your favourite.
The one you have now is nice, though. Mozzarella, turkey, chips for some crunch, some other stuff you haven’t really cared to identify, all on pumpernickel. You’re not working tomorrow; you might eat both halves now.
There’s an empty chair on the other side of your table that you’ve dumped your bag on. It’s meant for two people, and sometimes when it’s a bit busier than just you and Jeff you feel bad for taking it. You’ve got nowhere else to be though, and you’d like to sit and eat after twelve hours of not getting to do either.
You don’t usually come on your off days, but you’d felt like you were going crazy holed up in your apartment all day. You’d done your laundry, washed all your matching scrubs and the few other clothes you wore. Tidied, caught up on your Instagram feed, and when you’d gotten to the bottom of the Hulu menu without anything jumping out at you you’d shoved on your shoes without another thought.
It’s late, Friday night, and people are coming home from the clubs. You’re not particularly close to any, but the people who go there don’t seem to mind. Small gaggles stumble in every once in a while, giggle over the menu, and order an egg and cheese that they’ll probably barf up before they get home.
God, you sound bitter.
You gather your things when you finish the first half, can sense a group of drunk guys weighing up the effort of coming inside from where they hang out across the street. One of them is smoking a cigarette, and the other three seem to be caught up in a heated discussion.
It’s not snowing. You toss up taking the bus the rest of the way back. You’d walked here.
You hear your last name, ‘doctor’ preceding it, and whirl around. On a very rare occasion you’ll get recognised on the street - people don’t tend to forget the person who saved their life, or their daughter’s or brother’s or cousin’s life.
You’ve never seen Robby outside of work, not wearing the standard Pitt black scrubs. He looks nice in a collared plaid button down with a thick fleece over it and the top few buttons undone. You’ve never seen him wear jeans before. In your head Dr Robinavitch doesn’t exist in the same world where jeans also exist.
You don’t know what to say to him. You end up saying nothing. Robby doesn’t even bat an eye at your silence - used to your oddness, the way it seeps into every interaction.
“Thought that was you.” He’s smiling, wide and crooked like he does on the rare occasion he has a reason to. “What’re you doing out here so late by yourself? It’s almost midnight.”
“Dinner,” you say lamely, holding up your wrapped up sandwich.
He looks at the checkered lump in your hand then back at your face. He looks different in the dark, the planes of his face look more severe in the light of the hospital. Maybe that’s why you like the harshness of the deli, so bright it brings you right back to work.
“You always eat so late?” He asks. You feel silly with your coat hitting your chin, your work shoes, and your sandwich in your hand. You look like a doctor - a med student. Robby looks like a man.
The sensory feeling of the paper in your hand is suddenly too underwhelming and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails in - needing a desperate anchor of your hand. You’ll regret that later when you go to eat it and it’s smushed, but later doesn’t matter more than the underwhelm in your palm.
“I work in the ER,” you point out. His hands are in his jacket pockets but one of them is clutching an opaque white plastic bag with something heavy weighing it down. Robby laughs, crinkling the handle of the bag in his hand in his pocket. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you work today?”
He nods like he’d already forgotten about it. Like it did not matter to him in a moment he was not actively experiencing it.
“Abbot’s sick- not bad, just all stuffed up.” He gestures vaguely with the hand not holding the bag at his nose/mouth area. “Only thing that ever makes him feel better is soup from PJ’s.” He nods down the street from the direction he’d just come where a neon sign is just being turned off.
“What a diva.”
Robby laughs again. “Yeah, he’d never admit it. Rather suffer in silence.”
It feels like the wrong thing to have said. You don’t know Dr Abbot well enough to make jabs at him, especially not to Robby.
You want to be out of this situation, it all crushes you at once. You’re in the dark, fifty minutes from your apartment, talking to somebody whom you intrinsically do not understand. You are a hollow body, your skin is translucent and you can see every organelle and every shift of the movement of your organs. You can see all the hallways and gears and caves in your anatomy. Every link in every chain that tugs on each and every thought that spins through your head. How your life started from birth to now and a timeline for why every facet of your personality and your soul has ended up the way that it is.
Robby is solid, and in front of you, and you will never understand him.
You’ve broken your nose trying to walk through him - he will remember this about you for as long as the two of you know each other. That you put your words where they do not belong, and that you think Jack Abbot is a diva.
Robby opens his mouth to say something.
“I should head home,” you jab your thumb somewhere behind you. You live in the direction Robby is standing. You’ll loop around the block to avoid passing him. “I’ll see you at work, Robby. Hope Abbot feels better.”
When you circle the street, Robby’s gone. The walk home is long, the walk up the stairs to the third floor is longer. You arrive home a little before one in the morning. You don’t bother with the lights, coming to sit on the floor in the kitchen. The clock blinks on the oven with each passing minute.
It lights your skin up red, and if you look close, you can see the flow of your blood.
You unwrap your sandwich.
—
Shen’s on the next time you work. He greets you casually, a “good morning” around a drink from his water bottle and barely gives you a second glance. Your shift passes without incident - the other doctors treat you normally, when you speak they listen. Javadi initiates small talk with you and you do your best to return the sentiment.
At one point Santos reads a 9 as a 6 aloud to you and gives you a look. “Whoops,” she snickers, looking at you like the two of you share some sort of secret.
You like Santos. The two of you are about the same age, you’re only a few years older than her, the same number of years further into your residency. The two of you talk sometimes between patients, but that’s bound to happen when the two of you spend so much time in an enclosed space.
She has a way of making everything feel like an inside joke. You know she struggled a little when she first started, hitting the wall with the other doctors when she first started her residency. You wouldn’t know that now, seeing the way she interacts with the rest of the people here. Her and Whitaker are so close they’re practically in a sitcom, Shen’s taken a special liking to her, and you’ve even seen her and Mel giggling by the lockers after shifts.
The two of you barely speak about anything that isn’t work. Which is fine, she’s your coworker, you guys don’t have to be speaking about your personal lives. But she has this soft little spark about her like she’s created a world to be in and it’s the most important place to be.
“That thing you did with the guy in Central 13?” She sidles up to you towards the end of your shift, hanging behind the monitor you’re using to finish up the chart for that very patient. She lets out a heavy breath. “Wow.”
You’d inserted a double lumen tube during an intubation. Nothing super fancy, but you know that Santos probably hasn’t done a whole lot of intubations in general. Shen had raised his eyebrows at your suggestion but hadn’t stopped you, and when you’d finished he’d grabbed your shoulder and squeezed, muttering a “sick, good job,” and then heading out.
You look up, genuinely startled. “Thanks.”
“I’d never even heard of the thing you did,” she doesn’t let up. “I wouldn’t have thought to do it. That was really cool.” Her voice drops and she looks down at your hands. You’ve gotten compliments before, but all from people above you in the food chain, Langdon, Abbot, people who are kind of obligated as your educators to give you praise. Santos is a PGY-1, so unless she’s sucking up you’re not sure why she’s being so nice. You’re not high enough up that sucking up would be worth anything.
You have fifteen minutes of your shift, no incoming ambulances, nothing urgent in chairs, all your patients are stable.
You feel sick - not the type of sick that would get you sent home, or even to the staff lounge. It’s normal at this point. You genuinely don’t remember a time you haven’t felt like this.
“You’re only an intern,” you say, trying to be empathetic without sounding condescending. “You’ll get there.”
She nods, low and slow. She’s already got her jacket on, thick and leather and dark brown. Santos watches you finish up your chart and you try to shake the feeling of being observed.
“I’m, uh, I think I might head down to the Hills,” she leans her elbow on your table. “There’s this bar on Liberty street. They do live music sometimes, they have a killer plate of nachos, some cool cocktails.”
You log out of the system and stand from your chair. You’re about to round and want to head to your locker first. “That sounds great.”
Santos smiles at you, shoving her hands in her pockets. She bounces when she walks and she follows you on your way to your locker. “Yeah, I found it right when I started here. I’ve been trying to get Samira to go with me but I don’t think she likes me much.”
You open your locker. Coat on, backpack on, shut locker, look back at her. You really like Dr Mohan; she’s kinder than most of the other doctors, and the two of you started on the exact same day so you’ve always felt like a special kinship with her.
“She does,” you tell her honestly. You think she does. You don’t know Samira very well - if she disliked Trinity she probably wouldn’t be telling you about it. “She just prefers to keep to herself I think.”
Santos nods, rocking on her heels and biting her top lip. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know, I think there’s only so many times you can ask someone to hang out and have them say no before you gotta accept they’re just not into it.”
She’s not wrong. It’s very much something you have to play by ear, you’ve learned. Some people are busy, some people don’t know how to say no without worrying about sounding impolite.
People are gathering for rounds, you can see at the end of the hallway. It’s the only thing standing in front of you and a huge nap. Santos is digging in her locker for something.
“I hope you have a good time,” you tell her earnestly. “Nachos sound great, I might have to get some on my way home.” You feel nauseous. The idea of eating anything, let alone a bunch of cheese and meat, makes your stomach turn. You just want to be home. You miss your couch.
Santos doesn’t say anything as you walk out towards rounds. When she reenters the room, she doesn’t join you, she comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Mel.
—
The little girl in Trauma-2 is going to die.
Today was meant to be a day off. Robby’d called you a little after five, apologising for waking you and asking if you could come in to cover. You’d said yes, sitting out on your fire escape and painting your nails. They’re clear - it stops you from biting them.
It had been a fairly quiet morning. Most people won’t spend their Saturday in the ER waiting room unless they really have to so you have slightly less of the patient type that maybe didn’t have to come into the ER at all.
Then the ambulance had dropped her off a little over a half hour ago, and you’ve been fairly convinced that she’s not going to make it since you’d seen her.
You were the primary doctor on the case only because you were the only one around at the time. Now, Robby and Collins are there, and they’ve taken over. Robby practically shoved you out of the room and told you to take a break.
You’re sweaty. You’ve ducked into the bathroom to swap your long sleeves for a t-shirt under your scrub top and taken a well earned cry into the mirror.
Robby’s standing outside Trauma-2 like he’s on guard. The girl’s parents are out in chairs, and you really don’t want to have to be the person to tell them. You know Robby will do it if you ask, but you don’t want to have to ask. Don’t want to have not yet asked, don’t want to ask, don’t want to have asked.
The time will pass anyway. You just wish you didn’t have to get pushed along with it.
“Ah-ah,” Robby snaps as sharp as he can without any real bite. You’re hovering in the doorway to the room, watching as Collins works on her. “You’re not going back in there.”
You failed to save her. You are the reason that two parents have lost their only daughter. He’s not mad - can’t be mad that you did your best to save someone who couldn’t be saved. But sending you in there when you’d already done no good would be a waste of time. A change in tactic, a change in doctor, is probably necessary.
“Well where can I go?” you snap back, much harsher than he’d been. You want him to tell you, don’t want the mistake to be yours. Working in the ER and being mostly self guided you feel a lot of aimlessness. The pulling behind your navel that dulls to a low throb most of the time, signalling when you’re making a bad choice. Making Robby tell you what to do means that feeling goes away, just for a little.
Robby gets this look about him sometimes, when he’s tired and trying to brush someone off without them asking him what’s wrong. “You can get some air.” He raises his eyebrows, tone light and sarcastic. He lifts an arm to point out through the dark tunnel of night streaming through the open ambulance bay.
Your feet move on autopilot, taking you out into the cold. Your arms hurt from the change of temperature, but you made the choice to take your long-sleeves off, so you don’t complain about it even internally.
Robby follows behind you just close enough for you to hear him. “Are you okay?” He puts the emphasis in strange places in his sentences sometimes. In the middle instead of one of the edges.
You nod. “Yeah, Robby, I’m fine.”
It’s quiet in the way outside only is right when you step out into it. The noise from the ER bleeds into your veins and when the ambulance bay doors shut behind you it takes getting used to the difference. It almost feels like submerging yourself, for a brief second the world shifts, and then it goes back on kilter.
Robby looks at you for a long time. You still do not understand him, he’s impossible to get a read on. He could be waiting for you to say something.
“I’m parking you,” he says finally.
Your mouth drops open. “P-parking me?”
“Doctor’s orders.” Robby nods with finality. “Stay here. I’ll come and get you.”
You want to shout something back at Robby as he goes inside - angry with him and grateful for him both at once. How dare he not think you’re up to doing your job? You’re not, but you don’t want him thinking that.
You watch an ambulance pull up, both the paramedics ignoring you as they haul a gurney in through the doors. They know enough about the job that it’s clear you’re not waiting for them.
It was her birthday in three days. You’d seen it on her chart right when she first came in, the little girl who would be taking her final breaths inside the room you’d have to continue working in. Her life would end in that room. How many had? How many had died where you were standing?
Surely, with how long humans had been inhabiting the earth, someone had died on this spot. People had stood here and spoken. Perhaps a bed had been placed here, centuries before the hospital was even conceived of. A couple had laid in the grass, hand in hand, watching as the untouched space stretched on.
In a hundred years, would someone stand on this exact spot again and cry as you were trying not to?
She was seven years, eleven months and twenty-seven days old. You don’t even remember what you were doing that long ago. The thought dredges you up, lifts you like the moment right before the fall, when you’re anticipating. Awaiting another birthday.
The human body comes in a lot of pairs, a lot of symmetry, a lot of even numbers. And then suddenly it can be zero. Reduced to nothing but the meaning someone else gives it. A period, a full stop.
You take a shuddering breath in. It’s a morbid way to think of your own life, but you wonder sometimes what will continue to happen when you finally take your last breath. The last breath is usually out. An even way to close. Nothing remaining, no leftovers.
Robby’s hand finds your shoulder. “Hey, kid.”
You don’t know how long you’ve been out here.
“I’m ready to go back in,” you say, because you feel like you’re meant to be. You’re not sure if you’ve ever been ready to go in.
Robby just shakes his head gravely. “It’s 7:03, you are officially relieved from duty.”
Relieved. It’s such a strange word. You feel like you’re bordering on pretentious. You wonder who the first person to ever say the phrase was, and how it got picked up enough that it’s commonplace now. If they had to explain themselves, or if the other person knew what they meant by it.
Relieved implies a weight lifted from you. A lightness. Perhaps you left it in Trauma-2.
Robby follows you as you grab your stuff from your locker. You’re acting on autopilot. Tonight you will not get food on the way home. You will take the train, you will walk home, you will shower and change and climb into bed and you will wake up the next morning with your alarm. You do not have the capacity to make any more choices for yourself.
When you step back out through the ER doors, you can see Princess, Jesse, Whitaker and Santos sitting on the benches. You’ve never been to their after work wind-downs, but you’ve heard enough people usually go that it’s fair to assume there will be one after whatever shift you’re finishing.
Robby is still behind you. “Hey,” he says. His backpack is slung over one shoulder. He’s wearing a thicker jacket than you’ve ever seen on him. It suits him. “Come on.”
You follow him. “Where are we going?”
“Dinner,” he says simply. “You haven’t eaten this afternoon, and I know how tempting it is to just want to go to sleep. You need food.” He walks like he expects you to follow behind him; you do without complaint. The sureness required to make an assumption about a coworkers needs and to be correct, you don’t think you could ever muster it.
You walk for almost fifteen minutes, which is less than you usually walk, but by the end your cheeks are red and you’re trying to quiet your breathing. Robby walks faster than you, with a difference bounce, smoother and softer. You’re slower but it’s stilted. Unbalanced - sometimes your left knee behaves funny. He walks like where he’s going is the most important place to be, and you’d believe it.
He stops in front of a place you’ve never seen before. A diner, real and busy, not an out of the way spot only he knows about from his wanderings. A staple; there are families here.
“Hey,” you say as you reach the door. Interrupting the flow, trying to pause. A period, a moment, or whatever you’d been thinking less than half an hour earlier. Your feelings never make sense when you’re not actively experiencing them. It’s why you could never get into journaling. “You know you don’t have to-”
Robby doesn’t even let you get the words out. “I want to.”
Want is harder to argue with than obligation. It shuts you up in a way you’re not fond of.
The lights are golden, warm in a way your eyes have to adjust to after the bright whites of the hospital, and there’s a handwritten sign taped to the inside of the window advertising that you can get four pierogies for a dollar.
Robby leads you inside without another word. It smells like coffee and oil, and it’s louder than you’d expected. You’re not a huge fan of noise, but working in a hospital you’ve gotten used to it. You realise with a start that it has been so long since you’ve heard volume that stemmed from love. Parents chastising their kids for giggling too loud. a group of high schoolers that look like they’ve just come off stage from a school play - taking up two booths and beaming like they’ve just headlined the Tony’s, couples on dates.
“You come here a lot?” You ask as Robby sits down at a booth in the corner.
He nods. “The food’s good, and they don’t look at you weird if you order something and can’t eat it.”
The vinyl squeaks with every shift of your legs, but it’s loud enough in here that it doesn’t make you feel self-conscious. Noise born from love, it wraps you in it.
“Get whatever you want,” Robby says like it’s a no-brainer. You know instinctively that he’s not offering to pay for your dinner - though he probably would if he thought you’d want that. You don’t. Him paying obligates you to order, eat and enjoy something. He’s telling you to ignore the conscious thought, all the brain stems, all the lines shooting off in a mind map - focus on the core idea. The want. It gets clouded by the mind sometimes.
“Soup is not a food,” he says helpfully. “Not right now at least.”
“I know that,” you say, defensively. You don’t want soup, and you know he’s suggesting you eat something solid, but it slips out before you can question why. The soup they have on the menu seems semi-clear, more like broth. Incorporeal, translucent. The essence of a food. Robby’s steering you away from it like he knows how you feel about things that are concrete. Your ego hasn’t quite recovered from trying to barrel through him with your assumptions the last time the two of you were alone together.
“I’m sorry,” you say it because you are, not because you think you should be. The two feel indistinguishable sometimes. You should be sorry, so you are. You’re not sure where the line comes but it’s somewhere between you and Robby. “I’m not good at this.”
“Eating?” Robby asks.
“Being a person after work.” Or before work, or during work. But admitting that means drawing attention to it, and you’d rather him think you’re oblivious. “I’m… sensitive.”
Robby doesn’t say any of the usual things; you’re not sensitive, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. You really like him for it.
He leans forward, elbows on the table. He’s not looking at you like he’s your attending. He looks completely different in warm lighting; different in the way the noise is coated with affection. It suits him. “I like that about you. It’s not a character flaw, you know that right?”
You snort before you can stop yourself. “Yeah, okay, put it on my performance review.”
“I will,” he says dryly. When Robby laughs the sound feels like it’s had holes poked in it, gravelly and messy, the punctures letting something soulful out with the sound. “Second guesses her authority figures.”
You huff. “Wow.”
“I’m dedicated to accuracy,” he says seriously.
The waitress understands you both immediately; the scrubs, how you’re kind of leaning on the table. Robby slaps down a ten and orders twenty pierogies and a cup of coffee. You flounder under her gaze, having not even looked at the menu, and Robby smiles at you in a way that feels conspiratorial and not polite.
“Can I get like, half of what he got?” You ask. “Is that a thing?”
She nods kindly and takes the menus from your table, ducking back into the kitchen.
With everything between you out of the way, Robby leans forward more. “One time, after a rough shift, I took apart my kitchen cabinets just so I could feel myself putting them back together. To prove I could.”
You mirror his posture. “This feels infinitely healthier.”
“Low bar, but I’ll take it.” You clasp your hands together to keep from picking at your nails.
Robby gets you talking without you realising. First about work, then about not work. You’d read something, probably way back in college, about how some sculptors, instead of taking a block and adding their intricacies to it to make their art, they’d instead sculpt away from the finished product until all they had was art left. That’s how talking to Robby feels as you get your dinner. You talk about everything until all that is left is the little girl in Trauma-2.
“You did everything right,” he says, right when you need it. “No one could have saved her.”
“Doesn’t matter,” you shake your head. “I still didn’t.”
Robby looks at you very seriously. When he speaks, it is firm. Solid. “It mattered. It mattered that when she closed her eyes she wasn’t alone in that room. It mattered that her parents knew someone was fighting for her, that someone cared about someone that was theirs. The outcome isn’t the only metric that counts.”
You feel heat behind your eyes. “You really believe that?”
Robby nods, serious and stern, leaning forward to take your hand. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”
The food arrives, sitting between you two like something to share instead of something to separate you both.
Loneliness eats at you on your worst days. You thought you knew how it felt to be real and truly lonely, and then you moved to Pittsburgh. You’re not homesick, per se, more sick for a life you feel belongs to you. You miss being tied to places, no one here holds memories with you in them.
At home, you can walk down Main street and practically provide director’s commentary: There’s the cafe I lost my scarf in when I was a kid, there’s the movie theatre I saw that in, there’s the restaurant that didn’t hire me in high school. You miss being somewhere where you are as much a part of the place as the culture is a part of you.
In Pittsburgh, you cease to exist the moment you leave a place.
“I’m really glad that I got to steal you from Abbot,” Robby says through a mouthful of decaf. “I know you got offered a night shift spot, and I have to admit I was a little worried for a bit. I thought you would take it up.”
That had been a long time ago, back when you were just starting your second year of residency. It was a really tempting offer. You’d declined it because, at the end of the day, you really love the people you work with, even if they exist in the bubble of the ER.
“I thought about it,” you admit, ripping apart a pierogi in your hand. “But, to be honest, I’ve been feeling kind of… isolated?” You muse over your word choice. “Sometimes I feel so small in this city, and I figured being asleep when most of the people who live here are awake would just take me out of it that much more.”
Robby chews slowly, using it to formulate a thought. “You leave a very strong first impression.”
You blink. If you were eating you probably would have choked. “Excuse me?”
“Abbot’s always talking about you whenever you work a night,” he says, like it’s something worth holding on to, not to keep but rather to let you follow him as he keeps going. He looks so tired, always older after a shift than before one. It looks good on him, he wears age handsomely, and you wonder - not for the first time - how he fares. It feels inappropriate to think of your boss that way, especially just because he’s being so nice to you. “You were the first one that really got through to Santos, you two are clearly close” Are you? That makes you sad, that you’ve missed a closeness that you haven’t understood. It feels like something you will never get back. You have missed it. You will miss it.
She hit a bit of a wall when she started, you’d been able to see that. You wonder, for the first time, how many times she had broken her nose trying to walk through you.
“And I…” he flushes, scratching the hair at the back of his neck. “I worry about you.” It lands, heavy and warm.
He worries about you. That should make you feel worried - what have you been doing to worry him? Instead, it strikes you right in the heart. Worry, as gnawing of an emotion as it is, requires space to hold it in.
Space you take up in his chest when you are not in the room.
“You don’t have to,” you say. “I’m a hard person to be around a lot of the time.”
Robby, to his credit, does not correct you. This whole conversation he has spent not saying the things you are ‘meant’ to say to someone confiding in you, and each time he has said exactly what has sparked something in your chest cavity.
“You’re worth the effort, though.”
You laugh, startled and a little breathless. “You make it sound like I’m like, a piece of IKEA furniture or something.”
“A kitchen cabinet,” Robby jokes.
Robby relaxes against the vinyl, and pushes one of the containers of pierogies towards you. It sits heavy inside you as you eat, and you feel like maybe it’s filling something inside you that you didn’t realise you didn’t have. Closer to whole than you have felt in a while - almost like you’ve forgotten. Further away from zero.
He talks more than you do, and you believe it’s a kindness. He tells you a story of a med student he had years ago who insisted on calling him Dr Robinavitch - you never realised you didn’t know Robby’s first name until that very moment, and you can tell he also realised that. “One time he had a patient throw up on him and he threw up in response.”
You’re deadpan. “Probably picked the wrong career path, I won’t lie.”
He laughs over his coffee. There’s a pile of napkins between the two of you, helping with the oil of your hands as you eat with them, not even noticing it through the conversation.
“I mean, I’ve been there,” you say, wiping your hands for the fifteenth time.
You’ve been there for almost an hour, unworried. The sign above the counter says they’re open past midnight, so you don’t have to worry about them closing while you’re sitting here. Robby’s been looking at you with soft eyes and pink cheeks for the better part of thirty minutes.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “Worst thing about you is your terrible self-esteem, you’re great, shut up.”
You laugh. “Bedside manner is dead,” you say, pushing your plate away from yourself, full and happy. “And we killed him.”
“Why is bedside manner a man?” Robby asks. “That feels unlikely.”
You leave a little after nine. Robby walks to the train with you and then gets on without saying anything. You have no idea where Robby lives, but you know he walks to work. The two of you share a bench, thigh to thigh. Neither one of you mention where you are at any point, how close your respective places are, where you both need to go.
You probably do the less walking than any night in recent memory. The city has shaped itself around your solitude, your routines, almost crushing in the way it attempts to fold itself around you.
When you stand on the T, he stands with you. He’s so close, he smells like something warm and heavy, and he seems to be drinking you in. He laughs at almost everything you say, even when you don’t mean for it to be funny.
The conversation stays steady, it doesn’t lull like you’re always terrified of. They’re not your strong suit, speaking with people. It comes with a feeling of sparity, it’s easy to feel like you are the remaining essence. The human body is naturally paired, but your human experience is roughly singular.
Robby walks with you like he wants to share the same space.
You think a lot about numbers. Odd being defined almost lazily, as though no one could bother to think of a better descriptor, not being divisible by two. You wonder, in your quietest nights, if you were to be split open, would you be divisible by two? You feel often like a remainder, not to be dramatic. But everyone else seems to gravitate naturally to other people, snapping together like magnets.
It’s something you’d always struggled with. You’re not sure what people clock about you that solidifies it. You don’t just feel uneven, you feel odd. It’s something that festered behind your ribs when you were a child and as you grew, so too did it. The version of the word lodged in your bones. Like there is a correct way to be a person, everyone else learned it - learned it enough to know which rules to follow and which to break. It takes a deep and intimate knowledge of how something works in order to go against the norms and have it still work, and it feels like everyone you’ve ever met is able to do that.
And people notice. They’re not cruel, that’s almost worse. They’re not trying to judge, but pattern recognition dictates that it is human nature to notice when something is off.
Robby’s arm brushes yours and he makes no effort to move away. Two feet on the pavement, two people walking together. Your footsteps are half a beat after his.
You wonder how long until he sees the error. A small part of you hopes he has already - that this is him noticing.
Robby says something—you don’t catch all of it—and you answer a second too late, your words stepping on the edge of his sentence. He doesn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind. That almost makes it worse, how easily he accommodates you, like you are something fragile or precious instead of incorrect.
“This is me,” you say as you reach your apartment building. You have no idea how Robby is getting home.
He sighs morosely. “Are you sure?”
You look up at your window, pretending to think. “Pretty sure.” He squeezes the top of your arm and in moving his hand down, almost touches your fingers. “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone walk me home before. It’s not something I usually do.”
“It doesn’t have to be a thing, if you don’t want?” His tone lightens at the end, and you’re high enough on the night air that you are determined to interpret it in good faith. Him prioritising your comfort. You become acutely aware of the space between you — not empty, exactly, but loaded. Charged. Like something left on overnight.
You shake your head. “No, I liked it. I just…” you’re going to end the night being vulnerable. Robby has done nothing to indicate he does not like you. You will not be the kind of pathetic person who argues with someone when they show they like them. “Is it selfish to say I want to matter to someone?”
Robby steps impossibly closer to you. “Not selfish at all. In fact, bare minimum.” His gaze drops to where his breath is fogging the air between the two of you. It’s freezing. You don’t feel so silly in your thrifted winter coat. “I would go as far to say you already do.”
Robby looks different under the glow of your street light - different than at work, different than at the diner. You think you might start to understand him. He is still direct in front of you, solid and unmoving. But he shifts in the light: kitchen cabinets with their doors taken off.
There are so many things you could say to him. Thank you. I’m sorry. Please don’t forget me when the sun comes up and it’s loud again and I am still quiet.
You think of all the times you have spent standing in this very spot, feeling temporary in your own life.
Robby falters. You realise with a start it’s not the first time you’ve seen him do that. If anyone had asked three hours ago you probably would have answered as honestly as possible that you’d never seen it. How many times had it happened and you hadn’t seen it?
“Can I-” he stumbles over his words. Reconsiders. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
You feel rooted to place. The honesty of his voice hurts. “Are you asking permission or if I have the audacity?”
He laughs and you feel it against your face. “The first one.”
Robby smiles, warm and unmistakably fond. When he kisses you it’s soft and coursing with something you can’t name. He tastes like decaf coffee that you didn’t realise was shitty now you’re still tasting it almost two hours later. You can feel his beard against your face and the scratch is electrifying. You’re just two people. His hands settle into your waist, palms against your scrub top under your coat. It’s just the two of you and the quiet hum of the city you live in.
“You should get some sleep,” he mumbles against your mouth. He lets you kiss him for another few minutes, seeming like he’s indulging himself more than letting you have what you want. It’s dizzying, the idea of being wanted, and by someone like Robby.
The kind of guy you think might’ve liked you even if you didn’t like him back.
You’re working tomorrow. You’re pretty sure he is too. You hope, as well, that Santos is and that she’s in a good mood. The seed of an idea plants itself within you hopefully, and you decide tomorrow will be the shift you ask if she maybe wants to get drinks after work. The thought of her saying no terrifies you, but the thought of her saying yes terrifies you a little less than you’d first thought.
“I’ll see you soon,” he pulls back, flushed and seemingly just as enthralled as you. Soon. Continuously. “Text me when you get up there, need to make sure you’re awake enough to lock your door.” He doesn’t walk away until you’re up and locked away in your apartment.
The oven clock blinks at you as you turn the overhead lamp on. You shoot him a door’s locked text that he heart-reacts to.
The train rushes past. It rattles the handles of your drawers and the doors of your cabinets.
summary: jack jumped at the chance to take howard to presby. the reason? he missed his wife. (wc: 2.3k)
warnings: f!attending!reader, swearing, mentions of GSWs/active fire (incl. past military experience), medical inaccuracies etc.; the phrase 'i don't wanna die'
Truth be told, Jack jumped at the chance to take Howard to Presby - itched for it, even, and he had the decency to feel a shred of guilt at his selfish reasons as to why.
It had already been a hell of a day: a preemptive shut down at the Pitt, his shoulder was killing him, and he was running on fumes of adrenaline and sheer will. And in his mind, his fucked up mind, the central reason for taking Howard to Presby was because he knew it’d be quicker than getting sucked into the chaos of the Pitt - and the quicker he managed Howard’s case, the quicker he could go home, because, man, he missed his wife.
The close call earlier that day had done something to him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His chest felt tighter every time he thought of the graze on his shoulder, his lips twisted themselves into a grimace and he felt that odd sensation of impending doom weigh his body down.
At first he attributed it to stress. Then he decided it was simply because this was his first close call since the Middle East. Then (he’d been self-reflecting because it had been eating away at him; he knew he hadn’t quite pinpointed the mystery to this sudden, knee-jerk ‘no’ reaction to the mere thought of volunteering for another SWAT shift), he concluded that maybe he didn’t have to figure it out in the mess of the 4th of July day shift.
That being said, however, the entire journey to Presby, amid a rather jolly conversation with Howard (he knew the chances of sleep were slim anyway), he felt…off. The muscles in his back were tense, and his skin prickled with goosebumps despite the hot weather - like he was anticipating the next disaster with every corner they turned.
He shrugged it off, tried to shelve it, but the sight of your car by the ambulance bay seemed to yank everything to the forefront of his mind. He froze for a second, double-checking the number plate, but…definitely your car.
Howard noticed. To say the man was bed-bound, he was remarkably observant.
“Are you okay?” The robotic voice snapped his attention back to his patient, and Jack blinked, swallowing harshly, unable to help it when his eyes darted back to your car. Not too outwardly worried - there were plentiful reasons as to why your car was here - but a little concerned nonetheless. Confused, maybe.
Neither of you were supposed to be working today, but somehow those plans had both derailed within hours of your last shift ending.
Jack nodded, clearing his throat, “Peachy.” Fuck it was hot outside, “You ready for this? Presby’s attendings are real pieces of work.”
He didn’t bother mentioning that said attendings were aware of their oncoming patient, nor did he mention one of the attendings was his attending, but he knew Howard got the gist of everything.
He watched the man’s face closely as his eyebrows lifted, as much of a smile as he could manage softening his eyes, “Put me in, coach.” The reply came after a short delay, and Jack chuckled a laugh, eyes scanning the madness. It was significantly less disorderly than the Pitt, but still nigh on the busiest he’d ever seen it here. Patients lining the corridors, a cool room on the go, staff everywhere. At least you guys still had your systems up and running for the time being, but it was clear you’d also received some less urgent cases from Westbridge.
No sign of you, though. That realisation coincided with striking disappointment.
“See, you say that now.” Jack leaned down to whisper, rather loudly, in Howard’s ear.
It was only when he’d handed Howard off to the Presby radiologists that he stopped. Simply stopped where he was in this ED that was a reflection of his, yet lacking something distinctly homely, and scanned the sea of faces for yours.
He twiddled his wedding band restlessly, before wandering over to the nurse’s station and flagging down Julie. She’d just slammed the phone down and logged onto one of the screens at the desk.
“Hey, Julie–”
“How–Jack?” The charge nurse blinked behind her glasses, eyes scanning over his form, before something clearly registered in her mind, “Did you bring the patient over from PTMC?”
“Yeah.” Jack shook his head, wary that he was cutting it close with time, “Really sorry, but is she–”
“She’s in on-call room three.” Julie smiled warmly at him, and Jack tried to give her one back. It fell short. Tight around the edges. He ran his hand across his chest, massaging at the weight that had settled there.
“Perfect, thank you.”
Chest tight, mind racing, heart thudding. His fingers remained attached to his wedding ring, spinning it constantly as though it tethered his boots to the ground. He wasn’t sure where this carnal need to just see your face had come from; this incurable itch - he wasn’t usually this bad.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the SWAT mission. Stray bullets ricocheting as the robbers panicked, no doubt also attributed to the sight of camo uniforms and guns twice the size of their own.
A close shave for everyone. A close shave for Jack. His wound tingled once again, and he rolled his shoulder in an attempt to rid himself of the sensation.
He inhaled deeply, people passing him in a blur as he ducked his head down, steps quick and sure as he knocked on the door bearing a number three, before stepping inside.
Darkness.
He exhaled softly, the metal of his ring clinking on the cold doorknob as it clicked shut behind him. He barely had time to compose himself before the sound of sheets rustling drew his eyes to the vague outline of a bed.
It hadn’t even occurred to him that it wasn’t you in the bed, but he could almost sense it. That tugging sensation: like the golden thread had suddenly been pulled taut at the close proximity. He felt his shoulder drop slowly, an inch, maybe. Felt the trembling of his ribs ease.
Then a light flicked on.
He blinked a few times, and so did you.
You were sitting upright, but not wearing scrubs - only a pair of cargos and a grey vest. Whilst he was trying to decipher the sudden dissipation of stress symptoms at your mere appearance, you were staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips.
Your eyes raked over him, stood stiff as a board, jaw clenched tightly, a slightly wild look in his eyes. He looked more rigid, more rough than you were used to. Like he was thinking too much about holding himself normally. He wasn’t soft at the edges: there was a slight crease between his brows, and his hand was fidgeting at his side, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do with himself. Like he’d been caught with it in the cookie jar.
It wasn’t a thought, more so an innate feeling that something wasn’t quite right. And maybe it was because you’d not been able to get a wink of sleep after he’d left for his SWAT shift, maybe it was because he was all you’d been able to think about, maybe it was because you hadn’t stopped worrying since he got the call, but you couldn’t quite believe he was here. Like you’d summoned him by sheer will, or something.
“Jack.” It wasn’t a question - it was devotion, vexation, love, and fear all poured into one mix like a promise.
His throat worked as he swallowed, and his eyes fluttered as he fought the urge to blink again. His hand fell from the doorknob with a soft swish.
He didn’t say anything, he didn’t even have to for you to push yourself up off the bed. He met you halfway, his limbs feeling a little heavy as you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, mindful of his wound, and he buried his cold nose into your neck, his own arms finding their home on your waist before yanking - ever closer.
“I just need a minute.” He mumbled, ever steady, ever sturdy, ever reliable, yet still folding completely in your presence.
“However long you want.” You corrected, one hand curling around to lightly scratch the curls at the nape of his neck, still damp with sweat. He hadn’t showered, that much was obvious from the smell coming off him, but after tending to a few of your own patients you’d grown accustomed to it.
He felt tense against you, and despite the rate your brain was working, you managed to keep every burning question inside until you knew he was ready. He just needed a moment to catch his breath. A little slice of peace with no duty to fulfil, no responsibilities to attend to. And who were you to deny him of that?
He readjusted his grip, thumb slowly gliding over the soft cotton of your top in timing with every breath you took - grounding himself as best as he could. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it from where you were pressed together, and his own body heat was slowly bleeding into yours.
And then you couldn’t take it a second longer, the worry tumbling out of your mouth, “Are you okay?”
You tried to rein in the concern that inevitably bled into your tone, but the last text you’d sent him asking for clarification on the ‘minor graze on my shoulder, all good x’ text had remained unanswered, and although you wouldn’t outwardly say that his appearance at your place of work worried you slightly, it wasn’t exactly usual for him to show up in this way.
He nodded, humming gruffly, but didn’t let go just yet, “Came in with a patient, he needed a scan but our machines can’t take his weight.”
“Okay.” You muttered the hand massaging his hair slipping to trace the freckled-spattered skin under the neck of his t-shirt, “Your shoulder?”
A beat of silence.
“Fine. Cleaned and bandaged. Small, shallow.” His voice was flat, listing off information methodically, like it hadn’t happened to him, but one of his patients.
You felt one of your eyes twitch, “Bullet?” Your voice sounded small, tinged with thinly-veiled apprehension.
He raised his head a little, “Yeah.”
You felt something in your chest splinter, and you exhaled softly, hand stilling in his shirt, worry knocking against your sternum. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t even need to; he already knew how you felt about his extra-curricular, adrenaline-fuelled excursions, and with the way his heartbeat up-ticked at his breath of an admission, you figured it was that that had spurred this little meeting.
Shot at, a voice echoed through your mind, and you resisted the urge to get his top off and look at the damage for yourself.
He huffed a little breath, and you waited for him to speak.
“I think I want to stop with the SWAT stuff.” He mumbled the words into your neck, and your brain stalled for a moment.
Stop? Jack Abbot?
Your brows furrowed of their own volition, and you felt yourself pull away from him slightly, just far enough to look at his face, read the unspoken words etched into the lines of his skin.
There was not a single trace of amusement on his features whatsoever. He looked stern, almost, his mouth set in a straight line, eyes looking straight into yours, the only hint of softness evidenced through the small crease in the middle of his forehead. He blinked, his cheek twitching under your scrutiny, before shying away from your gaze, eyes flickering to the floor.
“Are you sure?” You lifted one hand to his face, palm resting against the hollow of his cheek, thumb sweeping under the fragile skin of his eye, trying to wrestle his attention back to you.
To confirm that this wasn’t some cruel joke to get your hopes up.
He nodded, humming, before dragging his eyes back to yours.
“Can I ask why?”
His lips parted, and he readjusted his stance, eyes briefly darting to the clock on the wall, “I’ve got too much to lose to be throwing myself in the way of active fire.”
The breath in your lungs stilled, as did your thumb on his warm skin, but he hadn’t finished.
“And I don’t mean I didn’t know how lucky I was beforehand, because I did. I do. I just…Getting shot at really put things into perspective, and I…don’t wanna die.” He swallowed, before slowly nodding his head.
You raised your brows, head tilting curiously, “That’s nice to know.”
He hummed again, teeth teasing his bottom lip, “I thought so too.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Your hands slid from him, coming to rest at his hips, your fingers twisting the black cotton of his shirt.
“Promise.” He nodded, raising a hand to trace your brow bone - an unconscious, affectionate caress, “You coming home later today or pulling a double?”
“Coming home; I only came in to distract myself. I’ll follow your ride back to the Pitt and we can go back together. Good?”
“Perfect.”
After a moment of silence, he sighed out of his nose, before stepping into your space like he couldn’t quite help it, and wrapped himself around you once more.
You felt him smile against your neck as he planted a soft kiss there, before he mumbled a low, “One more minute.”
Summary: The university is too far away from your house, so your parents decided to rent a boarding house. You're about to meet König, your big soldier roommate.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, AGE-GAP, AU, HEAVY SMUT, suggestive tone, explicit content, mature language, sexual innuendo, erotic, possessive, obsession, jealousy, stealing panties, mention of jerking off, cum eating, mutual pining, erotic, heavy tension, ownership, lots of teasing, manhandling, petname, dirty talk, degradation, oral activities, unprotected, PiV, squirting, spanking, fingering, blowjob, overstimulation, breeding, markings, rough sex, older man x younger woman
The place is small like two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a shared desk cluttered with textbooks and protein shakes, and a single window overlooking the campus quad.
You drag the last suitcase over the threshold of the dormitory room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist.
Your parents’ warnings echo in your head: Lock the door. Text us when you’re settled. Be careful. Always, always be careful.
You’re an only child. They’ve spent twenty-three years treating you like glass. When the landlord mentioned the only available room came with a roommate, they’d balked.
But the second he added, “He’s one of the task force boys. Big Austrian fellow and keeps to himself,” their tune changed instantly.
A soldier. Disciplined. Safe.
They’d practically shoved the deposit at him, convinced no man in uniform would ever lay a finger on their precious daughter.
You drop your bags with a thud and roll your shoulders, scanning the space. One side is bare which is yours, apparently.
The other is military-neat: bed made with hospital corners, boots lined up like soldiers on parade.
No sign of life.
You were hoping he’d be here so you could get the awkward introduction over with instead of accidentally terrifying him later when he came home to a stranger.
A door on the far side of the room, his bedroom and you guess then creaks open.
You freeze.
He has to duck to clear the frame. Six-foot-something, maybe more, built like someone carved him out of granite and then added extra for fun.
Broad shoulders stretch a black compression shirt until the seams look personally offended. Tactical pants, heavy boots. And a mask that a faded sniper hood that covers everything but his eyes.
Those eyes are pale blue, sharp as winter glass, and they rake over you from head to toe in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering. Just…cataloguing. Like he’s deciding if you’re a threat or furniture.
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. “ Hi. I’m, uh…the new roommate.”
His head tilts. When he speaks, the voice that comes out is low enough to vibrate in your ribs. Deep, clipped, unmistakably German-accented.
“ Glad to meet you.”
You offer a tentative smile. “ Same. I’m guessing you’re König?"
He nods once. “ Ja. Been alone for a few months. My last roommate moved out.”
A pause.
“ Said I frightened him.”
You arch a brow, folding your arms. “ Depends how creepy you plan to be, I guess.”
The corner of his eye crinkles like he’s smiling under the mask. “ Not creepy at all. As long as you don’t piss me off.”
The dry delivery catches you off guard. You snort before you can stop yourself. “ Noted. I’ll try to keep my pissing-off levels to a minimum.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh. Then he lifts one massive arm and points with a gloved finger toward the empty side of the room.
“ That’s yours. Bathroom’s through there.”
He nods toward a connecting door. “ Kitchenette down the hall. Quiet hours after twenty-two hundred if I’m on early shift.”
You drag your suitcase toward the empty bed. “ I’m usually buried in textbooks until midnight anyway. Med school doesn’t sleep.”
“ Med school.” He repeats, like he’s filing it away.
“ Good. You’ll be busy. I like quiet.”
You unzip the bag and start unpacking, hyper-aware of him still standing there, watching. Not in a creepy way the more like he’s waiting to see which way you’ll jump.
You pull out a stack of anatomy flashcards and set them on the desk. He shifts his weight, arms crossing over that ridiculous chest.
“ I keep things clean.” He says eventually.
“ Expect the same.”
“ Yes, sir.” You mutter under your breath, sarcastic.
His eyes narrow. “ Sir works.”
Heat flashes up your neck. You busy yourself arranging your laptop, refusing to look at him. The silence stretches, thick enough to chew. You can feel him still watching, and it’s doing annoying things to your pulse.
You risk a glance. He hasn’t moved. “ Something else?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “ Just deciding if you’ll last longer than the last one.”
“ I’m not scared of you.” You say, maybe too quickly.
One brow lifts above the mask. “ You should be a little scared. Healthy respect.”
You roll your eyes. “ I’ve dissected cadavers. You’re tall, not dead.”
That gets you another soft huff, definitely amusement this time. “ We’ll see.”
He turns to go back into his room, pausing at the door. “ If you need anything…quiet, space, someone to reach the top shelf just ask.”
The door closes softly behind him.
You exhale, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your heart is beating too fast for no good reason.
He’s intimidating, sure.
Abrasive in that blunt, foreign way. But there’s something under it is the dry humor, maybe even consideration. And those eyes…
You shake your head. Focus. You’re here for school, not to develop a stupid crush on your giant masked roommate who could probably bench-press you without breaking a sweat.
Still, when you lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, you hear him moving around in his room in quiet, deliberate footsteps, the occasional low mutter in German.
The wall between you feels paper-thin. You pull the blanket higher. This year is going to be interesting.
And long.
Very, very long.
…
You finally click the last drawer shut and survey your side of the room with exhausted satisfaction. Everything’s in its place. Textbooks stacked by size, notes color-coded, laptop charger coiled like a sleeping snake.
Your phone screen lights up: 00:47. Shit. No wonder your stomach is staging a full rebellion. You haven’t eaten since that sad airport sandwich at lunch.
The common area is dark and silent when you tiptoe out. Most of the task force guys are probably already rack-out, dreaming of push-ups and gunfire.
You’re halfway to the fridge when a low, rumbling voice slices through the quiet.
“ Still awake, Maus?"
You yelp and spin around, clutching your chest. König is sprawled across the couch like a panther on a branch that’s far too small for him.
One long leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He’s reading a comic book that looks comically tiny in his huge hands, the pages almost delicate between gloved fingers.
The only light comes from a small lamp behind him, throwing his masked face into shadow and making those pale eyes glow.
“ Dammit, warn a girl.” You hiss, trying to slow your racing heart.
He tilts his head, amused. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your…midnight raiding.”
You narrow your eyes and march to the fridge, yanking it open. Leftover containers, protein shakes, something labeled in German that you’re not brave enough to touch.
Your stomach growls again and loud enough to echo.
From the couch comes a soft, deep chuckle that does unfair things to your spine.
“ I left food on the table.” He says.
“ Knew you’d be hungry. Students always forget to eat.”
You glance over. There’s a foil-wrapped bundle with a sticky note: For the new one.
Your cheeks heat. “ You didn’t have to—”
“ Eat.” He orders mildly, turning a page.
You shuffle to the table and unwrap it. A burger is thick, juicy-looking with sesame bun. Smells incredible. You take a cautious bite.
König’s watching now, the comic forgotten in his lap. He’s still sitting, but even seated he’s enormous. The couch groans every time he shifts.
“ It’s plant-based.” He says before you can ask.
You pause mid-chew. “ I’m not vegetarian.”
“ Part of my diet.” He shrugs. Those massive shoulders roll like tectonic plates.
“ The taste is the same. Better, even. Try it before you complain.”
You roll your eyes but take another bite. And…damn it. He’s right. It’s rich, smoky, and perfectly seasoned. You can’t tell the difference. You make an involuntary little hum of approval and nod.
He gives a satisfied nod. “ Good. You’ll get addicted.”
“ Don’t get cocky.” You mutter around a mouthful.
He stands.
The room seems to shrink. He unfolds himself slowly, first the legs, then the torso until he’s towering again.
You’re eye-level with his stomach, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight over abs you’re trying very hard not to notice. He steps forward, and you instinctively back up until your hips hit the counter.
“ Thirsty.” He says simply, voice low.
“ I need water.”
You’re blocking the sink. You scramble sideways, muttering, “ Sorry, sorry—”
He brushes past you, barely. His arm grazes yours, solid and warm even through fabric. You catch a faint scent of clean soap and something sharper, like gun oil. He fills a glass, drinks half in one go, throat working under the edge of the mask.
You focus very hard on your burger.
Sauce dribbles onto your chin. You reach for a napkin, too late.
A big thumb swipes across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, wiping the smear away.
Your breath stops.
“ You eat like a child.” He murmurs, voice rougher than before.
His thumb lingers half a second longer than necessary before he pulls away, sucking the sauce off casually like it’s nothing.
Your face is on fire. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. You can’t even form words just a strangled squeak.
“ I…uh…early lecture tomorrow…gotta—” You gesture vaguely toward your room, burger clutched like a shield.
He watches you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ Gute Nacht, messy eater.”
You bolt.
The door to your room slams harder than intended. You lean against it, panting, burger still in hand, sauce probably smeared somewhere else now.
Your lip tingles where he touched it. You press your fingers there like you can trap the feeling.
Less than twenty-four hours.
You’ve been here less than a full day, and your scary-hot giant roommate has already fed you, laughed at you, and wiped your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, and the burger is forgotten.
This slow torture is going to kill you. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of you is already looking forward to tomorrow’s breakfast.
…
You sit in the lecture hall trying to look like a functioning human being, pen poised over your notebook, nodding along as the professor drones about cranial nerves.
Your friends flank you, whispering snide remarks about how Dr. Kessler gave a 62 to the kid who literally wrote the textbook’s twin.
You laugh in all the right places, toss in a sarcastic “He probably grades on font choice,” and hope it sounds normal.
But your brain is a traitor.
Every time you blink, you see that massive thumb brushing sauce off your lip. Feel the faint pressure, the warmth. Hear that low, amused “You eat like a child.”
You’ve tried everything: reciting the brachial plexus, counting ceiling tiles, mentally conjugating Latin roots.
Nothing works.
Those stupid piercing blue eyes keep sliding into frame like an uninvited guest star.
“ Hey, you okay?” Maya nudges you.
“ You zoned out hard.”
You force a smile. “ Totally fine. Just remembered that the histology paper’s due Friday.”
They buy it, thank God, and launch back into roasting professors. You nod mechanically, pretending to listen while your pulse does an annoying little flutter at the memory of König’s chuckle.
By the time class ends, you’re exhausted from the mental gymnastics. You shove your earbuds in, crank your playlist, something loud and distracting and join the river of students pouring down the main sidewalk toward the dorms.
The late-afternoon sun is low, campus buzzing with the usual post-class chaos.
Then you spot the patrol.
Black SUVs, uniformed officers, a loose perimeter of soldiers in full kit. Rifles slung, vests bulky, moving with practiced efficiency.
A bright orange poster on a lamppost reads SURPRISE SECURITY INSPECTION in bold letters. Students slow to gawk while their phones come out.
You slow too, craning your neck as you walk, trying to figure out what’s happening.
It’s rare to see this kind of presence on campus.
You don’t see the obstacle until you slam into it.
Your face meets something solid and unyielding. Not a wall, walls don’t radiate heat or smell faintly of pine soap and gun oil.
You stumble back, earbuds tugging, and look up…way up.
König.
In full tactical gear, helmet tucked under one arm, mask in place, he looms like a damn eclipse. The uniform makes him look even bigger, if that’s possible, plates and pouches adding bulk to an already ridiculous frame.
Those pale eyes pin you in place.
“ Watch the road, not my colleagues.” He says, voice low but firm.
“ You put yourself in danger.”
You blink, music still blasting in one ear. “ What?”
He sighs and reaches down. Gloved fingers gently pluck both earbuds free. The sudden quiet is jarring. You hear your own heartbeat instead.
His face is closer now, head ducked to bring him level with you. You can see faint stubble shadowing the edge of the mask, the way his lashes catch the light. Dangerously close.
“ I said…” He repeats, slower.
“ Stop staring at distractions. Be attentive on the road.”
Heat floods your cheeks. “ I—I was just curious. It’s not every day the campus looks like a war zone.”
His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the perimeter. You follow it and notice several soldiers watching, smirking, whispering to each other.
One makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. Another elbows his buddy, grinning.
König groans, a deep, suffering sound. “ Idioten.”
He turns back to you, expression unreadable behind the mask but eyes softer. “ Surprise inspection. Report came in…possibly the suspect with explosives on campus.”
A cold shiver races down your spine. “ Seriously?”
“ Ja.” His voice drops even lower.
“ Do not spread it. No panic.”
You nod quickly, throat tight.
His massive hand settles on your shoulder in careful, but the weight of it still makes you feel tiny. Warmth seeps through your jacket.
“ Go back to the dorm. Rest. I’ll follow when the shift ends.”
The touch lingers a second longer than strictly necessary before he lifts it away. You swallow hard.
“ Okay.” You manage.
“ Be careful.”
One corner of his eye crinkles, almost a smile. “ Always am.”
You turn to go, shoving your earbuds in your pocket this time.
Every step feels hyper-aware.
You can feel his stare on your back like a physical thing, intense and unwavering. You don’t dare look behind you, but you know he’s still watching until you round the corner.
By the time you reach the dorm, your heart is racing again for entirely different reasons than fear of bombs.
You flop face-first onto your bed and groan into the pillow.
This man is going to be the death of you. And the slowest, most infuriatingly delicious death it’s ever been.
…
You’ve been here six weeks now, and somehow you’ve survived living with a human mountain who wears a mask to bed and could probably deadlift the entire dorm building.
Six weeks of slow, maddening adjustment.
You and König have settled into a rhythm that feels almost…domestic. He grunts a greeting when he gets back from whatever classified hell his task force drags him through.
You tease him about leaving his giant boots in the walkway like landmines. He deadpans back that if you trip then he’ll catch you then watches with thinly veiled amusement as you turn red and mutter something about not needing rescuing.
He feeds you. Constantly.
Every few days there’s a foil-wrapped parcel on the table with a sticky note in sharp block letters: Eat. You skipped lunch again.
Sometimes it’s grilled chicken and vegetables portioned like he’s prepping for deployment.
Sometimes it’s those ridiculous plant-based burgers you’re secretly addicted to now.
Once it was a whole box of those fancy chocolate truffles you mentioned liking in passing.
You still don’t know how he remembered.
Your parents call every Sunday like clockwork.
“ Is everything okay, sweetheart? Is your roommate treating you well?”
You roll your eyes and assure them, again, that König isn’t some creep. He’s quiet, tidy, terrifying to everyone else but oddly respectful to you.
They sound relieved every time, as if the word “soldier” is a magical shield against all bad things.
If only they knew how often you lie awake wondering why your stomach flips whenever he brushes past you in the narrow kitchenette.
The tension is unbearable and delicious. You’re twenty-three. He’s…older. Noticeably. You try not to think about the exact math, because it feels forbidden in a way that makes your skin too tight.
He’s your roommate. Your friend, maybe. Nothing more.
Except for that one evening last week.
You’re sprawled on the couch in oversized sweats, picking at the takeout Thai he brought home “because women always want to eat.”
His words. Delivered with that dry, accented certainty that makes you want to both laugh and climb him like a tree.
“ Thanks for dinner again.” You say, mouth full of pad thai.
“ Seriously, I’m gonna start thinking I’m your girlfriend or something with all this spoiling.”
The words tumble out before your brain catches up.
You freeze.
He freezes in mid-reach for his water bottle and his massive frame suddenly statue-still. Even behind the mask you can feel the shift in the air, thick and electric.
Silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Your laugh comes out high and panicked. “ Kidding! Obviously. I mean, you’d have to actually take me on a date first, old man. Buy me flowers or whatever ancient ritual you Austrians do.”
His eyes narrow, but the crinkle at the corners gives him away. “ Old man?”
“ Yeah. You probably listened to vinyl records in your crib.”
He huffs in half laugh, half warning. “ Careful, Maus. Keep teasing and I will stop bringing food.”
“ You wouldn’t dare.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping dangerously low. “ Try me.”
You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly. The moment hangs, heavy and sweet, until you both look away at the exact same second like cowards.
There are other moments you pretend don’t happen.
Like the nights you jolt awake to low, ragged sounds from his room. The panting and muffled groans that make your imagination run filthy laps.
You press a pillow over your head and curse him for not using headphones, whatever porn he’s watching. You refuse to acknowledge the ache between your thighs or the way you have to change your own sheets the next morning.
Worse: your favorite black lace panties have vanished.
Then the red ones. You’ve torn apart your laundry basket twice. You’re convinced they’ve fallen behind the dryer or something equally mortifying.
The idea that König might have found them or seen them, touched them makes you want to die on the spot. You’ve rehearsed asking him a dozen times “Hey, random question, have you seen any…women’s underwear lying around?” and every version ends with you spontaneously combusting.
So you say nothing. You buy new ones and pray.
Tonight you’re at the kitchen counter, stress-eating cereal straight from the box because exams are trying to murder you.
The door clicks open at 23:40, later than usual. König ducks inside, gear bag slung over one shoulder, moving quiet despite his size.
He pauses when he sees you. “ Still up?”
“ The brain won’t shut off.” You mumble around a mouthful of frosted flakes.
He drops the bag, pulls two protein bars from his pocket, and slides one across the counter to you without a word. You stare at it, then at him.
“ I’m already eating cereal at midnight. This is not a protein emergency.”
“ Eat anyway.” He says.
“ You’re cranky when you’re hungry.”
“ I am not cranky.”
He arches a brow.
You tear open the bar and take an aggressive bite. “ Happy, dad?”
The eye crinkle again. “ Very.”
He moves to the fridge, back to you, and you allow yourself one quick glance at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
Six weeks in and the tension hasn’t eased, it’s worse. Thicker. Like the air before a storm.
You wonder if he feels it too.
You wonder if he hears you some nights, the same way you hear him.
You wonder how long you can both keep pretending this is just friendly roommate banter.
Because it’s not.
And you’re running out of excuses to ignore it.
…
You’re crammed into your favorite cheap eatery just off campus, the one with the greasy tables and the best bulgogi bowls in a ten-mile radius.
It’s lunch break, and your friends are in full post-quiz autopsy mode, arguing over whether the professor wanted “afferent” or “efferent” for question twelve.
You’re half-listening, half-daydreaming about a nap, chopsticks hovering over your rice.
The sliding door whooshes open.
Conversation dies instantly.
Four pairs of eyes swing to you like you’re the main character in a K-drama.
You feel it before you see him: Brent Kim, club president, 4.0 GPA, literal walking Pinterest board, strolling up to the counter in a cream sweater that probably costs more than your tuition. Dark hair perfectly tousled, and a smile bright enough to power the city grid.
Your mouth drops open. A fly could homestead in there.
“ Close it.” Maya hisses, kicking you under the table.
“Before something nests.”
You snap your jaw shut, but your stare stays glued. Brent orders in a smooth, polite voice and then turns. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you, and that smile widens.
Oh God.
He walks straight to your table.
Your friends turn into vibrating chihuahuas trying not to squeal. Someone’s foot is rapidly tapping Morse code into your shin: SAY YES TO WHATEVER HE ASKS.
“ Hey…” Brent says, stopping beside your chair. Up close he smells like cedar and winter air.
“ Didn’t expect to see you here.”
You manage a brilliant “Hi” that comes out more like a squeak.
He chuckles in low and warm.
“ Quick question…are you free this Sunday? It’s the club’s founding anniversary. All members are supposed to show, but I figured I’d personally remind my favorite bio major.”
Your brain short-circuits. Favorite?
Your friends are making frantic hand gestures: nodding heads, thumbs up, one of them literally mouthing GO.
You clear your throat. “ I…yeah. I’ll be there.”
“ Perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, embossed card, a thick cream stock with gold lettering.
A ticket.
“ You’ll need this at the door. Security’s tight this year.”
He holds it out. You reach and your fingers brush his.
Electricity shoots straight up your arm, down your spine, pools hot in your stomach. It’s barely a second of contact, but your entire nervous system files a dramatic incident report.
Your friends lose the battle. A chorus of stifled squeaks erupts.
Brent’s smile turns knowing. “ Looking forward to seeing you there.”
He nods to your friends, grabs his takeout from the counter, and leaves while the door sliding shut behind him like the end of a movie scene.
The second he’s gone, chaos.
“ OH MY GOD YOU TOUCHED HIM.”
“ HE SAID FAVORITE.”
“ YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE.”
“ It’s not a date!” You protest, face nuclear.
“ It’s a club thing!”
“ With a personal invitation and actual finger contact.” Maya counters.
“ That’s a date, babe.”
You hide behind your bulgogi, grinning like an idiot despite yourself.
Forty feet away, at a corner booth half-hidden by a fake ficus, four very large men in civilian clothes sit in tense silence.
König’s metal spoon is bent at a forty-five-degree angle in his fist.
Soap is biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing that it’s turning white. Ghost watches the scene like he’s observing wildlife. Price just looks tired.
“ Aw, look at that…” Soap whispers, voice syrupy.
“ Proper college romance. Finger brushin’, blushin’, the works. Makes ye miss uni, doesn’t it?”
Ghost grunts. “ Nobody would’ve dated your weird ass in uni.”
Soap gasps, hand to chest. “ Excuse me, Lt. Spooky is calling me weird? You wear a skull mask to Tesco.”
“ Both of you shut it.” Price mutters, rubbing his temple.
Then, quieter. “ Didn’t think König’s type was…college girl.”
Ghost snorts. “ Don’t know what the fuck he ate to start fancying a student. They’re all headaches and drama.”
Soap leans in, eyes dancing. “ Maybe she makes his soldier stand at ease, if you catch my—”
Ghost kicks him under the table. Soap wheezes.
König’s voice is low, dangerously even. “ I don’t like her. She can flirt with whoever. I don’t give a fuck.”
Soap finally loses it then a choked giggle escapes.
“ Right. That’s why you’ve been nicking her knickers like a bloody magpie. Wanking into them every morning, sniffing them like they’re laced with coke—”
“ Shut. Up.” König’s growl could peel paint.
Soap raises both hands, still grinning. “ Just sayin’. And remember that time you made her a protein shake with your own special—”
Ghost mutters. “ It gave me nightmares for weeks.”
“ Milk mixture for breakfast?” Soap finishes cheerfully.
“ Real romantic, big guy.”
König’s jaw flexes under the mask. The spoon is now a pretzel.
Price sighs heavily. “ Let the man sort his own mess. She’s an adult. He wants to court her properly, fine.”
He fixes König with a hard stare. “ But if you do something stupid like more bodily fluid cuisine…I’ll smash your skull myself.”
Soap leans back, folding his arms. “ My professional advice? Make a move before the pretty boy snatches her. College lads move fast.”
Ghost kicks him again. “ Don’t listen to this idiot. Whatever you do next will already be creepy as fuck after the panty theft and the…milk incident.”
König stares at the bent spoon like it personally betrayed him. His food is untouched.
Across the restaurant, you’re still being grilled by your friends, laughing and blushing and replaying that finger brush in your head on loop.
You have no idea that six weeks of stolen glances, late-night groceries, and carefully portioned meals have built something far more complicated than friendship on the other side of the room.
Or that the man currently mutilating cutlery has memorized the way you blush, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of every missing pair of underwear now hidden in his locker.
Sunday is four days away, and König’s grip on the ruined spoon finally snaps it clean in half.
…
You float back to the dorm on a cloud of giddy stupidity, the gold-embossed ticket clutched between your fingers like it’s made of glass.
Brent’s cologne still clings faintly to the card in clean, expensive and perfect. You press it to your nose once in the elevator, then feel like an idiot and shove it into your pocket before anyone sees.
The dorm is quiet when you push the door open. No towering shadow, no low Austrian greeting. König must still be on shift.
You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the couch, and collapse backward with a happy sigh, replaying the finger-brush moment for the hundredth time.
Your gaze lands on the coffee table.
His comic book. The one he’s been nursing for weeks that sits there and spine cracked open like he just set it down.
Curiosity wins. You reach for it.
The cover looks innocent enough: stylized art, bold colors. You flip to the dog-eared page.
Your brain blue-screens.
A woman bent over a desk, skirt flipped up.
A man behind her, a massive, hooded, unmistakably dominant, is thrusting so hard the speech bubbles are just a string of filthy German curses and broken English pleas.
Explicit doesn’t cover it.
You see everything: thick cock stretching her open, her mouth wide in a scream, sweat flying off both of them.
You yelp, hurl the book across the room like it’s radioactive, then frantically cross yourself even though you haven’t been to church since high school.
“ Sorry, sorry, sorry—”
The bedroom door creaks open.
König fills the frame, arms crossed, mask in place, those icy eyes locked on you. He’s in a black t-shirt and tactical pants, sleeves stretched around biceps that look illegally large.
Day off, apparently and he’s barefoot, silent as a ghost.
You swallow. “ When…when did you get back?”
“ Day off.” He says simply, voice gravel-rough.
You stand too fast, nearly tripping. “ Cool, cool. I’m just…gonna head to my room—”
You don’t make it two steps.
“ Enjoy your little lunch date with the college boy?” He asks, tone dripping sarcasm.
You freeze. Turn slowly. “ How did you—”
“ I saw you.” He cuts in, starting toward you with deliberate steps.
“ At the restaurant. You and your giggling friends. Him handing you that pretty ticket like a good little prince.”
You back up instinctively. “ I didn’t see you.”
He chuckles, dark and humorless. “ No. You were too busy blushing at that pathetic boy.”
Your spine hits the sink counter. Trapped. He keeps coming until he’s looming, one hand planting on the cabinet beside your head, caging you in. He has to bend to bring his face close then the heat radiates off him.
“ What’s your problem?” You demand, voice shakier than you want.
“ Why are you insulting Brent?”
König mutters something harsh in German like Scheiße, probably then switches back.
“ Don’t like what I saw. Wanted to walk over, grab him by the neck, throw him across the room.”
His mask brushes your temple as he leans closer. You feel his breath through the fabric, warm and unsteady.
“ I’m jealous.” He growls.
“ I'm possessive. Don’t like sharing what’s mine.”
“ I’m not yours.” You shoot back, but it sounds weak even to you.
He laughs, low and dangerous. “ The moment you walked into this dorm, Maus? You were mine.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut in a hot, coiling need twisting low in your belly. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.
He doesn’t budge. Instead he presses forward, pinning you harder against the sink.
You gasp.
Something huge and impossibly hard grinds against your stomach, long, thick and throbbing through his pants.
Your thighs clench involuntarily.
“ I've been trying to control it.” He whispers, voice ragged now.
“ Every night I hear you through the wall. Every time you bend over in those little shorts. Every time you laugh at my notes. I stroke myself raw thinking about you…how tight you’d be, how you’d cry my name while I split you open.”
Your breath hitches. A soft, embarrassing sound escapes your throat.
He hears it. His gloved hand catches your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip.
“ I want to fuck you so deep you forget that boy’s name exists.” He murmurs against your ear.
“ I want to bend you over this counter right now, shove your panties aside, and bury every inch inside you until you’re dripping down my balls.”
“ I want to feel you clench around me while you beg…louder than you do in your sleep when you touch yourself thinking no one hears.”
You’re soaking through your underwear. Your hips twitch forward without permission, seeking friction against that massive bulge.
“ I want to ruin you for anyone else.” He continues, filthy and relentless.
“ Fill you up again and again until the only thing you remember is how good my cock stretches you. Until you’re addicted to the way I wreck this pretty little pussy.”
His thumb slips into your mouth, just the tip, and you suck on it helplessly while your eyes flutter.
He groans, the sound tortured.
“ Say you’re mine…” He demands, voice cracking with restraint.
“ Say it, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been dreaming about.”
You’re trembling, heart hammering, body on fire. The comic book lies forgotten on the floor, and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.
…
You stare up into those piercing blue eyes, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.
His thumb is still pressed against your lower lip, waiting.
You make the mistake.
A tiny, breathless “Yes” slips out.
The second it leaves your mouth, his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.
Then you’re airborne.
One massive arm hooks under your thighs, the other across your back, and he hoists you onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.
You squeak in half protest and half thrill as blood rushes to your head. His stride eats the distance to his bedroom in three steps.
The door bangs open as he tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce once, twice, hair fanning across his dark sheets.
The room smells like him, gun oil, pine soap, and something darker. Your eyes dart around. The tactical gear neatly stacked, protein powder on the dresser, and—
You gasp.
One of your missing black lace panties is draped over the back of his desk chair like a trophy, the crotch darkened with dried stains.
König follows your gaze.
“ I haven’t washed that one.” He says, voice rough with satisfaction.
He plucks the fabric from the chair, holding it up between two thick fingers. The evidence is unmistakable, crusted and almost dry cum streaking the center.
“ It still smells like you. And me.”
“ You…you stole my panties?” Your voice cracks, equal parts horror and filthy arousal.
He chuckles, deep and unapologetic, tossing the ruined lace aside.
“ Not sorry, Maus. I need your scent. It gets hard just walking past the laundry room.”
He crawls onto the bed, a massive frame caging you in. “ Addicted.”
Your brain flashes to the comic book on the living room floor. “ That…that comic—”
“ I needed something to look at while I pictured you.” He admits without shame, lowering himself until his weight pins you deliciously.
“ Better visuals when I fuck my fist thinking of this tight little body.”
Before you can form a reply, his hands fist the front of your uniform blouse. Fabric rips like paper. Buttons ping across the room. Cool air hits your skin and you gasp as your bra is exposed.
“ Scheiße.” He groans, eyes devouring you.
“ Perfect.”
His huge palms cover your breasts completely and your chest looks tiny in his grip. He squeezes, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard and aching.
Then his mouth descends. Hot, wet suction on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arch with a sharp moan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask.
He switches sides, biting down harder, marking you. By the time he pulls away, both nipples are swollen, shining with his saliva, throbbing in time with your pulse.
He doesn’t stop there.
König moves down your body like a predator, shoving your skirt up to your waist. Your panties are soaked as he rips those too, the sound obscene.
You’re bare to him now, trembling.
He spreads your thighs wide, settling between them like he belongs there. A deep, guttural groan vibrates against your skin as he buries his face against your slick folds.
“ Fuck, you smell better than the panties.” He rasps.
He inhales deeply, nose dragging through your slit. The vibration of his groan shoots straight to your clit. You jerk, hips bucking, but his hands pin you flat.
“ Stay still.” He orders, voice muffled against you.
One thick finger traces your entrance, gathering wetness. You whimper when he pushes inside slowly at first, letting you feel the stretch.
He pulls out, stares at the faint red streak on his finger.
“ Blood?” His tone is reverent, almost awed.
“ You’re a virgin?”
You nod, biting your lip.
A dark, possessive sound tears from his throat. “ Mine. Only mine.”
He thrusts the finger back in but this time hard. No gentleness. His digit is huge, stretching you open with brutal rhythm.
You cry out, back bowing. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.
“ Taking my finger so well.” He growls.
“ I can’t wait to feel this cunt choke my cock.”
The heat coils tighter, unbearable. “ König…I’m—”
“ Cum.” He commands.
“ Explode on my hand. Show me how you fall apart.”
You do.
The orgasm slams through you, thighs shaking violently as you clench around his finger. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing his name.
When you finally sag, boneless, he withdraws slowly. His finger glistens with your release and that trace of blood. He brings it to his mask, slipping it underneath.
You hear the wet sound of him sucking it clean, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Then he pulls it out, shiny with his saliva, and presses it to your lips.
“ Suck.”
You obey without thinking, tongue swirling around the thick digit, tasting yourself in tangy, musky, mixed with him. His gaze is molten, fixed on your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck obediently.
“ Good girl.” He praises, voice hoarse.
“ Clean every drop.”
You do, until his finger is spotless. He withdraws it with a wet pop, eyes never leaving yours.
“ This is just the start, Maus.” He murmurs, settling his hips between your thighs so you feel exactly how hard he is massive, burning against your sensitive skin.
“ By the time I’m done, you’ll never think of that boy again.”
…
König drops his massive body beside you on the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. He’s still fully clothed except for the gloves tossed aside, mask in place, chest heaving from the restraint he’s barely holding onto.
Those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, dark with hunger.
“ Straddle me.” He orders, voice low and rough.
“ Take me out.”
You huff, half-hearted protest bubbling up. “ You’re so bossy—”
His glare sharpens, one brow arching above the mask. The look says try me.
You swallow the rest of your complaint and climb over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He spreads his thick thighs wider, giving you room, watching like a predator as your trembling fingers fumble with his zipper.
The second you reach inside, your hand closes around heat and steel. You pull him free and nearly whimper.
He’s enormous. It's angry red, veiny, easily ten inches and thicker than your wrist.
Your fingers don’t even meet around the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slick and glistening.
König groans, hips twitching. “ Lube it, Maus. Use that pretty mouth.”
You stare at the monster in your hand. “ I can’t…it’s too big. I’ll choke.”
He chuckles, dark and filthy. “ Don’t deepthroat, Liebling. Just the tip. Suck like you mean it. Use your hands for the rest.”
You gulp, leaning down. Even the head stretches your lips wide, salty and hot against your tongue. You swirl around the crown, slurping messily, cheeks hollowing. Both hands pump what you can’t fit in which is most of him.
König’s head falls back, throat working on a growl. “ Fuck…genau so. Good girl.”
You lose yourself in the rhythm. The sucking, stroking and spit dripping down his length until huge hands suddenly grip your ass, lifting you like you’re weightless.
You squeak around his cock as he positions you higher, tip nudging insistently at your soaked entrance.
“ W-wait—” You gasp, pulling off with a wet pop.
“ It won’t fit!”
“ It will.” He rasps, holding the base steady.
“ Your greedy little cunt will take every inch. Sink down. Now.”
You bite your lip hard enough to sting, hands braced on his chest. Slowly and agonizingly, you lower yourself.
The stretch burns. Your walls flutter and resist, then yield in tiny increments. You hiss, eyes watering as the broad head breaches you. König curses in German, fingers digging into your hips.
“ Scheiße, so tight…mein Gott.”
He slaps your ass sharply. The sting makes you clench, and another inch slides in. You moan despite the ache.
Deeper and deeper. Until your ass meets his thighs and you’re impossibly full, his cock seated so deep you feel it in your throat.
Both of you moan in raw, broken sounds.
“ Look…” He laughs breathlessly, pressing a palm to your lower belly. A visible bulge distends your skin where he’s buried.
“ Taking me like a perfect little slut. My cock’s rearranging your insides.”
The degradation sends heat spiraling through you. You lift experimentally, whimpering at the drag on how your walls cling to every vein. Then sink again. Pain melts into dizzying pleasure.
Soon you’re riding him in earnest, slow rolls turning to desperate bounces. His hands guide your hips, but he lets you set the pace, eyes glued to where you’re joined.
“ Faster…” He growls.
“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”
You do. You are chasing the friction, breasts bouncing, and moans spilling freely. The bulge appears and disappears with every thrust.
Suddenly he surges up, flipping you beneath him in one fluid move. Your legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you nearly in half.
He looms above, massive and overwhelming.
“ Zu klein für mich.” He murmurs, voice thick with awe and possession. (Too small for me)
“ Seht nur, wie ich diese winzige Muschi dehne.” (Just look how I'm stretching this tiny pussy)
He starts moving in deep, punishing strokes that punch the air from your lungs. The bulge drives deeper; you feel him everywhere.
König buries his masked face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he switches to German, words hot and filthy against your ear.
“ Du gehörst mir…so nass für mich…werde dich füllen bis es überläuft…kleine Schlampe nimmt jeden Zentimeter…” (You belong to me...so wet for me...I'll fill you until it overflows...little slut takes every inch.)
You don’t understand most of it, but the tone, it's possessive, degrading, adoring and pushes you higher. Your nails rake down his back through the shirt.
Another orgasm builds fast and brutal. “ König…please—”
“ Cum.” He snarls.
" Spritz in meinen ganze Schwanz, du verzweifeltes Mädchen!" (Cum all over my cock, you desperate girl)
You shatter.
Pleasure crashes through you in waves. You squirt hard, soaking his hips, the sheets. Your walls milk him relentlessly.
He roars your name muffled behind the mask and slams deep one last time. Heat floods you in thick, endless pulses.
There’s so much it overflows immediately, creamy white leaking around his buried length, dripping down your ass.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re tucked against his hard chest, still impaled and full.
His hand strokes your hair, voice softening to a rumble.
“ Gut gemacht, Liebling…so perfect for me…took everything I gave you.”
Only then does he ease out in slow and gentle until both of you moaning at the lewd, wet sound. Cum gushes out after him.
His cock that is still half-hard, shiny with your mixed release rests heavy and twitching against your stomach.
He strokes your hair, blue eyes searching yours.
“ No event on Sunday.” He says quietly.
“ It's useless. You stay here.”
“ But I—”
He cuts you off with a low growl. “ I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Until that boy’s name is erased from your pretty head. Then I’ll spend all day making you come again and again. That’s your Sunday.”
You open your mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly but his stare pins you.
Intense. Possessive. Promising.
You swallow. Nod.
A slow, satisfied smile crinkles his eyes.
“ Braves Mädchen.” He presses a masked kiss to your forehead. (Good girl.)
“ I’ll make it memorable. Better than any pathetic invitation.”
You melt against him, sore and spent and secretly thrilled.
Sunday was never going to that club anyway.
…
Everything has flipped upside down in the best, most filthy way possible. Since that first night, the dorm has become a non-stop haze of sex.
You barely make it out the door for class without König pinning you against the wall, fingers or tongue or cock inside you until you’re late and wobbly-kneed.
You try to study at the desk when he crawls under it then spreads your thighs, and eats you out until your notes are smeared with desperate handprints.
He comes back from shift smelling like sweat and gunpowder, and you’re on him before he can drop his gear bag while riding him on the couch, the floor or in the shower wall.
Sunday arrives exactly as he promised: unforgettable.
You wake up naked where clothes are pointless when König is in the same postcode. He’s sprawled beside you, equally bare, that huge scarred body on full display.
The first time you really see all of him in daylight, you nearly drop the orange juice. His body is a map of violence and power while broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved deep, a thick happy trail leading straight to that monstrous cock that never seems to go fully soft around you.
Scars crisscross his skin: jagged ones across his ribs, a burn on his shoulder, a long surgical line down his thigh.
He catches you staring and shifts, suddenly awkward for a man who just fucked you senseless.
“ Not pretty.” He mutters, reaching for a shirt.
You stop him, fingers tracing a raised scar on his chest. “ Are you kidding? You look fucking hot. Like a war god or something.”
You press a kiss to one mark, then another. “ Never cover up around me again.”
Breakfast prep starts innocently enough. You’re on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized shirts where the only thing you’re allowed to wear while your legs spread while he stands between them slicing strawberries.
Then two thick fingers slide into your bare pussy without warning.
“ Guten Morgen, Liebling.” He murmurs against your neck, pumping lazily.
“ Already soaked for me.”
You whimper, gripping his shoulders as he works you open, thumb circling your clit until you’re shaking. By the time you come, clutching his wrist, breakfast is forgotten.
He lifts you effortlessly, sets you on his cock, and goes back to chopping vegetables while you ride him slow and greedy. You roll your hips, chasing friction, while he calmly slices bell peppers one-handed.
The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and hotdogs fills the air. When the scent of frying fat hits, you both lose patience then you slam down hard as he thrusts up brutally, and you come together with muffled groans against each other’s skin.
His release painting your insides as the bacon pops in the pan.
The rest of the day is pure debauchery.
Clothes never make a reappearance. You drift around the dorm naked, his cum drying on your thighs, breasts marked with fresh bites.
Every time you pass him. When he's reading reports on the couch or cleaning his gear at the table while his cock is hard and swinging heavy between his legs like a permanent invitation.
You take it often.
You drop to your knees while he’s reviewing mission briefs, deepthroating as much of that monster as you can in which is still only half.
He threads fingers through your hair, abs flexing, voice calm as he turns pages and praises you in German.
“ So ein braves kleines Ding…nimmst meinen Schwanz so tief…” (Such a good little thing...you take my cock so deep...)
Sunday afternoon, your phone rings.
You’re bouncing on his lap again, facing him, his mouth latched to one nipple.
The screen flashes MOM.
You freeze.
König reaches around you, grabs the phone, and holds it out. “ Answer.”
“ Are you insane?” You hiss.
“ They’ll hear—”
He thrusts up hard once, making you gasp. “ You’re too good at ignoring calls. Answer or I stop moving.”
You glare, but your hips are already rolling again.
You swipe accept.
“ Hi, Mom! Dad!”
Your mother’s voice is warm. “ Sweetheart! How’s school? Is everything okay with your roommate?”
You try to sound normal.
König chooses that moment to slam up particularly deep, the fat head of his cock knocking your cervix.
Your voice cracks on a moan. “ Everything’s g-great…oh!”
“ Baby? Are you okay?”
“ Y-yeah!” You squeak, clawing at König’s chest.
“ Just…stubbed my toe!”
König’s eyes glint with evil amusement. He flips you suddenly, pinning you face-down on the couch, one leg hooked over his forearm. He slides back in with one brutal thrust.
You whine involuntarily.
“ What was that?” Dad’s voice sharpens.
“ N-Nothing! Dropped my pen…keep going, Dad. It's the monthly allowance, right?”
Your parents keep talking about grades, allowance and reminders to eat vegetables. König leans over you, chest to your back, and starts a slow, grinding rhythm.
His masked mouth finds your ear.
“ Quiet, Schlampe.” He whispers in German.
“ Don’t want them knowing their precious daughter is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate, hm?”
You bite the cushion to stifle another moan.
Your father launches into a lecture about budgeting your monthly allowance. König speeds up, pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin barely muffled.
He degrades you softly the whole time. König leans down, mouth at your ear, whispering pure filth in German while your parents talk about finances.
“ Du kleine Schlampe…nimmst meinen Schwanz so gut während du mit Daddy redest…so verdorben…” (You little slut...taking my cock so good while you talk to Daddy...so depraved...)
The coil snaps. You come hard, silent except for a choked whimper, walls fluttering around him. König pulls out just in time, hot stripes paint your lower back and ass then shoves back in to finish deep and flooding you again.
His huge hand clamps over your mouth, catching your muffled cry.
“ Braves Mädchen.” He breathes against your neck.
“ So gehorsam.” (So obedient.)
Your father is still mid-sentence about direct deposits when the aftershocks fade.
“ I…I have to go,” you manage, voice shaky.
“ Assignment due—”
“ Of course, honey.” Your mom says.
“ Just remember…stay safe. Keep your distance from that male roommate, okay? You’re too trusting sometimes.”
König outright laughs in a low, wicked rumble against your spine.
You end the call with trembling fingers. He plucks the phone away, tosses it onto the coffee table, and gives a lazy thrust that makes you gasp.
“ They have no idea…” He says, voice low and rough.
“ That their precious girl is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate every day. Stuffed full of my cum while she lies to them.”
You swat his chest weakly. “ You’re evil.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of you as he starts a slow, lazy rhythm again.
“ Evil?” He leans down, mask brushing your lips.
“ No, Maus. Just keep what’s mine.”
You roll your eyes, but your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
Sunday isn’t even over yet, and you wouldn’t trade it for any club invitation in the world.
Pairing: Remus Lupin x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You wake up in pain. Remus already knows.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, joint stiffness, soft remus morning care, established relationship, hurt/comfort, gentle hands and sleepy light, the balm is a love language, no use of y/n, fluff, slow quiet morning, remus knows your pain better than you do sometimes, comforting touch, reader trying to pretend they're fine, mutual care and tenderness, soft fic of sorts
Word count: 1.5k words.
The morning light is gentle—muffled by grey clouds that hang low and heavy, like the hush that fills a room before a secret is spoken. It leaks through the thin curtains in your shared bedroom, smudging soft amber across the walls, spilling over the duvet in ribbons. The air is still. Cool. Too quiet.
Remus is already awake. Has been for some time, watching the slow rise and fall of your breath beneath the covers, memorising the slope of your spine where it curls slightly away from him, the way the sheet clings to the curve of your shoulder. It's in these moments—stolen, sleepy seconds before the world fully intrudes—that he notices the quiet truths you try to tuck away.
You shift, just barely. A breath catches.
His eyes flick down. Your hands are cradled close to your chest, half-hidden beneath the sleeve of an old jumper you nicked from him months ago. The cuff is pulled over your knuckles, but not enough to mask the way your fingers curl inwards, stiff and slow. Like they're shrinking from touch. From light. From use.
You don't need to say it. Remus doesn't need to ask.
He sees it in the tiny wince you try to disguise as a yawn. The brief twitch of your jaw. The way your shoulders tense, just slightly, as if bracing for a pain you've grown far too used to. It's familiar now. This quiet, understated ache you carry like a secret. The way you pretend you're fine, hoping it might become true if you say it often enough.
Still, you smile at him when you feel his gaze. That gentle, weary sort of smile you give when you're trying to pretend it isn't as bad as it is. Your eyes flick away, feigning brightness.
"Morning," you mumble, voice rough with sleep. Your fingers barely move.
"Morning," he replies, voice low and warm. He brushes a kiss to your temple, his thumb sweeping gently beneath your eye. "Rough one?"
You shrug a shoulder, a soft, defeated motion. "Slept funny, I think. Woke up stiff. It'll pass."
"You always say that," he says quietly, brushing his fingers down your arm.
"Because it's usually true. Eventually."
"Still," he murmurs, "you shouldn't have to bear it alone."
He doesn't wait for an answer. Just rises from the bed with that quiet way of his, always like he's trying not to wake something delicate. He pads barefoot across the room, ruffling his hair with one hand. He moves like he's still half-dreaming—all soft edges and slow limbs, the way he always is in the mornings. But there's purpose to him now, too. A quiet urgency.
The bedside drawer opens with a low wooden creak. He pulls out the small jar—its label smudged from frequent use, the lid warm from always being held in his hands. Your balm. Not the fancy kind. Just something that smells faintly of lavender and mint and relief. It's nestled beside a clutter of receipts, mismatched socks, a forgotten notebook. Familiar chaos.
He sits on the edge of the bed, legs warm against yours beneath the blankets. He holds out his palms, a silent offering.
You hesitate.
Only for a second.
Then, slowly, you let him take one hand, then the other, and place them in his lap. Like they belong there. Like they were always meant to rest safely in his keeping.
"You don't have to do this every time," you say softly, eyes cast down.
"I know," he answers, already uncapping the jar. "I want to."
He warms the balm between his fingers first, rubbing it slowly until it loses its chill. And then he begins.
Thumbs pressing gently, carefully, into each joint. Circles of pressure and care. Not too hard, never too light. He knows the rhythm now. Has learned the shape of your pain like one might learn the grooves of a beloved book—finger by finger, joint by joint. Tender, steady. Reverent.
You let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding.
"That alright?" he murmurs.
"Yeah," you breathe. "Feels good."
"You always say that too," he teases gently, but there's no humour in his eyes. Just concern. Familiar and fierce.
The only sounds are the soft sigh of the sheets as you shift, the faint pop of your knuckles, the quiet exhale you let out when the worst of the ache begins to lift under his touch. The occasional rustle of his sleeve brushing yours as he moves from one finger to the next.
He watches your face the whole time. For signs. For softness. For the way your shoulders start to drop. The way your fingers slowly uncurl like flowers in weak morning light, reluctant but willing. There's patience in his movements. No rush. No pressure to perform wellness for him.
"Let me know if I press too hard," he says, eyes never leaving your hands.
"You won't," you whisper. "You never do."
His thumbs work into your knuckles, slow and firm. The balm leaves a faint sheen, catching the morning light in soft glints. The scent of lavender wraps around you both like a comfort, a quiet ward against the world. It is ritual, now. Sacred in its simplicity.
"You did this for your mum, didn't you?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He nods, not looking up. "When it got worse, yeah. Dad couldn't always be there. I was young, but she showed me what helped. I never forgot."
"You were a good son," you murmur.
"I tried to be. She was... strong. Too strong, really. Wouldn't admit when it hurt until it was obvious."
You're quiet for a moment. "She was lucky."
Remus smiles faintly, though his hands don't stop moving. "I think she would've said the same about me."
You nod, letting his words settle like warmth in your chest. The balm has loosened the tension. Your fingers don't feel quite so heavy now.
He shifts slightly to reach your other hand more comfortably. The mattress dips with the motion, and he steadies your wrist gently.
"Sometimes," you whisper, barely audible, "I hate this."
He pauses, not out of shock, but respect. "I know."
"It feels like I'm trapped in my own body. Some mornings I wake up and already wish the day was over."
He doesn't try to fix it. Doesn't offer empty promises. Just squeezes your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. "I hate it for you, too. But I'm here. For as long as you want me."
When he's done—when the balm has sunk into skin and pain, when his fingers have traced every line of effort and resistance—he lifts your hands to his mouth.
Kisses every knuckle.
One. By one. By one.
As if to say: I see you.
As if to say: You don't have to carry this alone.
As if to say: I'm here.
Your forehead touches his shoulder before you even realise you've moved. Your breath is warm against his skin.
"Thank you," you murmur, not quite looking at him.
Remus doesn't answer straightaway. He just brushes his lips across the crown of your head, lets his thumb linger on the back of your palm, and says quietly, almost absentmindedly, "Always."
A silence stretches between you, comfortable and complete. You shift a little closer, tucked beneath his arm now, head against his chest.
Then, after a beat, you add, "You didn't have to get up. I could've managed."
"Maybe," he says softly, squeezing your hand. "But you don't have to. Not when I'm here."
"You're too good to me," you murmur, voice thick with sleep and something else.
He hums. "You make it easy."
A small laugh bubbles up in your chest. Tired, but genuine. "Liar."
He grins into your hair. "Alright. A little bit. But I meant it."
You settle back into him, the morning slow and forgiving. You listen to the soft hum of the kettle from the kitchen—the old one that always clicks twice before it boils. Birds call faintly from somewhere beyond the window, and the radiator ticks as it warms. The world is waking.
"What do you fancy for breakfast?" he asks, after a while.
You blink slowly, your cheek pressed against his shirt. "Mm. Something easy. Toast, maybe."
"Jam or honey?"
"Honey. And tea."
"Good. I'll make it. Stay here."
"You really are a saint."
"Don't tell Sirius," he says with a wry smile. "He'll never let me live it down."
The room is still again. The air holds steady. And the morning, fragile and tender as it is, finally begins. The world will come knocking soon enough. But for now, there is this: warmth, and balm, and the quiet weight of love held between two pairs of hands, and the promise of tea in the next room.
cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT
synopsis. price, simon and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before
john price
john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.
he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"
he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."
your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"
his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.
"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."
you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"
he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."
your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."
you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.
he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."
his health's never been better.
what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?
he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "
you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.
slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.
no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."
"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.
he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."
he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.
he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.
" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.
you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."
you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.
"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.
"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "
you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."
johnny "soap" mactavish
johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.
you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."
"...whatever tha' means."
you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."
he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"
"johnny!"
you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."
"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.
"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.
you kiss his forehead. "only a little."
he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."
"johnny."
"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"
"are you?"
"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."
you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."
johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."
what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?
he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.
you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.
but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...
"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"
he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."
you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.
weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"
you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.
he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.
you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."
you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.
you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.
that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."
you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.
"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."
while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."
your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."
"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"
you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.
his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.
he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.
his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."
you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.
he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.
he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."
simon "ghost" riley
simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.
"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"
he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.
you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?
you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.
your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.
you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.
he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.
he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.
he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.
"love. this shit's greasy."
"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."
"don't wan' hydrating."
you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.
simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.
you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.
simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.
"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."
you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."
you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.
" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.
"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.
"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."
what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?
simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on an empty stomach is the best idea."
normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.
"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.
you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.
he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."
you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.
"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"
you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."
he winces.
"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."
"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.
he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.
he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"
he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.
"apologizin' to m'wife."
he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.
he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.
he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"
he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."
hi!! if you’re up for it could i please request a poly marauders (or really any of the marauders) x passively depressed/apathetic reader. like reader being nervous about a doctors appointment and having health anxiety but then saying “oh i don’t even know why i’m scared because it’s not like i’ll care if i die,” and the boys just being like ??? just a lot of comfort pls!! love your work btw!! (sorry if that’s kinda confusing 😖 english isn’t my first language)
Thanks lovely <3
cw: depression, reader has some passive suicidal ideation but it's from an outside perspective
Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 850 words
Remus rubs your shoulder after you get off the phone call confirming your doctor’s appointment. You sink into his side like dough softening at rest. “Would you like me to go with you?” he offers.
You hum, quiet and complaisant. “You don’t have to.”
“I don’t mind. It’s after I get off work anyway, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“So what else would I be doing but being with you?” He says it with some levity, hoping to inspire a similar feeling in you, but you don’t crack a smile.
Instead, you sink deeper into his side, the collar of your jumper rising up to bump your chin in the process. You look like a tortoise retreating into its shell. Remus kisses your hair.
You’ve been rather in your own head lately. Quiet, passive, not really laughing. It tears at Remus’ heart to see you so upset with yourself, but he’s not very worried. You’ll come out of it. He’ll help you. And he’ll be here with you in the meantime. Even if it doesn’t always seem like you care for him to be.
“Do you not want me to come?” he asks, trying not to let insecurity leak into his tone.
“No.” You finally look up at him, your sweet eyes guilty. “No, I’d like you to come. If you want to. I just, I know it’s not fun, so if you’d rather stay home…”
Remus makes a dismissive sound, relieved. “Don’t be silly, I always have fun with you. Sweetheart, you could make the doctor’s office fun.”
This time you hear the humor in his tone and smile. It looks like it costs you some effort. “Thank you,” you say quietly.
He shushes your thanks away, going back to rubbing your shoulder. “Are you nervous?” he asks.
You sigh as though disappointed with yourself. “Yeah. I don’t know why.”
“That’s alright, lovely. It’s not how anyone wants to spend their time. And you always worry that something awful’s going to be wrong, but it never is.”
“I know,” you say dully. “But I don’t get why I’m worried. I don’t even really…”
You trail off, your mouth wincing like you wish you hadn’t said anything at all. You won’t look at Remus.
He knows what you wanted to say.
I don’t even really care.
You don’t care about much these days. What you eat for dinner, how long your commute from work takes, what film your friends want to see at the cinema. But Remus thought you still cared about some things. The important ones. A heavy, sick feeling takes form in his stomach.
“Hey,” he says softly. It takes you a few moments to look at him, but you do. You look the tiniest bit afraid. Not in the same way he is; not for yourself, only for what you might’ve revealed. “Can I give you a hug?”
You frown, nodding like of course. Remus uses the arm already around your shoulders to bring you into his lap, your knees folded on either side of his hips. When he rubs your back, you curl forward to put your face in his neck like you’ve been waiting years to do it.
Your warm breaths tickle against his skin. He loves you so much he thinks he could collapse under the weight of it.
“Thank you for making the appointment,” he says, making broad, sweeping circles on your back. “It matters to me that you’re healthy, and that you’re taking care of yourself. It’s important.”
You deflate a bit against his front. He can nearly picture you shutting your eyes, brows pinched. “Remus…”
“I love you,” he presses his lips to the side of your head, “so much. We’re going to be old and feeding birds in the park one day, you know? I need you to be able to come sit on our bench with me.”
There’s a prolonged silence, wherein Remus begins to worry he’s frightened you into reticence, but then, “We already feed birds in the park.”
He smiles. “We do. But it’ll be much more becoming when we’re all feeble and grey, won’t it?”
“You’re feeble now.”
“Oi,” he laughs. Utterly delighted with you. “When did you get so sharp?”
“Sorry.” Your cold nose bumps his throat.
“That’s alright.” Remus kisses your head again, not wanting you to begin feeling guilty. “I know you don’t mean it. My sweetheart.”
You go quiet again after that. Remus tries again.
“So, it’s a date then? Me, you, park on the corner in fifty years?”
“I’ll have to check my calendar,” you mumble lazily.
“Mm, do that. See if you can pencil me in.” He rubs your back.
“Who knows if there’ll even still be birds then.”
Remus hums. “God, yeah. I hope there are. We’ll still be there, at least, won’t we?”
It’s transparent, this plea for reassurance. He cringes with the audaciousness of it, worries you’ll decide now to stop sharing anything with him at all, but after a beat of quiet you sit up.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laying a simple kiss on his lips. “Course we will.”
Hi all. Sorry for disappearing. I’ve got some health stuff and life stuff going on, and in trying to juggle everything, I dropped some stuff.
I wish I was coming on to say I’m updating soon, unfortunately I don’t have any updates for you. I’m afraid I’m going to be on hiatus a little while longer.
I appreciate everyone’s patience, I know waiting for fic updates as a reader sucks.
Chapter List
WC: 1,071
A/N: Hi friends. I apologize for not updating sooner, truth be told I'm struggling to find the motivation to write right now. Just know this story is always on my mind and I will keep updating, it just might be a bit infrequent. All I ask for is a bit of kindness and patience. Thank you <3
Violet barely had time to roll out of the way before Harry and Ron slid down the Chamber's entrance, which hadn't been a long drop after all. Once she was on her feet, she eyed the pile of bones warily, minding to stay as far away from Lockhart as she could.
"Now remember, any sign of movement, close your eyes straight away." Harry warned.
"Close our eyes?" Violet questioned, trailing behind Harry and Lockhart, her own wand now pointed at Lockhart alongside Ron's. She didn't trust his wand to cast a simple levitating charm, much less a spell to stop Lockhart.
"It's a Basilisk," Ron explained, "The monster, I mean. If you look it in the eye, you die."
"If looking at it causes death, then why is everyone Petrified?"
"They never looked it in the eye." Was Ron's only response.
Violet was shaking her head, questioning her sanity as she followed Harry through the tunnels. Why on earth had she followed them down here?
"What's this?" Ron asked as they stopped to observe the form blocking the cavernous room.
"It looks like a... snake." Lockhart responded. Violet took several steps back, only stopping when Harry began climbing over it.
"It's a snakeskin," Harry replied.
"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed, "Whatever shed this must be 60 feet long... Or more!"
Naturally, Lockhart fainted. Violet would've laughed if she weren't so horror-struck by the thought of gigantic, murderous snake slithering around.
Ron looked down at Lockhart, "Heart of a lion, this one."
Then, before anyone realised what was happening, Lockhart was on his feet and had taken Ron's wand.
"The adventure ends here," Lockhart huffed, swinging the wand between the three students, "But don't fret. The world will know our story. How I was too late to save the girl, how you three tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body... So, you first, Mr. Potter. Say goodbye to your memories."
Violet wasn't the least bit surprised when the spell backfired. In a flash of green light, Ron's broken wand sent Lockhart flying backward through the cavern. Violet inwardly cringed at the sound of Lockhart slamming against the wall behind Ron and Violet.
No one could react before the entire cavern began to rumble, dust and rocks falling from the ceiling. All three of them stared in shock and horror as the cavern ceiling collapsed, creating an impenetrable wall between Harry and the rest of the group.
Once the dust and rock settled, Ron and Violet called out for Harry. It was a long, anxious moment before he yelled back.
"Are you okay?!"
"We're okay!" Violet and Ron replied in unison. They both turned to look at Lockhart, who had sat up and was groaning.
"Hello. Who are you?"
"Um... Ron Weasley?"
"Really? And who are you?"
"Violet Ellis."
"And, uh, who- who am I?"
Violet and Ron shared an exasperated look before turning to look at the rubble, Ron shouting out to Harry, "Lockhart's memory charm backfired! He hasn't got a clue who he is!"
Lockhart remained seated, picking up a piece of stone and tossing it in the air, chuckling, "This is an odd sort of place, isn't it? Do you live here?"
Ron took the rock, replied a simple no, then hit Lockhart in the back of the head so hard he passed out.
Violet felt a little impressed with Ron. She didn't want to deal with an Obliviated Lockhart. "What do we do now?" She called out, looking through a small gap at Harry.
"You wait here, try and shift some of this rock so we can get back through. I'll go on and find Ginny."
"Okay." Ron responded at the same time as Violet said, "What?!"
"What do you mean 'what'?" Ron asked.
"It's dangerous! We should try and get through so we can go with him!"
"I'll be fine, Violet." Harry tried not to sound annoyed, "I'll be back."
Violet didn't get the chance to respond before he was gone.
Violet whirled on Ron, "How are you okay with your best mate just walking into danger, alone?"
"It's not the first time!" Ron argued, eyes wide.
"What?!" She shouted, "How does that make it better?"
Ron shrugged then moved around the girl, "Are you going to help or not?"
The pair spent the next hour moving the rubble enough for Harry and Ginny to squeeze through. When Violet tried to go through to go find Harry, Ron pulled her back and refused to let her go.
"Stay here, Violet." Ron pulled his hand back quickly when Violet glared at him.
"Don't tell me what to do." Still, she stayed.
She paced back and forth, wearing a path into the dust.
"Sit down!" Ron snapped after some time. He was sat next to the entrance, watching her in annoyance.
Violet wanted to argue, but the longer they waited, the more exhausted she became. Her adrenaline had begun to taper long ago, so when she finally sat down, her entire body sagged against the stone wall.
She didn't remember closing her eyes. One second she was staring at the hole, waiting for Harry and Ginny, and the next she was being shaken awake by Ron.
"They're back!"
Violet jumped to her feet, following Ron forward as Harry waved at them. Violet reached out a hand, helping a very pale, shaky Ginny through the hole, then let the girl lean against her.
Harry climbed through next, "Alright, Violet?"
"Perfectly fine, Harry." She rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips as she righted her hold around Ginny's torso, "Just relieved you didn't die. I'd hate to explain that one to Dumbledore."
A clatter behind Harry had everyone spinning around, instantly on guard.
"It's alright, it's just Fawkes." Harry raised a hand, signalling for the others to calm down.
If Violet had thought she'd had enough of an adventure for one day after falling through a hole in the girls' bathroom, she certainly thought so after she watched the phoenix take flight, its talons gripping Lockhart by the shoulders and slowly ascend. Ron grabbed onto Lockhart's legs, then Harry pulled Ginny against him and grabbed hold of Ron's legs. Violet so badly wished there was an easier way out, but she grabbed hold of Harry's leg and squeezed her eyes shut as they flew upwards.
Violet wasn't a fan of flying on her broom, too afraid of the fall from a great height, but this made her ache for her broom. The entire evening had been terrifying, and she didn't even have to face the Basilisk, but this was easily the worst part of it all.
It was nearing eleven at night, and despite feeling exhausted from a long day of studying, she couldn't sleep. She decided to go for a walk, maybe read a bit in the common room, but she found it just as impossible to get comfortable on the couch as her bed. So she did the one thing all students were expressly forbidden from doing- she decided to wander the castle.
It was deathly silent as she walked around, and just as dark, as all the lights had been extinguished. She wasn't sure where she'd wandered to, until she heard a rush of footsteps coming near her.
She pressed herself against the wall, hidden in the shadows, until the footsteps receded. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, suddenly worried about being caught, but she moved down the hall as she heard hushed voices.
She tucked herself against the wall, leaning slightly around the corner to see the group of professors. Movement in the corner of her eye had her jumping back, until she realised it was only Harry and Ron. They shared a wide-eyed look before all leaning around the corner to listen.
"...The Heir of Slytherin has left another message." Professor McGonagall was saying to the group, "Our worst fear has been realised, a student has been taken by the monster into the chamber itself! The students must be sent home; I'm afraid this is the end of Hogwarts."
Violet looked over to the two boys, who had equally panicked expressions.
"So sorry. Dozed off." Professor Lockhart said, joining the group, "What have I missed?"
"A girl has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart." Snape replied, his tone ever annoyed, "Your moment has come at last."
"My m-moment?" Lockhart stuttered.
"Weren't you saying just last night that you've known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?"
Violet had to stifle her gasp, equal parts shocked and annoyed that the professor knew such information but hadn't done anything to help.
It was silent for a long moment, until McGonagall spoke up, "That's settled. We'll leave you to deal with the monster, Gilderoy. Your skills, after all, are legend."
"Very well! I'll just be in my office getting, uh... Getting ready." Lockhart took off quickly, presumably towards his office.
"Who is it that the monster's taken, Minerva?" Madam Pomfrey asked.
"Ginny Weasley."
All of the professors left then, revealing more blood writing on the wall.
"Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever"
Violet looked over to Ron, his face a mixture of terror and shock.
"Let's go." Harry urged, starting down the hallway.
"Wait, where are you going?" Violet questioned, following after them.
"To find Professor Lockhart. We have to go down into the Chamber of Secrets and save Ginny." Harry responded, glancing behind him at the shellshocked Ron.
"Wait, you can't just go down there!" She tried to plead, "It's dangerous!"
"This whole school is dangerous, Violet!" He responded, finally stopping in front of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, "Now, are you coming or not?"
Violet didn't know how to respond, so she simply stood there as Harry and Ron barged into the classroom. She argued with herself for several minutes on why she couldn't go with them, why she shouldn't go with them, and why she should go with them. She was no Hermione Granger, but she was still well practiced with her wand. By the time she'd made up her mind, the boys were walking out of the classroom, their wands pointed at Professor Lockhart.
"Harry!" She gasped, "What on earth are you doing?!"
"He's a liar and a traitor," He said hotly. Violet wanted to ask for more, but the trio was already walking away. She sighed and followed after them.
They were quiet until they entered the girls' bathroom on the second floor, stopping as they came face to face with Moaning Myrtle.
"Oh, who's there?" She sighed, then smiled and giggled upon seeing Harry, "Oh! Hello, Harry. Oh, what do you want?"
Harry spoke slowly, "To ask you how you died."
"Oh, it was dreadful." She was floating above the toilet cubicles, and she pointed at the one below her, "It happened right here in this very cubicle. I'd hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. I was crying... and then, somebody came in."
"Who was it, Myrtle?" Harry asked.
"I don't know! I was distraught!" She huffed and sighed as she floated towards the group, stopping just in front of Harry, "But they said something funny, a kind of made-up language. And I realised it was a boy speaking so I unlocked the door to tell him to go away. And... I died."
"Just like that? How?"
"I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes over there by that sink." She nodded and pointed to the sink, then she left, moaning and whimpering.
Ron kept his taped up wand pointed at Lockhart as Harry moved to examine the sink, "This is it. I think this is the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets."
Lockhart looked at Harry with a wild look in his eyes, but stayed silent. Ron urged Harry to say something in Parseltongue. Harry closed his eyes before murmuring something in the Parseltonue.
The group all stepped back as the sinks began to shift, sliding away from each other as the one Harry had determined to be the 'door' slid into the ground. They revealed a large, gaping hole in the ground; the darkness so black they couldn't see the bottom.
Lockhart sighed in exasperation, "Excellent, Harry. Ah, good work. Well then, I'll just be, uh... There's no need for me to stay!"
Harry, Ron, and Violet all blocked the professor as he tried to run out the door.
"Oh, yes, there is!" Harry huffed as the three students shoved the professor backwards, nearly sending him into the pit, "You first."
"Now, really, what good would it do?"
"Better you than us." Ron responded.
"Um, but... Obviously, yes." Lockhart seemed to accept his fate, though begrudgingly, as he turned and examined the hole, "Sure you don't want to test it first?"
Ron poked Lockhart in the back, effectively pushing him into the hole. Violet felt a sense of satisfaction as Lockhart yelled the whole way down. It took several seconds for the telltale thud to signify he had hit the bottom.
"It's really quite filthy down here." Lockhart said, letting the trio know he was alive.
Violet groaned, "I'm really going to regret this."
It took until the end of the week, during D.A.D.A on Friday for Violet to finally corner Draco. He'd been mysteriously absent the rest of the week, and when he wasn't, he was surrounded by Slytherins.
Professor Lockhart was late to start class, so Violet took the opportunity to approach Draco. For the first time that week, he was sitting alone, so she simply sat down next to him at the table.
"You're avoiding me." Violet stated, trying her best to leave the emotion out of her voice, "Why?"
"I'm not." Draco replied, though he wouldn't look at her, "I've been busy."
"Yes, busy avoiding me." Violet turned to face him, silently begging for him to look at her.
He sighed in response. She couldn't hold back anymore, her voice strained as she asked, "What did I do? How can I fix it?"
He looked at her then, his eyes alight with surprise, "What are you talking about?"
She had to speak around the lump in her throat, "You haven't spoken to me, or even looked at me all week. I want to know what I did to upset you and how I can fix it."
The surprise turned to anger, and Violet nearly leaped back at his harsh tone, "You didn't do anything. What makes you think everything is about you?"
She didn't get the chance to respond as Professor Lockhart swept into the room. She rushed back to her own table, blinking away the tears as the lesson began.
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"I'll kill him." Aimee said simply.
The three girls were on their way to Charms. Violet had told them about her short conversation with Draco after they kept asking if she was okay. She wasn't, and she didn't want to talk about it, but she appreciated her friends all the same.
"I'll join you." Hannah responded.
"Who are we killing?" Caroline asked, stopping in front of the trio.
Violet was starting to worry about how nonchalant Aimee was, "Draco. He was rude to Violet."
Caroline's eyebrows shot up, "And your response is to kill him?"
Aimee and Hannah shrugged.
"Right..." Caroline nodded, "Violet, can I talk to you?"
Aimee and Hannah exchanged a loaded looking before walking away, moving to the front of the group as Caroline started walking next to Violet.
Violet wasn't sure what to say. It had been so long since she and Caroline had a calm, kind conversation. It was in such stark contrast to how close they had been the year before, but Violet respected Caroline's decision to pull away.
They were almost to the Charms classroom when Caroline finally spoke, "I owe you an apology. I've been so rude this year, and it's not fair to you. You haven't been the cause of all this Heir and Chamber of Secrets nonsense."
She trailed off as they stopped outside the Charms classroom, her face flushed, "I'm really sorry. I don't have any excuse. I've just been so stressed with everything, and I took it out on you."
"Caroline..." Violet sighed, too emotionally exhausted to give much of a response, "It's okay. Just, I don't know, try talking to me next time?"
"Yes, I will." Caroline looked sheepish as she responded, "Friends?”
"Friends." Violet accepted Caroline's tight hug, only pulling away when Professor Flitwick cleared his throat from inside the classroom, staring at the two girls. They hadn't realised the starting bell had rung. Both girls murmured apologies as they rushed into the room and took their seats, giggling quietly when they looked at each other.
When it was finally time for lunch, all four girls made their way to the Great Hall as a group. They talked about nothing in particular, Violet's three friends distracting her from her overwhelmed mind. She felt herself feeling less anxious and worried, until they entered the Great Hall, where her graze automatically strayed to the Slytherin table.
"Don't," Aimee grabbed Violet by the arm, pulling her towards the Hufflepuff table, but the girl wouldn't be deterred. Violet pulled away and stormed up to the Slytherin's, stopping only when she stood across the table from Draco. He looked up at her with a bored expression.
"If you want to be a prat, fine, but you don't get to take it out on me." She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at the boy, "I've done nothing but try to be your friend!"
Despite the ache in her chest, she felt some of the anger leave her as he stared up at her. The only sign that he'd heard her was his eyes widening ever so slightly. She didn't know what else to say; all of her thoughts and emotions had become a tangled up ball she couldn't unwind.
She turned on her heal and marched back to her own table, dropping onto the bench with a huff.
"Feel better?" Hannah asked.
"No." Violet shook her head, "Not at all."
"Oh, merlin, he's coming over here." Caroline muttered, staring at something over Violet's shoulder.
Violet turned around to see Draco standing directly behind her, glaring at her, "What was all that about?"
"Unless you're here to apologize, go away." Aimee snapped, glaring right back at the boy.
His expression morphed to surprise, "Excuse me?"
"You're excused." Aimee waved a hand dismissively.
Violet had to fight the laugh that tried to escape as Draco's eyebrows shot up in surprise. She supposed he wasn't used to being dismissed.
He finally looked back at her, sighing, "Can we talk?"
"I don't know," She replied, turning back to the table, "Can we?"
"Violet, please?" She didn't know what shocked her more, the fact that he said please or that his tone was almost... pleading. She got up without a second thought, following him out of the hall. Several fifth and sixth years stared at them as they left, undoubtedly wanting to question where they thought they were going.
Draco led her down the front hallway and into an empty classroom, leaning against the door once she was inside.
"Oh, this isn't suspicious." Violet rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she watched Draco.
He didn't say anything for several long moments, then, "I'm sorry." Violet wasn't sure she heard right, until he repeated himself, "I'm sorry for lashing out at you."
She was speechless. Draco watched her carefully, waiting for her response. When none came, he continued, "My father... I heard what he and the other governors did, and I knew it wouldn't be long before you found out and..."
"And what?" She asked quietly.
"I'm a Malfoy. What my father does... I have no say, no control, but that doesn't mean you wouldn't still blame me for what he did."
Violet wanted to laugh at the absurdity, "Blame you? For what your father did? I've met your father, he's not a nice man. But what he does has nothing to do with you. Unless you somehow convinced him to have Hagrid and Dumbledore removed-"
"No!" Draco cut her off, "I mean, no. Nothing I say means anything to him, but I wouldn't have asked him to do that.”
"Then why would I blame you?" It was his turn to be speechless, so she continued, "You don't get to assume things like that about me, not when I've given you every reason to trust me."
"You're right. I'm sorry." There it was again. Violet was sure Draco had never apologised before in his life, and now he'd said it three times in a single conversation.
She moved towards him, stopping a mere step away, "Try talking to me next time. If you want to be mad, fine, be mad, but don't take it out on me."
He nodded, his eyes examining her face before he stepped out of the way of the door, "See you at supper?"
She rolled her eyes before smiling, "Of course."
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Violet took a deep breath before she sat back down with her friends. All three girls stared at her imploringly.
"He apologised."
"He what?!" All three asked in unison.
"He apologised," Violet repeated, "He saw the error of his ways and said he was sorry."
"The error of his ways?" Hannah questioned, "What, that he was a total-"
"What she means to say," Aimee interrupted, "Is that he realised he should treat you like the amazing friend you are?"
Violet laughed, "Yes, something like that."
And just like that, the girls dropped the subject and started discussing the upcoming exams. With only a few weeks until the year ended, everyone felt the increasing pressure to focus on their studies, all while wondering when another attack would happen.
Over the following two weeks, things almost seemed to return to normal. Aside from missing students, things continued as usual. Classes continued, professors assigned too much homework, and many hours were spent on studying for the upcoming exams. No one wanted to talk about it, but everyone at Hogwarts felt like something was coming, that danger was just around the corner.
That is, until the end of May, when the missing piece finally fell into place.
By the following morning, things had gone from bad to worse.
At breakfast the next morning, it was announced that Professor Dumbledore had been removed from his position of Headmaster, replaced by Professor McGonagall. And, on top of everything, Hagrid had been taken to a prison called Azkaban.
With the new rules in place, it was impossible for Violet to meet up with Draco, which she had been desperate to do after his vanishing act the previous day.
Classes continued as normal, and Violet was thankful for her first class of the day to be Herbology. The previous week they had been studying Aconite, most commonly known as Wolfsbane, for its use in the Wolfsbane Potion. Despite being extremely toxic, Violet couldn't help but find the flower rather pretty, as well as intriguing.
Their studies on werewolves had been minimal, as the only discussion of it had been in D.A.D.A, where Professor Lockhart used the time to brag about how he had saved an entire village from a werewolf.
Violet found many subjects in D.A.D.A. interesting, despite Lockhart's clear lack of teaching skills, and lycanthropy had been one of them. She had heard from some third-years that lycanthropy was taught more in-depth, and Violet was looking forward to it. Plus, her third-year had the added bonus of not having Lockhart as a professor, as the yearly curse would bring in a new D.A.D.A professor.
"Violet Ellis!" The girl's eyes snapped to Professor Sprout, who was frowning at her, "Am I interrupting your daydreaming?"
Violet flushed with embarrassment, "No, Professor, sorry."
Professor Sprout observed Violet for a moment before returning to her lecture on the Wiggentree.
"What's got you so lost in your head?" Aimee asked after they had left the greenhouse.
"Nothing in particular." Violet replied.
Hannah laughed, "You're an awful liar."
Violet hadn't been lying, per say. Really, she had so much going on in her mind that she couldn't focus on any one thing. Working with the Wiggentree's had given a small reprieve, if only for an hour. But now, on the way to potions, she was on the verge of being overwhelmed.
"Out with it," Hannah urged, "Before you need the calming draught."
"What's Azkaban? Why were so many people freaked when they found out Hagrid had been sent there? And who gave the order to remove Dumbledore? Without him, the attacks are going to increase by the day!" Violet was rambling, all of her thoughts coming out at once, "And who is behind these attacks? No one will confess, and there's no obvious answer. So how do we stop it? How do we protect ourselves?"
"Woah, woah!" Aimee stopped and turned to face Violet, "One question at a time, please."
"Azkaban is a prison for the most deranged and dangerous witches and wizards. It's guarding by dementors, who are said to torture the inhabitants." Hannah explained calmly, "For Hagrid to be sent there, when he hasn't committed a crime? It's inhumane, it's the worst thing they could have done to him."
"The board of Governors voted to remove Dumbledore," Aimee continued, "It's twelve witches and wizards who oversee Hogwarts. I'm not sure who all is on the board, but... Violet, Lucius Malfoy is on the board."
They had arrived at the potion dungeon, so they weren't able to continue their conversation. Professor Snape was in a particular mood, though no worse than usual. They reviewed the properties and he provided a demonstration of the Hair-Raising Potion. Their assignment was to recreate the potion by their next class, which for the Hufflepuffs, was the next afternoon.
When Violet and her friends left the dungeons, they were all feeling frustrated, having struggled to follow Professor Snape's instructions. Hannah had commented previously that she believed Snape made his instructions as hard as possible to follow, in hopes of causing students to fail. Violet had started to believe it.
On their way to lunch, Aimee restarted the conversation from earlier, "Violet, you know there's not much we can do, right? No one expects us to find out who's behind the attacks, much less how to stop them."
Violet sighed, "I know. Still, this has been going on for months, and they're no closer to finding out who's behind it."
"Don't worry," Hannah linked an arm with Violet, "Aimee will protect us."
Aimee made a noise of indignation but laughed when she saw the look on Hannah's face, which was telling Aimee to shut up and go along with it.
"Yes, I'll absolutely protect Hannah. Violet, though..." Aimee pretended to consider it, until Violet was shaking her head laughing, "I suppose I could protect her too."
"Wow, thank you." Violet held a hand over her heart, "It means so much to me."
All three girls were laughing as they sat down for lunch.
"What's so funny?" Cedric asked from across the table.
Violet had been pleasantly surprised that morning when Cedric had walked with the girls to breakfast. She'd grown used to his silent treatment over the last few months, though she hated it. He'd apologized that morning for his behaviour, but he made sure to tell Violet how much he disapproved of her hanging around Draco Malfoy. She, without hesitation, told Cedric she didn't care for his approval, just his friendship. And just like that, they were friends again, though there was an uncomfortable strain between them that hadn't been there before.
"Aimee's going to protect Hannah and I from being attacked. She's the most skilled witch out of all of us, you know." Violet was smiling as she loaded her plate with food.
"No, I take it back," Aimee chimed in, "I don't think I want to protect you anymore, you're being mean."
"That's okay, I know a certain pureblood who will protect her." Hannah laughed, looking over her shoulder at the aforementioned boy, who was staring at them across the Great Hall.
Violet's laugh was a little less genuine as her friends', but she didn't take the comment personally. After all, Draco was a pureblood, and he had been protecting her all year, just from other threats.
She looked over her shoulder, waving at him as their eyes met. He waved back, but Violet felt a wave of unease at the blank expression he wore. She'd seen it frequently, as he wasn't one to show his emotions around others, but something was off. Luckily, they had History of Magic together in an hour, so she just had to wait until them to check on him.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
Draco was avoiding her.
When they were escorted into the History of Magic classroom, Violet had to push through the throng of students just to get to her seat. She dropped her bag and made to move towards Draco's seat, but he wasn't in it. He was at the front of the class, surrounded by a group of Slytherins. Normally Violet wouldn't care about interrupting their conversation, but something about their body language had Violet staying away.
The group finally broke away when Professor Binns started his lecture on a topic Violet couldn't bother to focus on. Instead, she tried to catch Draco's attention. He was at the table across the aisle from her, so usually she could get his attention with a simple wave or whisper, but not today.
She frowned as he stared at the front of the room, his attention seemingly on the professor. So she tried a different tactic, writing a quick note and sending it to him with a simple levitation charm. It landed on the desk, right atop his book, but still Draco paid it no mind.
Violet turned to Aimee and Hannah, who had been watching her with shocked expressions.
"Is he ignoring you?" Hannah whispered.
"Seems so." Violet replied, slouching back in her chair. She tried to focus on the lecture, but she was too upset to care.
Why was he ignoring her? Had she done something wrong? She wasn't sure what she could have done. The only thing that stuck out in her mind was the incident yesterday, with the calming draught. Did her asking for help upset him?
One thing was for certain. Violet was not going to let him continue ignoring her. She was tired of her friends ignoring her when they were upset or angry, especially when she had no clue what she'd done wrong. She had only just started speaking with Cedric again, and she wasn't about to lose another friend she cared so deeply for.
Unfortunately, she wouldn't have the chance to confront him any time soon.
