Welcome To The Shit Show!

Reblog a lot of fanfics.

[aphrcdites]

the bond between a girl and their favorite fictional man is both an unstoppable force and an immovable object

[mistyhollowcottage]

so much of taking care of yourself as an adult is just learning to eat at home and going on walks

[nothingspecialjustasoul]

I break my own heart by expecting people to be as attached to me as I am to them.

[elaezz]

AGAINST BETTER JUDGEMENT

synopsis. When your mom forgot to pick you up after skating practice, the last person you expected—or wanted—to offer you a ride was Ilya Rozanov, your brother’s rival. But sometimes, survival (and a freezing parking lot) meant making choices… against better judgement. ✴︎ MASTERLIST ✴︎ BAD IDEAS, REPEATED MASTERLIST

pairing. Ilya Rozanov x Hollander! fem! reader contains. tension, profanity, no use of y/n, slight angst; family issues. brother’s rival word count. 2,4k

You fumbled with your phone, fingers stiff from the cold, and hit redial for what felt like the tenth time. The screen lit up against the dark, and you pressed it to your ear, heart thudding with a mix of hope and frustration. The parking lot was nearly empty now, just a few cars left scattered under flickering lights. Your breath came out in little clouds, and the chill had started to creep past your jacket, settling deep into your bones.

“Mom? Where are you?” you asked, voice cracking slightly. You hated that it did. The cold made everything worse—your hands, your mood, your patience. And the silence on the other end of the line didn’t help. It stretched out, long and heavy, until you thought maybe she wouldn’t answer at all.

You glanced at your watch again. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago. You were supposed to be home by now, already showered, maybe halfway through dinner. Instead, you were standing alone in a freezing parking lot, the ache in your stomach not from hunger but from something sharper—annoyance, maybe. Or disappointment.

Then, finally, the call connected. Relief hit you fast, but it didn’t last.

“Mom? The practice is over—” you began, ready to let the words tumble out, to ask where she was, to say you were cold and tired and just wanted to go home.

But she cut you off before you could finish.

“Honey, I can’t right now. I’m at a meeting about Shane’s sponsorship,” she said, quick and clipped, like she was already halfway out of the conversation.

You opened your mouth to argue, to say how unfair this was, how it wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten you, how you were sick of always coming second. “Mom—” you tried, but the line went dead.

She’d hung up.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or just start walking and never look back. The kind of dramatic exit you always imagined in your head, where no one could stop you because no one had bothered to show up in the first place. It was always Shane. Shane this, Shane that. Shane with his perfect stats and his perfect smile and his perfect future in the NHL. Your mom never missed a meeting, a game, a chance to push his dream forward. But when it came to you—your practices, your competitions, your shot at Nationals—it was like she kept forgetting you were chasing something too.

You loved them. You really did. Your brother, even when he was annoying. Your mom, even when she let you down. But sometimes love didn’t stop the hurt. Sometimes it made it worse. You didn’t want to be first all the time. You just wanted to matter the same.

The cold was getting unbearable now. Your jacket was too thin, your leggings no match for the wind that kept cutting through the lot. You were shivering so hard your teeth had started to chatter, and your fingers were too numb to text again. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold it together, but you were one gust of wind away from falling apart completely.

And then—

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Hollander junior.”

The voice came from behind you, smooth and sharp, with that unmistakable Russian accent. It echoed across the empty lot like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

You turned slowly, already knowing who it was.

Ilya Rozanov.

Boston’s golden boy. Russia’s pride. The NHL’s favorite headline. And, most importantly, your brother’s sworn enemy. His name had been echoing through your house for years, always followed by a curse, a slammed door, or a rant from Shane about cheap hits and smug interviews. Your mom wasn’t much better—she talked about Rozanov like he was the villain in some family drama, the one standing in the way of Shane’s greatness. You’d never met him, but you’d heard enough to build a full picture: arrogant, reckless, impossible to ignore.

And now, apparently, he was here. In front of you. 

You didn’t look at him. Just turned your head away, like you always did when his name came up on the TV or in conversation. You didn’t want to talk to him. You didn’t want to owe him anything. 

But then again, his voice cut through the cold like a knife, low and amused.

“Forgotten?”

“Waiting for my mom,” you muttered, though the words felt thin in the air. The truth was obvious—you couldn’t stay out here much longer. The cold was biting through your jacket, sinking into your skin, and every breath came out sharp and painful. If you didn’t move soon, you were going to freeze.

“She’s probably busy with Hollander’s Rolex sponsorship,” Ilya said, his voice carrying easily across the empty lot. He didn’t rush, didn’t even sound like he cared about the cold. He strolled toward his car with that same unshakable confidence you’d seen on the ice, his blue eyes fixed on you like he was enjoying every second of your discomfort.

What were you supposed to say to that? He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. Your mom was probably sitting in some warm office, talking about Shane’s future, while you stood here shivering in the dark. And Rozanov—of all people—was the one pointing it out.

Ilya reached his car and stopped, both hands resting casually on the roof as if he had all the time in the world. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in the way he looked at you—steady, unbothered—that made the air feel heavier.

“Get in the car. I’ll drive you,” he said, the words firm, not really a suggestion.

Your reaction was instant, almost automatic. “Fuck no.” The words came out sharp, louder than you meant, but you didn’t take them back.

His eyes narrowed, the blue of them colder than the night air. “Hollander,” he said, dragging your name out with that thick Russian accent, turning it into something that made your stomach twist. Jesus Christ.

“I said, fuck no,” you repeated, forcing the words through clenched teeth, even though your body was already trembling from the cold.

“You act like I bite,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes. The smirk stayed, sharp and unshakable, like it was carved into his face.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” you shot back, arms crossing tight against your chest. The cold made the gesture feel more like defense than defiance.

He tilted his head, studying you with that unnerving calm, like he was already planning his next move. “You think I’d hurt you?” His voice was low, curious, almost amused.

“Not sure,” you muttered, shivering hard enough that your teeth clicked together. “Maybe just… scare me a little.”

“I’m terrifying, I know,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer, his presence filling the empty lot. “But freezing to death out here? That’s worse.”

You glared at him, clinging to your pride even as the cold gnawed at your skin. “I’ll survive.”

“Sure,” he said, the teasing edge still there. But then his tone shifted, softer, almost reasonable. “Or you could get in. I do have heat in the car.”

Your jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed no—you didn’t want to, couldn’t, should never. But the thought of another ten minutes out here, frost gathering on your eyelashes, made your stubbornness falter.

You let out a sharp breath, the kind that fogged in the air and made your chest ache. Your arms dropped to your sides—not enough to look like surrender, but enough to admit that your fingers were too numb to keep fighting this battle.

“Fine,” you muttered, the word heavy, reluctant, dragged out of you by the cold more than by choice.

Ilya’s smirk widened instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. He moved with unhurried confidence, sliding the car door open as if he’d orchestrated your defeat from the start. “Finally,” he said, his voice smooth, satisfied.

Wow. Gentleman.

You hesitated on the curb, one foot hovering, your glare locked on him like it might burn through his smugness. “This doesn’t mean I like you,” you said, each word clipped, sharp, meant to remind him exactly where the line was.

“Of course not,” he replied without missing a beat. He leaned against the car, posture loose, casual, like he owned the night and the world along with it. “I didn’t drive here to become your best friend.”

Ilya slid into the driver’s seat, moving with the kind of confidence that made it seem like the car already belonged to him and the night bent around his pace. Before he even reached for the ignition, he twisted in his seat, reaching into the back. His hand closed around something, and when he turned back, he was holding out a hoodie like it was proof of his generosity.

“Here,” he said simply, thrusting it toward you.

You stared at him, then at the hoodie, then back at him again. Of course it was Boston. Of course it had his team stamped across the front in bold letters, like he couldn’t resist reminding you exactly who he was.

“I’m not wearing that,” you said, shaking your head, voice sharp even though your teeth were starting to chatter.

“Don’t be fucking stubborn, Hollander.” His tone cut through the air, firm but almost amused. He tossed the hoodie into your lap before you could argue again. “Your fingers are about to fall off.”

You let out a frustrated huff, tugging at the fabric despite yourself. It was heavier than you expected, the kind of weight that promised warmth. It smelled faintly of him—cigarettes, maybe, or just the car—but either way it was something solid, something that made the cold feel less unbearable.

“Fine,” you muttered, slipping it over your shoulders. The sleeves swallowed your hands whole, the fabric hanging loose and oversized, but at least it was something between you and frostbite.

The moment you finally pulled his hoodie over your shoulders, Ilya turned the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life, filling the silence that had stretched too long between you. Still, the ride was quiet. Dead quiet. You kept your eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of streetlights pass one by one, counting them like they might lead you home faster. What were you supposed to say to your brother’s enemy? Words felt impossible, so you clung to silence instead.

It wasn’t until a few blocks later that he spoke. His voice was low, almost hesitant, quiet enough that you almost thought you’d imagined it.

“Your spin,” he said, eyes steady on the road. “Earlier. Cleaner than usual.”

You froze, the words sinking in slowly. Not because it was a compliment—Rozanov didn’t hand those out easily—but because it meant he had been watching.

“You… you were watching?” you muttered, disbelief slipping into your tone.

“Someone has to,” he replied, pausing just long enough to glance at you. His expression was unreadable, but his words landed heavy. “When your family doesn’t.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything else.

Fuck.

“It seems your brother’s not the only one who’s good on skates.”

You blinked, the words hanging in the air like they didn’t belong to him. Was that… praise? From Ilya Rozanov?

“For my mom, he is,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes, bitterness dripping from every syllable. “It’s always Shane, Shane, Shane.” You pitched your voice higher, mocking her tone, waving your hand in a vague gesture that felt more like surrender than humor.

Ilya didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes on the road, the silence stretching between you, heavy and unyielding.

You let out a sharp breath, frustration curling in your chest. “It’s just… fucking annoying,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They sounded smaller than you wanted, but they were true.

Then it hit you—who you were actually talking to.

“God,” you laughed, too sharp, too sarcastic, the sound brittle in the small space of the car. “I sound fucking stupid. Bragging about my family to you, Rozanov.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

You blinked, waiting for more. But that was it. No lecture. No teasing. No smug remark to twist the knife. Just calm.

It unsettled you, more than you wanted to admit. You weren’t used to anyone—least of all him—making you feel lighter just by sitting there, existing in the same space.

You turned back to the window, the oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, shivering against the faint hum of the heater. “I don’t know why I even…” you dragged a hand through your hair, words slipping away before they could form. “…I don’t know why I say anything.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just drove, steady, letting the silence stretch between you. And somehow, that silence felt safer than it had any right to.

Finally, his voice came, soft, almost muttered, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud: “You’re… good. Even when it’s shitty.”

You turned slightly, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror. His expression was calm, unreadable, but there was something real in it—something that made your chest tighten.

You swallowed hard. You didn’t know why it mattered so much that he thought that. Or why the simple weight of his words left you feeling… strange.

Suddenly, the car slowed and came to a stop. You lifted your head, blinking at the familiar outline of your house through the windshield.

“You’re home,” Ilya said, his voice steady, almost casual, as if this had been nothing more than a routine drive.

You bent down to gather your things, fingers brushing over your bag, your phone, the scattered mess of practice gear. Only then did you notice the weight still draped over your shoulders—the Boston hoodie, oversized and warm, clinging to you like proof of the night.

You didn’t bother to take it off, though.

“Have a good sleep, Hollander junior,” he added, a smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that carried both teasing and something softer underneath.

And in that moment, something inside you cracked. Just a small break in your stubbornness, quick and impulsive, but enough to push you forward before you could think better of it.

You leaned over, pressed a fast kiss to his cheek, and pulled back just as quickly, almost shutting the door behind you.

“Thanks, Rozy,” you said, the words slipping out quieter than you intended.

He froze, just for a heartbeat, long enough to make your chest tighten and your pulse skip. Then he blinked, the familiar smirk sliding back into place. He didn’t say anything, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. He knew exactly what that meant.

But..did you knew?

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

🎙️ela speaks i love this one!!! this is officially first part of my bad ideas, repeated series :)) hope y’all like it!!

[nosimpincurly]

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

[catherinebunnington]

Reblog to materialize $250,000 in prev's bank account

[k1tk4ttt]

Me trying to choose one of my fictional crushes for my fake scenarios before falling asleep

[professionalgeekgirly]

“mohan and abbot need to fuck” i say into the mic. the crowd boos. i begin to walk off the stage in shame. “no, she’s right.” i hear a voice in the back say. the lights come on. it’s shawn hatosy.

[robbyology]

how easy you are to need - part 2

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

<< part 1 ||

Summary: You accidentally send some very compromising pictures (and a particularly filthy video) to your boss/attending/crush. Chaos follows and, along with it, a very pleasant surprise.

wc: 4.9k

Warnings: f!reader, explicit sexual content, robby is a tiny bit unhinged, possessive tendencies, oral (f!receiving), implications of a scent kink, reader is honestly so lovesick and hot for him (it’s mutual), fingering, vibrators

A/N: i’ve gotta get this out of my drafts and out of my sight. breaking it up cause I think posting like 10k of pure smut might be over the top and boring tbh so here is the first 5k of filth. enjoy <3

The way to your apartment is spent with both of your hands on the wheel and one of Robby’s on your thigh. He could have driven, is used to driving, but he’ll let you think you have some semblance of control. For now. 

He makes small talk about work the entire time, pretends like nothing is out of the ordinary, but he knows you’re barely listening, too focused on the road and doing your best to ignore the thumb stroking at the inner seam of your pants—up high, but not high enough. You squirm and bite your lip, and in the short span it takes to pull into your lot, Robby’s managed to make you swear a total of three times. 

It’s fucking intoxicating. 

The way you respond to him, angry and eager, then, once safely inside your home, completely pliant when he pins you to your front door. 

“You’re terrible, god—are you trying to kill me?” you huff when Robby bullies his leg between yours like he did earlier that day, only this time, he holds you by the hips and does the work for you, shifts you back and forth with a tight grip, 

And, he wishes he could see your expression, knows it must be fucking gorgeous just like the sounds you’re making, but he keeps his face buried in your neck, breathing heavy and grunting anything and everything he thinks might drive you a little more crazy. 

“So fucking needy, and I haven’t even touched you yet—gonna let me do whatever I want, aren’t you?”

You keen, hips rolling back and forth, side to side, desperately seeking the friction you just can’t get through all these goddamn layers. 

Even if you’re coming apart, you’ve still got that mouth on you, manage out a, “don’t get—nn—don’t go getting a b-big head,” that’s probably meant to sound indignant but is really just kind of adorable. 

Robby chuckles, still buried in your neck but tilting his head to run his chin over your cheek bone, grazing the shell of your ear as he goes, and you reluctantly reward him with a full body shiver. 

“Okay, fine, I’ll stop teasing,” he sighs with no intention of doing so. 

You must have some inkling of this because when he pulls away, he finds you watching him through narrowed eyes. 

“I don’t believe you,” said with a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. 

Robby grins in a way he hasn’t in years—all sideways and cocky. Fuck, when has he had someone so hungry for him? Him? Never, he thinks, no one has ever looked at him the way you do, shuddered at his touch, whimpered at the loss. 

He shouldn’t enjoy it so much, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t sending him on a bit of a power trip, but it’s more than that. 

You may be falling apart in his hands, but he’s holding you so tight so you won’t see how badly he’s shaking, wants his face hidden so you don’t see how bright it is, how cloudy his eyes are at the idea of getting to fuck you. 

Too long, Robby has wanted this for too long. An inappropriately long time, and now he has it. He gets to mold his lips against yours and feel the way your thighs quiver around his. He gets to follow you deeper into your apartment, to keep his hands on you even when you get to the bathroom. 

Robby’s got his tongue in your mouth by the time you make it to the sink, grinds his hard cock against your ass when you bend to turn on your shower, is on his knees when you start stripping your clothes off. 

Who is he? What has fucking possessed him? He’s more desperate than he’s ever been in his life. Not even the horniest of his teenage years can compare to this. 

Teeth on your hipbone, Robby hooks his fingers into the waistband of your scrubs and slowly pulls them down, nibbles over your skin until he reaches your naval then drags his mouth back to the side. 

Your hands are in his hair, fingers curled tight then loosening over and over again. It’s when he rubs his chin against the sensitive curve of your hip that he realizes it’s his beard that’s making you squirm, and if you’re this twitchy now, you’re gonna be a fucking mess when you feel his face between your legs. 

Once you’ve stepped out of your pants, Robby grumbles a warning, “gonna touch this pussy now,” but doesn’t wait for a response before running his middle finger along your slit, pushing a little, “ah—ha, fuck,” from you. 

He’s delighted to see your stomach muscles contract in response, but that’s nowhere near as satisfying as the way your knees literally buckle when Robby slides his finger into your cunt. 

His shoulders catch you, weight making him grunt first then groan when you start to shake. 

“Let me—god, let me shower first,” you try, planting your palm against his forehead when he surges forward in his first attempt to taste you. 

Robby’s gaze wanders up your body, naked and perfect, and he focuses his eyes, big and brown, the ones that used to get him everything he wanted, on yours when he urges, “one lick?”

You squeak like you’re offended by the request, laugh a little incredulously while posing the question, “how the fuck can a man your age make such good puppy-dog eyes?”

Robby laughs through his nose, “years of practice,” and this time when he leans in, you don’t stop him. 

It isn’t just one lick, but Robby knew it wouldn’t be, never planned for it to be, and tonight he is all about plans. 

His knees are gonna hate him in the morning (and his back. And his shoulders. And his neck. And everything else), but as soon as the tip of his tongue slides between the very apex of your folds—already wet, already dripping for him—making direct contact with your swollen clit, you buck against his face, and Robby…

Robby loses it. 

Bottles and products and whatever fucking else go flying when he lifts you onto the counter—

“Fuck—Robby, Robby! Jesus Christ,” you’re squealing but he barely hears you. 

You taste so fucking good, grateful he was able to do this before you got in the shower, and Robby knows there’s a level of self-consciousness right now—he’ll let you rinse off, he will, but fuck, you have nothing to be worried about. He hasn’t even seen it aside from in that video, hasn’t appreciated it past tasting it, but Robby is obsessed with your pussy. Wants to live here, wants to drown. 

“Robby, please,” you moan, “don’t wanna—don’t want this t-to be how—fuck, don’t make me cum like this!”

Raising his gaze first to your heaving chest then to your beautiful face, Robby sits back on his heels but keeps both hands on your spread thighs, uses a thumb to rub circles over your slick clit in place of his tongue. 

“What is it?” he asks (croaks). 

“There’s just,” you make an incredibly pitiful noise and roll in time with his tiny strokes, breathless as you explain, “there’s shit, like, digging into my back and—and the mirror’s cold,” you blink down at him with wet eyelashes, and Robby actually feels kinda bad. “Just wanna really enjoy what I’ve wanted for so long, please.”

Yeah, that gets him back to his feet real fucking fast, and Robby pulls you from the countertop with a gentleness he hasn’t shown until now. 

Holding you close, he runs his palms from your shoulder blades to your waist, feels the different imprints from whatever had been behind you and massages the blood back into every crease while apologizing. 

“Got kind of… ” he laughs to himself, “carried away,” and, using one hand to rub the back of his neck, he’s trying so fucking hard to stay casual in the midst of his brain screaming at him. 

He can feel the rise and fall of your chest, your much smaller hands making their way under the hem of both of his shirts. 

Your cold skin makes him hiss quietly, and you grin up at him, “it’s what you get for making me stand here completely naked. Think it’s time for you to lose the clothes, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby shakes his head, which probably comes off as a gesture of amusement, but it’s not. 

Contrary to what you may be thinking, he has no desire to strip. Not yet, anyway. 

Standing on your tiptoes, you tug him down for another electrifying kiss, scratch lightly down his ribs, and Robby grunts at the sensation, then bites down on your lip. He keeps one hand on the back of your head while wiggling his other between the two of you, paying your tits some much deserved attention. 

Stepping back, Robby massages both of the soft mounds, has to do more than just stoop to get his mouth low enough to place a wet kiss on each of them, left then right. 

Without looking up from your chest Robby orders, “get in the shower,” voice like rolling thunder.

“Wha—mm,” you falter when he flicks his tongue over your hardening nipple, fingers closing over the other and pulling just enough to elicit another pretty moan. “But, you’re still… oh, s-still have clothes on.”

“Mhmm,” Robby nods, smiles when you try to push your tits closer to his face, “‘cause I’m not getting in with you.” 

He stops his little attack and straightens up. The way you're pouting at him shouldn’t make his cock hard, but goddammit, it does. 

“Why not?”

Your bottom lip pushes out, makes it easy for Robby to trap between two fingers. A hum of confusion lilts upward as you try to pull out of his grip, but Robby only pinches harder. 

“You wanted someone to watch you, right?” he drawls, and his tone is similar to the one he uses on the interns when they ask genuinely stupid questions. “It’s the only reason I can think of for sending your cute little pictures and videos to someone—” and he might squeeze the nipple he’s still rolling between his fingers just a little too hard. 

Thinking about it again, Robby feels a new sort of irritation flare to life inside of him. It’s not the heat that accompanies anger nor the sickness of jealousy. This is… Possessive. And, he doesn’t think he’s ever experienced it before. Not like this. 

You sent someone else those pictures and that video. On purpose. You’d taken all of it for another man, and all because—

Robby catches the way his masseter works to slide his jaw forward, close to bearing his fucking teeth. He relieves some tension by rolling his shoulders, and when he stretches his neck from side to side, he hears the tell-tale crack of joints. 

He feels a little crazy. You’re driving him fucking wild just by standing here with your hands on his torso, mouth open, eyes wide, fuck—fuck. 

Coarse and corrupt, Robby tells you, “the only reason you’d send someone a video of you playing with your pussy is so they can watch you do it, so that’s what I’m doing,” lips brushing your forehead, “I’m watching.” One more slow, deep breath, then Robby exhales all once— “get in the fucking shower.”

To tell the truth, it might be a good idea for him to step away for a second, rein in his thoughts, stop acting like a fucking psycho, but how is he supposed to leave when you move away on wobbly legs, when you look so pretty standing under the spray? The dark outer curtain is still bunched up in the corner, leaving a clear plastic sheet as the only barrier between you and Robby. 

You’re slightly distorted, but if anything that makes it better. He can see the curves of your body, the motion of your arms when you lather your hair with shampoo. The scent fills your bathroom, and, suddenly lightheaded, Robby is glad he’s posted up against the wall across from you, legs crossed at the ankles, hands locked together over the top of his head. 

He barely even notices how hard he is, and when he does, he really doesn’t care. You are his top priority tonight. Taking you apart, making you cum over and over again. He wants to see shiny tears stream down your face so that he can kiss them away, wants to make your body quake just so he can hold you through it. He wants to leave a print of himself inside of you. He wants, wants, wants. 

It was always there, laying dormant at the back of his mind—this urge to touch you, feel you. Robby bookmarked every time he made you shiver, took too much satisfaction when you’d stare and smile like he’d hung the moon. He bathed himself in every interaction, got off to a few of them, but even then, even when he recognized his attraction to you, he didn’t think that he’d be like this when he finally got his hands on you. He didn’t think he’d lose the ability to think rationally. 

After checking a couple of cabinets Robby finds a stack of towels and pulls one out, has it ready when you step out of the shower. You gaze up at him with foggy eyes the entire time he dries your hair, and he holds that gaze, feeling his expression—his mind—soften. 

Once your hair is no longer dripping, Robby moves downward, towels off your shoulders, your neck, earns a flutter of eyelashes when he gets to your chest and purposely runs the terry-cloth over your perky nipples. Ribs, stomach, back, thighs, his lips brush over your pelvis, and your nails scratch at his scalp when he sucks a harsh bruise into the divot of your hip. 

The sounds you make are so… Fuck, he could get drunk off of them. Already is, actually, and Robby wants you to make more of them. 

“Time for clothes?” he prompts, smiling up at your slow, dazed nod from where he’s still squatted. 

Your hand slides from his head down to his cheek, and Robby turns into it, kisses your palm before getting back to his feet. 

“Followin’ you.”

He holds you by the shoulders lightly, letting you guide him down the hall and into your bedroom. 

It fits you, Robby thinks, with one corkboard full of smiling friends and family, another with notes and diagrams pinned all over. Your bed is halfway made, topped with too many pillows and a well-loved quilt. Robby sits down on the mattress and watches as you open a couple different dresser drawers. 

He’s barely made contact with the sheets when he sees a flash of lace, and then he’s standing all over again and striding up behind you. 

The panties are cute—of course they are. A light purple that probably looks beautiful stretched over your waist, but Robby isn’t interested in anything forced or uncomfortable. 

Able to see into the open drawer from over your shoulders, he reaches in and rifles through your underwear until he procures a classic bikini cut, printed with light pink flowers. His eyes land on the tiny bow at the front, and Robby almost comes on the spot. 

“These,” he huffs, nuzzles into your temple and surrounds himself with the scent of your shampoo. “No one to impress. I just want you to be yourself tonight.”

Robby should start taking notes of the things he says that prompt strong reactions, especially the ones that get you to pivot on your toes and pull his face down to yours. You kiss him hard, tongue lashing against his in his mouth, and Robby has to brace himself on the dresser behind you to keep himself upright. 

“You’re fucking killin’ me,” he pants, the hand on your back pulling you closer and closer until your hips are rolling against his cargo pants. 

You could make a mess all over him, Robby knows, and he entertains a brief fantasy of holding you on his lap at work, making you leak all over his thigh then wearing you for the rest of the day. 

He needs his dick inside of you, fucking Christ, he needs to feel your pussy clench and flutter—shit, fuck. 

Not yet. He remembers the way you had begged him to let you relax and get comfortable before making you come, and that still applies now. Robby wants to have you spread out on his bed, wants a clear view of your face and body when he wrings out everything you’re able to give him. 

His hand dances between your legs, fingertips teasing over you, and when he feels heat radiating from your core, Robby can’t help but groan and push a digit between your slick folds. He’s met with warm arousal and a tight hole, rewarded with a soft, wanton moan and your nails in his traps. 

Is he really patient enough to make it all the way to his house? Is he strong enough? 

He has to be. Plans—he has so fucking many, some just for tonight and some extending quite a bit farther. 

“Finish getting ready,” Robby mumbles against your lips, giving one small thrust of his finger before pulling back and away. “Pack a few things,” he sounds absentminded, examining the juice you left on his hand, crystalline and glistening, “then you can show me your collection.” 

Robby sucks your arousal from his finger, eyes on you the whole time, and you look like you want to kiss him again, your grip on his shoulders tensing and relaxing a few times before you exhale a shaky breath and move away from him to do exactly as instructed. 

Even if a little sassy, you’ve always listened to Robby—happy to learn, happy to help, happy to make him happy. 

Apparently, that applies outside of the hospital as well, taking his earlier words to heart and slipping into an old college T-shirt and a pair of stupid tiny drawstring shorts. Robby tracks your every movement as you pad over to your nightstand and bend at the waist, showing off the curve of your ass while retrieving the toys he wants to see so fucking badly. 

“Mkay, so this is old faithful,” you begin, tossing what Robby’s pretty sure is a clit sucker onto the bed, “I also have this wand, but it’s, like, too much most of the time.”

He grabs the vibrator as soon as you put it down. Too much? Robby powers it on to assess, hums at the tremor that shoots up his arm, masks his inward smirk with surprise that’s not entirely faked. This thing definitely hits heavy, could probably overstimulate to the point of desensitization. 

He’ll figure all that out later, though, when he gets you into his bed.

Moving on, you wave a familiar teal dildo and look at Robby with a lifted eyebrow, “I assume you want to see this?”

“Might be good to start with,” he shrugs because while the toy is an okay size, Robby himself has a good couple inches on it, not to mention a significantly larger girth. 

You stare at him for a moment, but he doesn’t elaborate, just tosses the vibrator back on the bed before nodding toward your drawer. Keep going. 

“Everything else in here’s really just failed experiments, I guess,” you tell him, scanning over various shapes and colors before you stand up straight. 

Robby cocks his head to the side in question, and somehow you’re able to read it. 

“Ya’ know,” you wave a dismissive hand and attempt to explain, “things that didn’t feel as good as I wanted them to or, like, just didn’t work for me.”

“Define ‘work’.”

Robby’s eyes are drawn to your collarbone when you shrug but quickly trail down to the perky little buds he can see through your thin t-shirt. 

You catch it, fight a shiver at the intensity, but can’t appreciate it too much when your mind is suddenly buzzing with apprehension. 

What doesn’t work for you? Why is it so hard for partners to get you off? You know the reason, but it’s hard to say out loud. 

Which is pretty stupid, actually, considering it’s a common problem among the female population. Fuck, it’s not even a problem; it’s just anatomy and sensitivity, and Robby will understand. He’s a doctor in his 50s, not some frat boy bitch. 

Still, you nibble on your lip, look away for a few seconds, and though he doesn’t speak, you can tell Robby is expectant, fists in his jacket pockets with his shoulders forward as he dips down to get a better look at your face. 

“It’s dumb—I’m being dumb,” you shake your head. Just say it. It’s not gonna send him running. “I can’t come from penetration alone.”

Robby’s eyebrows pull down and together, one slightly higher than the other. Not quite frowning, he pushes his lips out in a confused sort of pout, almost like he doesn’t know why you’re telling him. “Is this your way of giving me a heads up?”

“I guess? I usually don’t, but…” you do frown, deep set and wrinkling your forehead, and you try to explain yourself, “it’s like—I don’t really bring it up with partners, especially if it’s not a long-term thing, and that way I can, ya’ know, go into it with lowered expectations, or really no expectations, so when it’s all said and done, I’m only a little disappointed when—”

“Stop,” Robby shakes his head, “stop talking, just—you’re telling me whenever you have sex, you go into it with no fucking intention of getting off?”

You sigh, “it’s not always about the orgasm, Robby.”

“Okay, so one, fuck that.” He sounds like he’s about to lecture you, which is, in fact, exactly what he does. “I know it’s not always about finishing, and I know the statistics. That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to fucking come, Jesus Christ.”

“I know that,” you grumble, “it’s just more trouble than it’s worth most of the time. And, if I tell them, ‘hey, I’m not gonna get off from your dick alone’, it’s like… like they wanna challenge it somehow? Like, their dick is gonna break some kind of curse. I don’t know—guys are fucking weird, and your egos are easy to bruise, so why?”

Head hanging back and looking at the ceiling, Robby lets out a frustrated breath. Closes his eyes. Shakes his head for the upteenth time. 

He’s trying to come up with the right response, you think, and you see him suck his teeth before he steps closer to your bed and sits down heavily. You let him pull you to him, guiding you to his lap. Straddling him like this, you’re reminded of how fucking big he is. You’re used to having to look up at him, and you recognize that he has a broad frame, but it’s usually a passive observation—something fleeting, not fully appreciated. 

Now, though, his shoulders seem endless where your forearms lay, and your legs are spread wide to accommodate his, and his hand spans the entire length of your face, heel of his palm against the side of your chin while his fingertips rest in your hair at the curve of your fucking skull good God almighty. 

“I need you to listen very fucking closely,” he starts, and oh, he’s doing that thing where he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head—the same way he does when he’s about to teach a valuable lesson or reassure a nervous resident, and it’s always made you melt. Always. 

But, now he’s right here, and he’s so warm, and you’re in his lap, and your thoughts are racing so fast that it takes extreme effort to focus on what he says. 

“Whatever you did or didn’t do or faked with previous partners,” his jaw ticks when he says this, “you will not fucking do tonight, got it?” You can only stare at him, which is apparently unacceptable because Robby presses his fingertips into the small of your back just a little harder, enough to make you arch away from them and further against him. 

God, he’s so hot like this. 

“O-okay, yeah, got it,” you agree with a whimper. 

When you rock your hips a tiny bit, Robby spreads his legs which, in turn, spreads yours, until there’s a wide enough gap between your thighs that leaves absolutely nothing to rub your pussy against. Diabolical. 

Robby chuckles when you whine pathetically, nuzzles into your neck and admonishes, “told you to listen to me, but you just wanna act like a bitch in heat.”

It shouldn’t turn you on, but the way his voice rumbles against you and vibrates in your ear has wetness pooling in your panties, and the way he’s got you splayed open, you’re probably dripping onto your bedspread. 

“m’listening, I’m listening, I promi—” you break off in a gasp when he pushes you backward in his lap just enough to work an arm between you, cupping your aching cunt with his hand. 

He sounds disbelieving as he mumbles, “how have you already managed to get these little shorts all wet?”

Your jaw falls open when he rubs you through them, and you can’t help the way you move, how you beg for more with your actions alone. 

“Still listening?” he teases, and you nod. After all, you are… on some background level. 

Humming, Robby adds pressure to one of his fingers, the length of it slipping between your folds, pushing your panties along with it so that you immediately soak the cotton. 

It feels a bit like he’s mocking you about how insanely worked up he’s gotten you, but even if he’s making fun, it’s still burning you up, stoking the fire in your gut. 

“I am gonna take such good fucking care of you tonight,” he picks back up, “hear me? You’re gonna forget about every,” his finger presses harder, “single,” a little more, “one of those motherfuckers,” and when he slides the tip of that first digit inside of you, cotton and all, you suck in a deep breath. 

“Mmm, please,” you whine, starting to twitch all over. 

Robby lets out a condescending little, “aw,” and pushes your loose shorts and underwear to the side, showing you mercy as he shoves two impossibly thick fingers into your sopping pussy. 

You ride them. You ride them like you would his cock, bucking and grinding and moaning his name into his mouth when he kisses you with a grin, “you should see yourself right now, how pretty you are fucking yourself like this—poor baby,” he croons, “told me you didn’t wanna come in the bathroom, but you seem more than ready now.”

“Goddammit, Robby,” you shudder, trying and trying and trying so hard, but you still need— “fuck, use—can you—your th-thumb or palm or something—”

You won’t get there unless he touches your clit, and the way his hand is curled does not allow that. His fingers feel amazing inside of you, up against your g-spot, making you drip, but no matter how hard and fast you rut, it’s useless. 

Robby looks positively devilish, brown eyes heavy-lidded with lust as his mouth pulls up on one side, a lazy sort of smirk you’ve never seen on him before. 

“Now why would I use my thumb when I can use this instead?”

You fall forward when he removes the hand from your back to grab the vibrator you’d cast aside. Your breath stutters, so many protests on the tip of your tongue, but Robby’s already got it turned on and is guiding it to your spread legs to cradle it in the palm of the hand halfway inside of you. 

You’re lucky for the thin layers of material between your clit and the toy—the whole reason you weren’t able to grind into his palm, but even with that barrier you quake. It’s still too much, too much sensation, too much desire, too much Robby. He spreads his fingers across your back again, holds you against his chest and keeps you there like he keeps the wand against where you’re most sensitive.  

You’re crying into his shoulder, his shirt growing damp with the spit you can’t suck back into your mouth, and you barely even realize your jaw is locked, teeth buried in the column of his throat, until Robby groans and swears and tilts his head to give you more skin to work with. 

And, you do, leaving bite marks and bruises and a trail of saliva as you tremble, bend, break. Then, with a broken cry that could get you evicted, you come so hard you might black out for a second. 

When you fall back into your body, it’s to feel Robby stroking your lower back, tender where he brushes over your spine. His cheek is pressed to your temple, and the way he’s shushing you, telling you to, “breathe,” is like the purr of a big cat, deep and a little dangerous even through the calm. 

[alainamccurdy]

I will NEVER be over this picture.

[pittrabbit]

warning: smut!, very badly described medical gala, just a rendition of that challengers scene but at the aftermath of a medical gala instead, pwp, robby x reader x abbot, m/f/m, not a lot of m/m but some, three way kissing (everybody cheered!!), p in v sex, blowjob, teasing, extended foreplay, etc etc etc.

summary: your first time at a medical gala as a brand new senior resident is marked by the special attention your two favorite attendings have been servicing you with all night

word count: 4.7k

note: taking on my new title of old man fucker

➽──────────────────❥

this was a completely unspoken part of a career in healthcare.

years and years of medical school, internship, residency, and finally, you had enough seniority to land yourself in one of your least favorite parts of emergency medicine (or medicine in general).

medical galas.

a smooching fest, basically. a fundraiser orchestrated specifically to appease the hidden higher-ups with enough money to fund the existence of your workplace. gloria had worded it better, more corporate-friendly, but to you it was all the same.

you knew why you were here. you were a pretty face, one of the friendlier presences in the ED, always receiving stellar patient satisfaction scores due to your habit of going above and beyond to aid the patients under your care. sometimes you'd receive a few side-eyes from robby at your overachieving patient-care methods, but he never expressed the same disappointment in you that he reserved for samira.

this was why you found yourself at this year's gala, finally at a level of expertise high enough to accompany your favorite attendings to what they conned as the most wasteful event of their calendar year.

it was usually abbot and robby who attended these, always dragging along some unlucky resident to take some of the brunt of the department's investors. this time, you were the lucky one.

it was a waste of time, truly. any money these people were willing to give to the ER never actually made its way to useful spaces. there was still a shortage in nurses, an ever so present lack of beds available, a staff that seemingly shortened year by year. it was all completely useless in your eyes. and also in that of abbot and robby's.

but you still took advantage of the all-paid expense trip to new york, not wanting to let the fancy hotel and free food go to waste.

you'd even splurged on a dress, figuring that you might as well make your presence known if you were going to be forced to smooch up to rich men who couldn't care less about your profession.

and maybe you also wanted to catch the attention of your two chaperones. maybe you'd been waiting for a chance to get them alone. maybe this was finally your moment to test if the looks they'd share with you — and with one another — actually meant anything.

and if their sudden silence as you stepped out of your hotel room to meet them in their hallway meant anything, you were confident that your plan was working.

➽──────────────────❥

"are you on facebook?" abbot suddenly asked during a lull in conversation.

the gala had ended a few hours back. it had been a success, according to gloria at least. you'd made the rounds, ate good food, met insufferable people, and apparently made the ED the promise of lots of money.

it had gone well enough that both your superiors even offered you a dance (respectively, of course), going as far as asking you for an afterparty meal as soon as you were able to sneak away past gloria.

and so you found yourself at some outdoorsy joint in the middle of the night, dress still on and makeup slightly smudged from its wear and tear through the night. but according to jack and robby's wandering eyes, you still looked as edible as you had when you left the hotel earlier in the night.

"what?"

"he's asking for your number. and so am i." robby interrupted, confident smile on his face

"you both want my number?" you tilted your head in amusement. 

"seems so." said abbot, taking a drag from his cigarette. 

"i'm not a homewrecker." you rebutted. 

robby chuckled. "we don't live together." 

"it's an open relationship." added abbot. "you're at our same floor, right? i'm in room 102. come hang out with us later."

"what, want me to tuck you in?". you challenged. 

abbot smirked at this, but did not fall for your bait. "we can just keep talking – about medicine, of course."

he was a hard one to crack. the confidence never left his half-looped smile.

you nodded with a chuckle, deciding to walk away from them end the night there, ignoring any rebuttals coming from them as you left, knowing that you'd likely find yourself at their hotel room in a few hours.

that was the last exchange you had with the two men during what was supposed to be your first gala. you'd dressed to the nines, knowing how expensive these things were and well aware that you needed to look the part in order to get more donors coming your way.

you just hadn't expected this outcome.

when you had first arrived at the party, you had obviously expected a bit of attention from the attendees, – call yourself conceited, but you knew what you were doing when you packed that dress with you – but you had never expected that you'd end up actually earning a visceral reaction from the two men you'd always looked up to — their eyes had been glued to you all night, staring up and down with no shame and even landing their gazes on what appeared to be their favorite parts of your body.

abbot and robby; the er cowboys. never had you ever thought your silly school-girl crush(es) would be reciprocated, but the way they'd been looking at you all night already had you lightheaded.

jack was clearly the more confident of the two. a tenured combat vet who seemed to not be fazed by anything that came his way. robby, although equally as confident in his field (truly earning the name of er cowboy) was a little more reserved than jack when it came to things like this. he still had his own air of confidence, looking at you with those brown eyes you'd have to look away from any time he'd praise you for a job well done, but he was slightly more awkward. he'd cough to cover any fumble of words, run his hand down his beard any time he was unsure of what to say. meanwhile, jack had a dry, blunt sense of humor, never seeming fazed by any of the suggestive words shared between you that night.

it was also easy to tell that both these men wanted the night to go in a less than friendly way – at least based off the way they'd shamelessly flirted with you all night. 

you knew you'd likely have to end up making a choice between the two when it came down to it, but did you really have to? they seemed close enough for you to enjoy them both at once, you just had to play your cards right. 

➽──────────────────❥

standing outside their door, you knocked, gluing your ear to the wooden barrier in order to take in the commotion going on inside. 

the sound of scrambling and hushed rambles as they readied themselves for you was entertaining to say the least. they were clearly not actually expecting you to come see them, but you couldn't blame them — you liked to make your presence unpredictable. 

it was slightly unexpected. they always seemed so put together at work, with confidence radiating from them as they achieved the impossible in unimaginable situations.

their unspoken want towards you made a burst of confidence spark within you. your legs pressed together outside the door at every thought of what could happen tonight.

suddenly, their steps got closer to the door, causing you to unglue yourself from it as they opened it. their breathless states matched one another as they greeted you with an awkward 'hi' and 'hey,' leading you in. 

after drinking for a bit while lounging around on the floor of abbot's hotel room, you began asking each other questions to get to know each other a little better, more intimately — icebreakers you'd never gone through as mere coworkers. you'd come to find that they'd known each other since they were in their thirties, with jack joining the pitt a few years after robby had become chief attending, being hired straight out of his last tour as a combat medic.

they'd become quick friends after that. something between them had just clicked, it seemed. there was no implication of anything other than platonic happening between them, but there was also no adamant denial of it. you could see a special bond there, one you wanted to try and explore with them.

your interest was piqued. despite no explicit interest between each other being unveiled to you, you just knew that with some encouragement, you could get them there. a twisted part of your brain could not help but want to test out how far they'd be willing to go with you whilst together. 

"we're out of beer." you said after a slight lull in conversation, getting up as they both gazed at your legs shamelessly, with you now donning some flimsy pajamas as opposed to your red gown from earlier. they were also in casual clothes, looking somehow even more delicious than they had in their tuxes.

with enticing eyes, you went to take a seat on the bed, smirking as you spoke again. "c'mere." 

"which one?" asked robby with a gulp as jack took the lead and went to sit next to you. robby quickly followed after him, taking a seat on the other side of you. 

with both men surrounding you, you took turns to look at both of them as you offered them a teasing smile, causing them to quietly chuckle at you. you bit your lip with want, eyeing their lips once, twice, thrice as you let the lust invade the fancy hotel room.

you decided to begin with abbot, turning to face him as you gave your back to robby. leaning in, your lips teased his own, drawing your head back before he could kiss you, enjoying the needy way in which his lips attempted to follow your own. that's when you turned to the other side, now facing robby and repeating the same movements, though this time actually sealing the kiss. 

the kiss immediately grew heavy as the two of you practically swallowed each other. it was wet, nasty, loud. your hands went up to his hair, his beard, running your fingers through it as you pressed him closer to you. your tongue went out to play with his, drawing him in with every lick and suck of his tongue. he moaned breathily into your lips, deep, throaty voice making you press your legs together as his hand rested shyly on your thigh while you took full control of the kiss. 

the way robby kissed you was desperate yet sensual. it was like he was confessing something through his kiss. you enjoyed it all the more knowing how much he clearly wanted you.

only a few moments were spent like this before you disconnected your lips, pulling a needy whine out of him as his lips chased yours in a similar manner to jack's just moments ago. 

your body turned yet again, facing jack once more and leaning in slowly, teasingly. he appeared to be a bit more adamant in actually kissing you this time, specially after having had to sit through you kissing his best friend while he just watched with nothing but air in his head and a heaviness between his legs.

dare you say he also seemed even more turned on as he kissed you. it was almost as if the sight of you kissing his friend had unlocked a new part of himself he had not yet discovered. his kisses were passionate and hurried. jack did not waste any time in exploring every inch of your mouth, creating a wet and nasty kiss that took up every corner of your mind. he sucked on your tongue, bit your lip, pulled at it, sucked it, made a home in your lips. his hands were far braver than robby's too, finding their way higher than robby's had. 

in the meantime, robby's hands laid on your thighs, softly caressing your legs while he awaited his turn again, breath heavy on your neck as he dragged his nose up and down its length.

abruptly, you broke the kiss, now facing forwards once more as the men shyly chuckled once again, awkwardly letting the sensuality of the moment take over. taking initiative yet again, you uncovered your neck and shoulders from any hair, silently gesturing at them to occupy their lips with your skin. 

they needed no further instruction, leaning down to kiss at their respective side of your neck as you leaned back and took it all in. they held no reservations in the way they kissed you, sucking, nibbling, licking, loving on your skin to the point where your eyes were rolling back. they marked you as theirs, breaking your resolve little by little.

you almost lost track of your main goal here as you fell victim to their suckling of the most sensitive areas of your jaw and neck. allowing them a few more moments to kiss you, you eventually redirected their mouths towards your own, silently communicating your need to kiss their lips again. following direction without a second of doubt, they both leaned in to kiss you at the same time, sticking out their tongues a bit to meet your own. 

your three pairs of lips met in the middle, sighing immediately at the contact and allowing your desires to take over. despite their prior negation of anything funny ever happening between the two of them, you felt no complaint from them as their lips touched. 

you stuck your tongue out, licking at robby first before letting your tongue wander off to jack's and sucking on it, soon joined by robby. your three tongues swirled, making you unable to hold back a moan at the feeling, at the wet, nasty exchange of saliva between the three of you.

enjoying the attention from both men, you continued to kiss them, occasionally even being left out of the kiss as they focused on one another. a depraved part of you took over then, forcing you to lean back and subtly push them onto a kiss of their own. sitting back, you watched as they aggressively made out with one another without a care in the world. 

you sat back and watched, legs rubbing together with desperate need at the sight. your poor lip was almost at the point of bleeding from how harshly you were biting at it. lightheaded, your hand went up to your breast, toying at it in order to relieve the slightest bit of sexual frustration rapidly building within you.

this went on for a good minute, up until your first verbal interruption of the night. 

"having fun?"

that broke them out of their trance, immediately turning to face you with a matching dazed look on their faces. 

"fuck, I-" 

"sorry." chuckled jack, once again giving you all his attention. 

he seemed more willing to explore whatever was going on between him and robby. this made you smirk internally.

"who wants me first?" you decided to cut to the chase. 

"we get to choose?" asked robby with a slight stutter. 

"me." responded jack at the same time, once again winning over robby with fast-thinking.

"wait, no, i-"

you leaned up to land a sweet kiss on robby's lips. "it's okay, robby. you can just have me after." 

making quick work of your clothes, you left yourself in just your panties as both men sat and watched, completely hypnotized by the sight of you. 

robby's mouth opened and closed multiple times as his eyes zoomed in on your breasts. still leaning back, you smiled at him as a way to gesture him to come closer, repositioning yourself a bit to make your tits stick out a little more. 

he gasped quietly, visibly gulping as he came closer. with some hesitation, he approached your breasts, opening his mouth as he leaned over to get your left tit in his mouth, moaning audibly at the contact. robby was nothing short of obsessive as he made out with your tit, causing you to throw your head back and tangle your fingers in his hair to further encourage him. 

jack watched attentively for a few moments before joining in and attaching his lips to your other breast, far lazier as he teasingly played with your tit. it was clear to you he was a little more confident in touching you than robby, though you enjoyed both men equally. 

"god, you're so fucking gorgeous." mumbled robby against your tit, hand softly wrapping around your thigh as he breathed through his nose, lips too occupied with your breast. 

"yeah? you're perfect, robby. making me feel so good, both of you." you moaned as both men continued to kiss at and play with your tits. 

robby would suckle and lick at you with a desperation you'd find pathetic in any other context, while jack teased you with his tongue, occasionally nibbling at you to elicit the most pleasurable pain possible. 

"shit, okay. that's enough." you finally said after a few minutes of them enjoying your body. disconnecting them from you by lightly pulling at their hair, you knelt on the bed and stared at them expectantly. 

"so, am i the only one who's gonna take their clothes off?" you eyed their still clothed bodies, tilting your head in a questioning manner, teasing smile on your face. 

you received sheepish responses of 'oh, shit,' and 'right, sorry,' before both men took off their clothes in a haste, almost tripping on their own feet as they climbed back on the bed with just boxers. 

"boxers too?" you requested as you began to slowly work your panties down your legs, eyes never leaving the two men. 

without question, they followed your instructions, this time even with more of a rush as they raced to get closer to you. you took a moment to eye them up and down, drinking in every detail of their bodies.

despite robby beating jack with a few inches in height, jack was a little more muscular, donning an extremely toned body with muscles contouring every inch of him. robby, however, was overall wider, carrying a good amount of muscle himself. 

they both fed your imagination quite well, and you wanted to fuck them both just as badly. however, you could not simply act on desire. no, you needed to maintain control over both. they were already very clearly into you, so making them follow your every instruction would be easy. 

"jack? come here, please?" you smiled at him, making him crawl to you immediately not even bothering to remove his prosthetic, quickly hovering over you as he leaned down to kiss you. 

the kiss was slow and sensual, all while his hands went down to feel up your body, bringing you as close to him as possible as he made out with you. 

"fuck, you're gonna make me lose my mind." he murmured into your lips. "want you so fucking bad." 

whining into his lips, you tilted your head so he'd kiss down your neck, now able to make eye contact with robby as he still sat near the edge of the bed, staring at you with lustful eyes. 

whilst keeping your eyes on robby, you spoke to jack once more, "fuck me." you breathed with a smile, making robby's face morph with something that looked like pain at your words.

"how do you want me, baby?" jack murmured into your ear, biting it a little as his hands gradually lowered to make contact with your cunt, making you sigh. 

"from behind. wanna look at robby while you fuck me." robby visibly gulped at this, nodding dumbly as if you'd asked him a question. 

jack chuckled as he looked back to eye his lust-ridden friend, clearly far less put-together than himself. he didn't need further convincing to begin helping you position yourself, placing himself behind you as he pressed his hands on your lower back to arch it to his liking. groaning gratuitously at the way you pressed your ass against him, his hands took the liberty of feeling your skin up and down as he ground into you, cursing under his breath at how good you already felt. 

"can i-" interrupted robby as he watched you and jack in front of him. 

"mhm. come closer, robby. i wanna see." you requested with a soft voice, smiling when he crawled his way to you. 

"sweetheart, do i get to fuck you now?" grumbled jack as he ground his cock into your ass, ignoring robby's presence altogether. 

you sighed at the weight of his cock dragging up and down your cunt from behind, nodding with a moan as you eyed robby's cock as he neared you. 

without further warning, he finally entered you, letting out a short groan of your name all the while robby's thick cock stood proudly in front of you, your eyes crossing at both the sight of him and the feeling of jack finally penetrating you. your eyes then went up to robby as jack began fucking you, silently asking him for permission to get his cock in your mouth. robby simply released a broken groan of your name and nodded pathetically, getting even closer to you and guiding his cock to your open mouth. 

"oh, fuck- it's so, fuuuuck- you feel so fucking good." robby ground out in a high-pitched whine. 

"wait til you feel her cunt." breathed out jack, hands tightening on your hips as his pelvis hammered against your ass. 

"shut up," he barked back. 

"feel good, baby? cunt's so fucking tight for me. just pulling me in, shit." he murmured as he continued to mindlessly fuck into you. 

mouth full of cock, you were unable to respond to him, instead moaning around robby's dick as the poor man cried out at the vibrations of your mouth. his hands wrapped in your hair, guiding you to suck him into your mouth. 

"f-fuck, keep talking to her. she fucking loves it." robby barely managed to let out at how you so-visibly reacted at jack's praise. 

"o-oh, god. so fucking good..." jack huffed. "you keep talking. she just got so fucking tight." he added. "like having two guys at your mercy like this, huh? feel so good. holes so pretty and ready for us." he rambled on, hips never halting in their haste to fuck into you. 

you continued to tighten around him as you mewled around jack, knowing they'd soon break as your own orgasm approached you. after a while of breathing purely from your nose, you finally disconnected your lips from robby, now catching your breath as you worked him with one of your hands, using the other to hold yourself up for jack. 

the position was quite tiring, making your stamina almost deplete completely. thankfully robby was considerate enough to come even closer and help hold you up, even using his hand to caress your cheek and wipe a bit of precum hanging from your lips with his thumb. he was extremely sweet even as his best friend continued fucking into you, causing your breaths to be stammered. he did not complain from your lack of action for those moments in which you caught your breath, making you want to pleasure him even more. 

"god, you're so fucking perfect, robby. want you so bad." you couldn't help but moan, hands finally wrapping around him and jerking him as he slowly lost himself to you again. 

"baby, you drive me fucking insane." your lips had gone back to his cock, lightly licking and suckling at the tip as you looked up at him. 

you were just about to shower him with praise even more, but your words were interrupted by jack's increasingly high-pitched moans as the noise from the slapping of skin became faster. 

"'m almost there, sweetheart, f-fuck. it's so fucking tight, baby ... need you to cum with me." he practically sobbed, a noise you never even dreamt of hearing from jack abbot. "how do i get you there with me? need to make you cum." 

"my clit, jack. please, god!" you whimpered when his hand immediately went around you, finding your cunt and fishing for your swollen clit "oh, just like that. that's so good, jack, oh my god!" you sighed as your mouth went back to licking and sucking at robby's cock, giving him far too little to cum but enough to have him shuddering under your touch. 

robby was out of words as he realized you were now simply teasing him, dragging his orgasm without giving him as much stimulation as you had when you had been deepthroating him. the only type of noise that left his mouth by then were whimpers, matching those of jack and your own as your highs approached, unlike his own. 

it was making you lightheaded, all the sounds you were able to pull out of these men. you were in heaven, unable to think, to breathe properly at all the pleasure you were feeling.

"c-cumming, shit- tell me you're there too. fuck, c-cum with me, gorgeous." jack croaked out as he began to unravel behind you. 

you didn't have it in you to respond, simply joining him in an orgasm as you let go of robby's cock, too high from the pleasure to continue edging robby. you barely registered his groan in complaint at your sudden halt, but your mind was too hazy to care anyways. 

"j-jack, god, f-fuck!" all you managed to let out were expletives and moans of jack's name as you rode your high. in the meantime, jack grumbled behind you, practically growling in mindless pleasure as he filled you up, hips slamming against you endlessly. 

when your highs finally wore down, you took a few moments to catch your breath as jack slipped out of you and let himself fall back onto the bed, completely out of energy. by the time your ears stopped ringing and your eyes dried from the tears of pleasure, you finally caught sight of a pained robby still sitting in front of you, flushed and desperate for release. the sight was extremely arousing– robby sat there, cheeks reddened and eyes pained as he slowly stroke himself, looking down at you with a tortured look on his face. 

"i-i need you, sweetheart... fuck, please." he let out, broken and needy.

"oh, robby." you pouted, sitting up and straddling him with no warning. 

fuck any rest, you had the most pathetic image of an usually well put-together man sitting in front of you. you had to take away that poor man's pain and fuck him out of his misery. 

you attacked him with a kiss, engulfing him in your cunt with no warning. you were sure you'd find no orgasm from this, but the feeling of his cock was enough to make it worth it. his immediate gasps and chants of 'thank you thank you thank you' were also feeding your ego in ways that made you feel a bit ashamed. 

"love the view." you heard jack chuckle from behind. his eyes were likely glued to your ass as you rode his friend. 

your hands went up to robby's shoulders, bouncing on him so aggressively that you had him moaning out your name endlessly as his nails dug into your hips. 

"g-gonna, oh, fuck-" he groaned before digging his head in your neck, suckling weak kisses into it. 

"cum, baby. need you to fill me up, okay?" you encouraged as you sped up, hands scratching at his back, surely leaving marks. 

once more, he chanted endless praise at you, pathetically crying out your name every so often. he finally stilled under you, letting out a strangled groan as his high took over him. the pretty sight of his red nose and his bloodshot eyes did sinister things to you. he could've easily driven you to another high if you hadn't edged him for so long. 

allowing him to nuzzle into your skin, you caressed his back softly, knowing you must've taken a lot out of him through your extraneous teasing. he stayed pathetically glued to you for a few moments until an interruption from abbot came along. 

"what, do i not get any aftercare?" he complained in a joking tone. 

looking back at him, you crawled off robby and made your way to lay with jack, pulling robby along to cuddle into the other side of you. 

"i can't believe you guys made me into a homewrecker." you chuckled.

"we told you, baby. we don't live together." laughed jack in return.

➽──────────────────❥

i wrote this for another fandom a very very long time ago but i kept the draft so i decided to rework it for rabbot yay

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ synopsis: you help keep pittsburgh trauma orderly—until small, unsettling glitches hint at something ominous unraveling. whether the mystery—or your guarded heart—breaks first is the question that will decide everything.

⤿ warning(s): panic attacks, stalking, obsessive behaviour, medical-talk, violence & blood

chapter one;

chapter two;

chapter three;

chapter four;

chapter five;

chapter six;

chapter seven;

chapter eight;

chapter nine;

chapter ten;

chapter eleven;

chapter twelve;

epilogue;

divider credit

[mercvry-glow]

In Another Light

“How can you look at me and pretend I’m someone you never met?” 

It’s been a year since you transferred to day shift—since he gave you no choice. Slowly, painfully, things began to feel normal again. You found a new apartment. You learned how to fall asleep without his arms around you. You stopped flinching at the sound of his name. But in a blink, the walls you spent months building start to crack. One call, one schedule change, and just like that—you’re pulled back into the night shift. Back into his orbit.

Independent story, later chapters will eventually follow episodes 1 and then 11 through 15 of The Pitt.

Content warnings will be listed on individual chapters.

Jack Abbot x Ex!reader

ੈ✩‧ - Prologue

ੈ✩‧ - He's got eyes, but he can't see

ੈ✩‧ - What we don’t say

ੈ✩‧ - My name, my undoing 

ੈ✩‧ - Heavenly

ੈ✩‧ - Ceilings 

ੈ✩‧ - Sometimes we wander 

ੈ✩‧ - It would’ve been you

More chapters to be determined

[glamorizethechaos]

THIS IS THE JACK ABBOT EDIT. IM SOBBING.

[abbotjack]

Just Passing Through

summary : The house they once called theirs is still standing, but nothing inside it feels the same. Over quiet breakfasts, broken appliances, too-tight sheets, and middle-of-the-night confessions, they navigate the fragile space between intimacy and absence. What unfolds is not a reunion, but a reckoning—of what’s changed, what hasn’t, and whether love is something that survives return.

word count : 9,851

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!, grief, war trauma, PTSD, military deployment, emotional repression, complex romantic dynamics, slow unraveling of a relationship, implied mental health struggles, caretaking and emotional labor, quiet heartbreak, vivid early-2000s domestic detail, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, no smut, no tidy resolution, graphic description of battlefield injuries, implied death of a child, moral injury, survivor’s guilt, emotionally intense dialogue, depiction of male vulnerability, trauma recollection in a domestic setting.

Robinson Township, PA. Summer 2005 : The house already has his things in it. The question is whether it still has him.

The dishwasher finishes its cycle at 11:47 pm.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen barefoot, staring at the condensation on the cabinets—rich cherrywood, sealed to shine even when there’s nothing left to polish. You didn’t need to run the dishwasher tonight. There were only two glasses in the sink. You just needed the sound.

You reach for a towel and open the dishwasher, the steam curling into your face like breath. You dry the glasses. Slowly. Ritualistically. As if there's nothing else to do with your hands.

The house isn’t new. It never was. But it’s yours. Yours and his. The ours that only happens when two people commit to staying in the same place long enough to leave marks.

There’s a burn on the countertop from your first try at pork chops. A dent in the hallway from the time he kicked the wall at 2 a.m. and told you he couldn’t remember why. Three wine bottles above the fridge. Two of them are empty. One is unopened and dusty. You’d been saving it. You forget what for. The mirror by the front door is tilted. The throw blanket on the couch is too heavy for summer. The air conditioner makes that sound again—the one he said he’d fix when he got back.

That was four months ago.

You sleep in his t-shirts now. You tell yourself it’s because they’re soft. Not because they still smell like him, faintly—like desert wind, bar soap and the inside of his truck.

Your Motorola sits on the kitchen counter, charging. You watch the red backlight flicker off and on—old cord, half-broken port. It buzzes once.

Text message.

You don’t need to check who it’s from.

u still cleanin?

You don't answer.

Because yes, you’re still cleaning. And because you know what the next text will say.

Two minutes later:

better not b bleachin again u tryin to dissolve the whole damn house?

You flip the phone open and close it again without typing anything. T9 is too slow for what you're feeling. It was always too slow.

You press the phone to your ear, and call her. She picks up immediately. Doesn’t say hello.

“So what’s your plan?” Dana’s voice is rough from smoke, too many double shifts, and the hour. “Feed him? Fuck him? Pretend everything’s normal?”

You lean your head back against the cherry cabinet, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning slow. "I don’t have a plan."

"Bullshit," she exhales. You hear the click of a lighter in the background. "You’ve been bleaching countertops like you’re prepping for a damn magazine shoot."

“I didn’t bleach anything,” you say. “Just wiped it. Twice.”

“Mhm.”

The house smells like Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works and chemical lemon. You don’t smell it anymore. It just smells like trying too hard.

“He called yesterday,” you say, fingers playing with the fraying towel edge. “Said it was hot. Said the AC on the base broke again.”

“What else?”

“He asked if the door still creaks when you open it too slow.”

Dana pauses. You can picture her now—sitting on the steps behind PTMC, cigarette tucked between two fingers, leaning her head against the brick.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said yeah. He said, ‘Good.’”

You hear her inhale.

“That’s how they know it’s real. Men like him, they come back looking for the things that didn’t change. That noise? That’s proof.”

“I fixed the porch light too,” you murmur. “But I didn’t tell him.”

“Good. Let him see something’s different. Let him wonder what else might be.”

You look at the boots by the front door. You moved them there earlier. The left one is scuffed—he caught it on the stairwell last winter when you argued about the electric bill. You didn’t have the money. He didn’t have the patience.

“I put out his mug.”

“The ugly one?”

“The World’s Okayest Cook.”

Dana groans. “Christ. That man loves a tacky cup.”

You smile. Just for a second. Then it fades.

“I don’t know what to say to him when he walks in.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replies. “Just be standing where he left you.”

“What if I’m different?”

“You are.”

You hold the phone tighter.

“What if he is?”

There’s a long silence.

“Then you meet him where he is,” Dana says finally. “You stop trying to rewind, and you let yourself watch the part that comes next.”

The light above the sink buzzes softly.

“I made his side of the bed,” you whisper. “Put his shirt on the pillow. Like muscle memory.”

“Don’t romanticize absence, kid. You’re not living in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

You laugh—barely. “It feels like I am.”

"Only difference is your man’s got better arms and worse manners."

You stare at the candle. It’s almost out. The wax has swallowed the wick. The flame is a stubby blue whisper.

“You think he’ll come back like he left?”

“No,” Dana says. No hesitation. “But you’re not the same either."

“I don’t want him to flinch when he sees me.”

“He won’t. He’ll flinch when he sees the world kept moving without him.”

You fold the towel tighter.

“He’s only here six days.”

“Then make them real. Don’t waste them trying to make him comfortable. Let him be wrecked.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That I won’t know how to hold him without breaking.”

Dana sighs. “Kid. If love doesn’t break you at least a little, you’re doing it wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“I should let you get back to work. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always.”

She hesitates.

“You want me to come over?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You bleach anything else, I’m revoking your nurse’s license and mailing you boxed wine in retaliation.”

You laugh, for real this time. It cracks through you.

“Night, Dana.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

The phone beeps once. Call ended.

You set it back down on the counter. The charging light flickers. The cord sags loose again.

You met Dana three years ago. First week on nights at PTMC. You were twenty-three, barely out of nursing school, teeth clenched through your first trauma code. A car crash. A twelve-year-old. You froze when the girl coded. Couldn’t remember how to hold the Ambu bag. Couldn’t remember your name.

Dana moved your hands. Didn’t say a word.

Later that night, she found you alone in the stairwell with your head down and your badge still clipped to your scrub pocket. She leaned against the railing, and said:

“I’ve watched grown men piss themselves in that room. You didn’t.”

That was the closest she ever got to a compliment. You never forgot it.

Since then, she’s been a fixture. She doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t do hugs. But she’ll hand you a chart the second a doctor disrespects you. She calls you kid when she means you did good. And when Jack shipped out last winter, she didn’t say she was sorry. She just started texting you around midnight every night, like clockwork.

Sometimes it was just:

u eat

Other times:

he call

And once:

ur stronger than u think but dumber than u know. pick one to fix.

You never responded. Not right away. But you always read them twice.

You leave your phone on the counter and walk through the living room. The rug is that deep olive shade that was trendy in 2003 and never stopped being a little ugly. There’s a brass tray on the ottoman holding three remotes you haven’t used in days. You walk past them and adjust the blanket even though no one’s been sitting there.

You light a second candle. The one in the hallway by the photo frames. Jack hates that one—calls it the “mall candle,” says it smells like the fitting room at a Bebe store.

You light it anyway. It means he’ll have something to complain about when he walks through the door.

In the bedroom, the sheets are too tight on the mattress. You re-made the bed this morning. Again. The hospital corners are habit now. You pull back the comforter and slide into the space where his body would be.

The ceiling fan ticks.

You stare at the shadow on the ceiling where the paint is uneven. You wonder if he’ll notice. He always does. Even the things that don’t matter.

Downstairs, the air conditioner cycles off. The house exhales with you.

You whisper into the quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

No one answers. But you imagine him on the plane anyway—hands folded, jaw locked, not sleeping.

You wonder if he misses this place. If he misses you in it.

Tomorrow, you’ll see his Army duffle by the door again—boots slouched beside it like he never left.

But tonight, it’s just the echo of him. And the house, waiting with you.

DAY ONE – THE KITCHEN

Feeding him is the first lie you tell yourself. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 7:23 a.m.

You’d cracked the eggs before you even heard the front door open.

Maybe twenty minutes before. Maybe thirty. You’d laid out the skillet. You’d sliced the bread. You’d turned the heat to medium and just stood there—still, blinking slow—until the oil popped and the pan hissed too loud.

And then he was there.

Not with a knock. Not with a shout.

Just the sound of the door opening, slowly, the scrape of the lock disengaging, and that familiar thud of boots—his boots—on the too-smooth floor you refinished last February. The sound echoed up into your chest before you even turned around.

He didn’t call your name. He didn’t drop his bag like he used to. He just stepped inside the kitchen like it hadn’t been four months since he last stood in it, like no time at all had passed, like memory could be picked up and worn like a jacket.

He was wearing military fatigue pants—heavy-duty, olive-drab, pockets down the legs, creased like they’d been folded too long. A black t-shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to the shoulder. His dog tags flashed once, then vanished beneath the collar. He smelled like recycled air, sand, and something sharp and chemical—maybe jet fuel. His eyes moved slowly: the red walls first. Then the island. Then the boots you’d nudged closer to the mat by the door. Then you.

You opened your mouth to say something. But all that came out was,

“Shower still leaks.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a sentence. Just something to push into the silence.

He looked at you for a beat, unreadable.

“Good,” he said.

That was it.

Now, it’s 7:43 a.m.

The eggs are starting to cool by the time he comes back downstairs.

You’d scrambled them soft the way he used to like them. Butter, not oil. Black pepper and nothing else. Toast in the pan with too much margarine. The coffee’s been sitting in the pot for twenty minutes, burned just enough to taste like the night before. You’ve filled two plates, not because you think he’ll eat—just because not doing it felt worse.

He comes in barefoot, damp curls at the base of his neck, pants slung low on his hips. One of his old t-shirts—Army green, threadbare, stretched at the collar—clings to him like it’s afraid he’ll take it off again. He walks like someone who hasn’t taken a real step in weeks.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.

He pauses near the kitchen island, eyes scanning the plate, the coffee, the candle still flickering beside the microwave—vanilla sugar, old, nearly spent. He doesn’t comment on the smell.

“I made breakfast,” you say, like it isn’t obvious.

Jack nods, but doesn’t sit.

You pull the second stool out. “You can’t just stand there.”

“I can.”

“Then I can throw it all in the trash.”

That gets a flicker from him—a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He slides onto the stool, one hand curling around the edge of the counter like he’s bracing for something that might hit him.

You set the fork down beside his plate. He doesn’t pick it up.

“Looks good,” he says.

You pour him a cup of coffee. No milk. One sugar. The way he used to take it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

Jack stares at the mug. “I haven’t stopped wanting it.”

He takes a sip. His jaw twitches. It’s too strong.

“Sorry,” you say, already reaching for the pot. “I should’ve made a new—”

“No. It’s good.” His voice is low. Final. He keeps drinking.

He picks up his fork. Cuts the eggs in half. Doesn’t eat them.

You sit across from him, elbows on the counter, your own plate untouched.

“How’s the water pressure?” you ask.

Jack chews a corner of toast. “Low.”

You watch him try to swallow the toast. He chews for too long. Washes it down with coffee.

You want to ask if he’s sleeping. If he still wakes up from dreams that don’t belong to this time zone. If his hands stop shaking long enough to write letters he never sends.

Instead, you ask, “You want jam?”

Jack looks up. Finally.

“Do I look like someone who wants jam?”

You smile. “A little.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve gotten quieter.”

Jack puts the fork down. Rubs his hands on his thighs. His knuckles are cracked. He’s been picking at the skin again.

“I almost forgot what this place looked like,” he says. “I thought I’d walk in and feel something.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel... like I’m visiting someone who wears my face.”

You both go still.

The candle gutter-flames.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“I thought maybe I’d walk in and smell you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “But it smells like sugar and bleach.”

You look away. “I’ve been cleaning.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “Because everything felt dirty without you in it.”

That lands.

Jack shifts in his seat like he wants to say something back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts the mug again and drinks until it’s empty.

You reach for the eggs, meaning to take his plate, but he covers it with one hand.

“Don’t clear it,” he says.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not ready for it to be gone.”

You sit back.

Jack doesn’t look at you. His hand stays on the plate.

The food’s cold now. The coffee pot’s off. The sun through the window is too bright for the both of you.

You both stay there a while, not eating, not talking, just observing a plate neither of you wanted.

“You’re here now,” you say. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jack swallows. You hear it more than see it. He blinks once.

“Is it enough?” he asks.

You pause.

You want to say yes.

You want to say I love you.

You want to say don’t go again.

Instead, you answer the way you always do when you’re afraid of telling the truth too early.

“I’ll let you know.”

DAY TWO – THE BATHROOM

The water doesn’t run hot. But he doesn’t stop scrubbing. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 5:06 a.m.

The sound wakes you before the light does.

Not an alarm. Not the soft whine of the AC unit kicking on. Not birdsong.

Just water.

A slow, constant stream—unnatural in the way only middle-of-the-night plumbing is. Too purposeful to be a leak. Too still to be a shower. It’s the kind of sound that pulls memory to the surface before consciousness catches up.

You blink into the dim morning, cold air settled low on the carpet, and reach instinctively for the other side of the bed.

His side is cold.

The sheets are undisturbed.

You sit up slowly. The clock reads 5:06 in cheap red digits that never dim. The ceiling fan above you ticks once—unbalanced again—and you stare at the sliver of light under the hallway door.

You pull your sweatshirt over your tank top, press bare feet to the carpet, and follow the water sound down the hall.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open half an inch.

You hesitate.

Then you push it open.

Jack is hunched over the sink like he’s prepping for field surgery.

Barefoot. Boxers. A damp grey undershirt clinging to his ribs. His dog tags are swinging faintly, brushing the ceramic bowl. One of his knees is braced against the cabinet beneath him like he’s holding pressure somewhere.

His hands are under the water. Not resting. Scrubbing.

The bar of soap—yellow, waxy, no scent—is ground between his palms. Hard. Fast. Like if he just goes hard enough, long enough, it’ll come off. Whatever it is.

You stay in the doorway. You don’t speak.

The mirror is fully fogged over except for the bottom third, which is smudged clean from the swing of his elbow. You can see his mouth reflected—tight. His chin—unshaven. His eyes—not there.

He hasn’t heard you.

Or maybe he has, and he’s ignoring it.

Either way, he doesn’t stop.

The sink is half-full now, the drain slow. You watch suds and skin particles spiral together in faint gray water.

Then, suddenly—he drops the soap.

It hits the porcelain with a sickening clack.

He makes a sharp noise in his throat and grabs the basin with both hands, breathing heavy, like he might throw up. His head drops between his shoulders. The dog tags knock against the sink.

You take one slow step forward.

Then another.

The tile is cold. There’s mildew in the grout near the baseboard you always meant to scrub.

You cross to him. Carefully.

“Jack,” you say, softly. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is shredded. His fingers flex against the ceramic. “Just needed to wash up.”

You take another step. You see his hands now—red, rubbed raw at the knuckles, half-pruned from too much water. Not washed—scoured.

You look at the towel rack. One bar is bent. The hand towel is floral, too pink. A gift from your mom last Christmas. He hated it.

You reach for it anyway. Hold it out.

He doesn’t take it.

His eyes are bloodshot. Not from crying—from not sleeping. From rubbing. From dust. From whatever he saw in the tent, on the cot, on the ground, in the sand, behind someone’s teeth. You don’t know. He’ll never tell you all of it.

But he meets your gaze.

“I don’t feel clean.”

You lift your hand, slowly—like you’re approaching an animal that might bolt—and press your palm over his.

“It's okay”

His voice drops to almost nothing. “It's not.”

The faucet still runs—thin, faltering—like even the house doesn’t know how to stop. Jack speaks again.

“There was a kid. We found him—twelve, maybe. Half his stomach was gone. His arm too. He kept trying to sit up. I told him he’d be okay. I said—”

His voice breaks off, caught in his throat.

You don’t interrupt.

Jack drags the heel of his hand across his eye.

“I told him he’d see his mom. I didn’t know if his mom was alive. I just needed him to stay down long enough for me to close the wound.”

Silence.

“I was elbows deep. And he was still saying ‘okay, okay’ over and over like—like he was trying to help me.”

He stares at the water.

“I haven’t told anyone that.”

You squeeze his hand. You don’t say thank you. That would make it smaller.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispers. “That’s the thing. I wasn’t fast enough.”

You shake your head.

“Jack.”

“I had blood in my teeth. I smelled it in my hair. I kept thinking—if I can just get my hands clean…”

You gently turn off the faucet.

The sink gurgles. The water stills.

Then you take the towel—the ugly pink one—and press it gently into his hands.

“They’re clean.”

“They don’t feel it.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until they do.”

Jack holds the towel like it’s a wound dressing.

His hands shake. Yours don’t.

Not this time.

You don’t speak as you lead him downstairs.

He follows. Not because he’s ready. Not because he wants to. Because there’s nothing else to do.

The kitchen light is off. You don’t turn it on.

The dim grey of early morning is enough. You’ve lived here long enough to know where the corners are, even when your eyes are wet. Even when his boots—still by the door—remind you that he hasn’t really unpacked. That he might not.

Jack lowers himself into the nearest kitchen chair like his body isn’t quite calibrated to this furniture anymore. It creaks. He doesn’t react.

His hands are wrapped in the floral towel. Still.

You move quietly, like sudden noise might undo everything.

You pour coffee. The same pot from last night, reheated on the burner. Bitter. Burned. Familiar.

He doesn’t look at you when you set it down.

You say, “It’s hot.”

He says nothing.

You sit across from him. You don’t touch your own mug. Your hands are too warm already from holding his.

After a long time, he drinks.

One sip. Then another. Like his throat still hasn’t forgiven him for what he said upstairs.

You stare at the tile. You only just notice the floor’s still damp near the fridge. The ice maker leaks again.

The silence grows legs.

Jack clears his throat. Swallows something that isn’t coffee.

Then says, “You want to know the worst part?”

You look up.

“There’s a piece of me that misses it.”

He doesn’t look at you. He stares down at the table like it might open up and swallow the words.

“I miss the certainty,” he says. “I miss knowing exactly what to do. Where to stand. When to grab the gauze. Who needed me most.”

You nod. Slowly.

“You still know how to do that.”

He finally meets your eyes. “But it’s different here.”

You tilt your head. “Because no one’s dying?”

“Because no one’s listening.”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

Because he’s right.

Jack rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. Winces like he forgot how raw his skin was. The towel slips off his lap. You lean down to pick it up, fold it, and place it beside his mug.

“I didn’t mean to say any of that,” he says.

“I know.”

“You were supposed to get a version of me that could handle this.”

You lean forward, arms crossed over the table.

“I didn’t want a version. I wanted you.”

Jack’s fingers curl around the mug. He looks like he’s trying to grip it hard enough to keep from shaking.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he says. It’s not cruel. It’s not sharp. It’s a line he’s rehearsed. Probably in silence. Probably at night.

You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Letting you fall apart. And staying.”

That breaks something. Not all the way. But enough.

Jack pushes the mug toward the center of the table like he’s done with it. Like it’s too hot, or too honest.

Then he sinks back in the chair, palms flat to the edge.

His eyes trace the room—cabinets, sink, toaster, stove. You. Slowly. Like he’s trying to remember what each thing used to mean.

“Last time I sat at this table,” he says, “we were fighting about laundry.”

You smile, just a little. “You said I folded your shirts like a civilian.”

“You said I was lucky I even had clean shirts.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“I was right.”

He huffs a breath. Almost a laugh. It disappears.

You reach out. Not far. Just far enough that your fingers brush the edge of his.

“I don’t want you to be fine,” you say.

“I don’t want to be this.”

“Okay.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You can have as long as you want.”

The house creaks around you like it’s heard every version of this conversation.

Outside, the sun finally cuts over the roofline, pushing light in through the side window above the sink.

It lands across Jack’s shoulders.

He doesn’t move.

But for the first time in hours, he looks warm.

7:08 pm. The sidewalk doesn’t feel any narrower. But he walks like it might betray him.

The sun’s still out, but softer now. Late-day light, the kind that washes everything in the gold of almost evening.

You suggested a walk without meaning to. Just said, “Do you want to get out of the house?” and he nodded like it was a mercy. Like he’d been waiting for the walls to stop humming since the moment he stepped through the door.

He doesn’t ask where you’re going.

He just follows.

Jack doesn’t walk beside you at first. He walks behind, about half a pace. Not enough to make it weird. Just enough to feel like he’s tracking, not joining. You don’t push it.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since he left.

Cracked sidewalks. Kids’ chalk drawings half-faded on the curb. A recycling bin knocked over and not yet fixed. Someone grilling a few houses down—probably burgers. The smell hangs in the air like memory.

Your feet find the rhythm first. You’ve taken this walk a hundred times. It used to be your way to clear your head when he was gone—loop around the block, pass the blue house with the overgrown hydrangeas, cut through the alley where the pavement turns to gravel, come home when the porch light flickers.

Today, you walk slower.

Jack’s boots sound heavier than they should on the concrete. Like he’s used to dirt again. Like sidewalks don’t make sense to him anymore.

At the corner, you stop.

There’s a curb here—chipped, worn smooth at the edges. Jack used to park his truck here. He’d sit on the edge of the bed with his legs swinging, elbows braced behind him, watching the sky like it might start telling the truth.

You glance toward the space without meaning to.

Jack follows your gaze. Then says, “That spot still oil-stained?”

You nod.

“I checked last month. The outline’s still there.”

He breathes out, almost a laugh.

“That truck never stopped leaking.”

“You never stopped defending it.”

“She got me through two duty stations and your father’s wrath.”

You smile. “He said it looked like it belonged in a scrapyard.”

Jack shrugs. “It did.”

He doesn’t say what else happened in that truck. The nights when you climbed in beside him just to get away from the noise. The way he kept spare socks and granola bars in the glovebox like he was always half-deployed already.

You remember. He doesn’t have to say it.

You cross the street together now. Closer. His shoulder brushes yours on the corner, and for a second, he stops.

Right at the driveway of the blue house. The one with the busted birdbath and the plastic lawn chairs.

He looks down at the sidewalk like something might be there.

Then he says, “This is where I told you I didn’t want you to wait.”

You turn to face him.

“You said, ‘Don’t wait up.’ Not ‘Don’t wait.’”

Jack swallows. “Did I?”

You nod. “I wrote it down. In a notebook. Dumb things you said before you left.”

His mouth twitches. “How long was the list?”

“Longer than it should’ve been.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flick up. “You were mad.”

“I was scared.”

He nods.

And then: “I was too.”

That lands between you like it’s never been said before.

Because it hasn’t.

Jack exhales. Long. Slow.

Then he takes a half-step closer, eyes still on the sidewalk.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back here. Not once.”

You blink.

“I thought about it,” he says, “but it never felt real. This. You. The sidewalk. The mailbox with the duct tape on the hinge. I thought I’d either die or disappear somewhere in between.”

You look down. At the exact spot his boot toe is nudging.

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I think part of you stayed behind anyway.”

Jack reaches up—slowly—and touches the side of your face. Not like he’s claiming you. Like he’s asking if you’re still real.

You lean into it.

Just barely.

He says, “Thank you.”

You say, “For what?”

“For being part of the part that stayed.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Because you already know you’re walking side-by-side with a man who doesn’t believe he deserves this sidewalk, this sky, this chance. And you’re the only thing grounding him to it.

As you round the corner toward the house, you realize your steps are in sync now. His shoulder brushes yours again. This time, it lingers.

Not like contact.

Like remembrance.

Like maybe this is how it started the first time.

And how it might start again.

DAY THREE — THE BEDROOM

No one sleeps. But something breaks open. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 2:11 a.m.

The bed is too big.

You bought it together at Value City Furniture two summers ago, back when you thought buying things together meant something permanent. Something like safety. Something like a future.

It had looked romantic in the showroom. The wrought iron headboard, black and arched, advertised as “rustic elegance.” Jack rolled his eyes at the tagline, said the frame looked like a Civil War relic, but you caught him testing the edge with his boot anyway. Just to see if it could hold weight.

It squeaked the first night you slept in it. It still squeaks now.

Jack lies on top of the covers, arms crossed over his chest like he’s waiting for a command. His pants are creased, like they came off the floor. He hasn’t changed shirts since yesterday. You’re not sure he’s changed at all.

He doesn’t close his eyes. He just stares at the ceiling like there might be a sniper’s silhouette etched in the drywall.

You lie on your side, curled into the corner of the mattress, spine curved in on itself. Your knees pulled up like they might anchor you. You’re wearing the sleep shorts with the little ribbon on the waistband—the pair you bought during a clearance sale at Ross. You wore them the night before he deployed.

You remember standing in the hallway while he packed. The overhead light was yellow and humming, and you asked, “Should I bring you to the airport?”

He didn’t answer. Just zipped his bag.

You bought those shorts for him. He doesn’t notice them now.

At 2:57 am, you hear the floorboards creak.

Jack moves like someone trying not to make sound, but the house was built in 1961, and it remembers everything. Every board groans. The door clicks open, then closed. The stairs whisper.

You wait a few minutes.

Then you get up.

At 3:03, you find him in the kitchen.

The lights are off. The only glow comes from the microwave clock and the open fridge door.

He’s standing by the counter, drinking straight from the coffee pot. No mug. No ceremony. The pot’s heavy in his hand, the glass sweating cold from the fridge shelf. He winces when he swallows—the burn of something that’s meant to be hot but never got there.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean against the doorway in your ribboned shorts and the tank top you wore to bed, arms folded. He notices you. Not with surprise. Just… resignation.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking like the light might change. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, and it’s true.

He sets the pot down, grabs a mug from the cabinet. The red one with peeling white letters that say “HOT STUFF.” You’d stolen it from a diner on Route 30 during a road trip that neither of you ever really talk about anymore.

You watch him hold it in both hands. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or a relic. He pours the cold coffee into it anyway.

“You remember that dog across the street?” he asks.

His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like the room has ears.

You tilt your head. “The one that used to bark every night?”

“Yeah.”

You nod once. “They moved two months ago.”

Jack doesn’t react. Not really. He nods back, slowly. His eyes stay trained on the window.

But you can tell—he’s still listening for it.

That dog used to be a warning.

Every night, it barked once before the porch light on your neighbor’s house turned on. Once before the sound of someone’s car pulled up. Once before the late-shift newspaper delivery.

It let Jack rest. Because if the dog wasn’t barking, there was nothing wrong.

Now, there’s nothing.

The silence is louder.

He exhales. Braces his hands on the counter. You step into the room, bare feet on cold tile. You don’t ask what he’s doing. You already know.

You reach past him to grab a second mug. Yours says Pittsburgh’s #1 Radiology Tech, even though you’re not a tech. Jack bought it as a joke your first year working.

He watches as you pour a little into your cup. Then he says, quietly, “I thought the bed would help.”

“What part?”

“The frame. The mattress. The idea of it.”

You sip. “And?”

“I laid there and waited for my heart rate to drop.”

“Did it?”

Jack shakes his head. “I laid there and counted shadows.”

You lean against the counter next to him.

He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know how to sleep here anymore,” he says. “But I can’t sleep anywhere else.”

You glance at him. He looks tired—not in the face, not in the skin, but in the bones. His body is upright because it doesn’t remember how to rest. His hands are braced like he’s waiting to be called up. His mouth is a straight line.

You both stay in the kitchen, side by side, watching the space where the dog used to bark.

The silence is awful. But it's not empty.

It’s loaded.

The coffee’s cold.

The mug is warm.

The night keeps going.

And the bed?

It’s still upstairs. Still too big.

Still squeaking into the silence.

Waiting.

DAY FOUR – THE BASEMENT

Where the laundry runs too hot. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 1:34 p.m.

The dryer’s on its third cycle.

You didn’t mean to restart it. Your hands just did it. Automatically. Like the sound mattered more than the clothes inside. Like the tumbling noise was preferable to the silence in your chest.

The laundry room is suffocating. A concrete box with no insulation, barely enough ceiling for Jack to stand straight. A narrow block window lets in sunlight through cobwebs. Dust dances in it, but nothing else moves.

You’re barefoot, standing on the painted concrete, folding a pile of clothes you don’t remember washing.

T-shirts. Socks. A hoodie that still smells like wind. His fatigue jacket—the one that’s been draped over the back of the kitchen chair since the night he got home. It’s damp from the wash. You shouldn’t have washed it.

You tell yourself it needed it. You tell yourself that’s what home is.

You tell yourself he won’t notice.

Then you reach into the basket and pull it out—a plain, sand-colored combat shirt. Short sleeves. Tag nearly faded. The collar stiff. There’s a small puncture at the shoulder seam, the fabric there worn thin. The cotton feels heavier than it should. Like it held too much sun. Or too much blood.

You lift it gently. You don’t fold it.

You just stare.

Your fingers curl into the fabric. It’s still warm from the dryer.

Behind you, the door creaks.

You go still.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. You can tell by the cadence—three steps too fast for a man not in a hurry. Heavy on the heel. Controlled on the descent. Like he’s been pacing the top of the stairs for minutes before deciding to come down.

When you finally do turn, he’s already halfway across the room.

And his eyes are on the shirt.

He stops like he hit something invisible.

You don’t say anything.

The dryer clicks and spins behind you.

Jack steps forward—deliberate, not loud—and holds out his hand.

You hand him the shirt.

He takes it quickly. Not rough. But not gently either. Like you’d handed him something flammable. Like it might disappear if he didn’t grip it tight.

His voice is low. Distant.

“Don’t wash these.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re not dirty.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Jack’s holding the shirt against his chest, knuckles white. His breathing is too controlled. Eyes wide but unreadable.

“I—I just thought—” you try. “You left it on the chair.”

“It wasn’t dirty,” he says again. This time louder. Not angry. Just breaking.

The basement hums.

You step closer. “Jack—”

He cuts you off without looking up.

“I wore this when Elliot died.”

Silence.

Jack’s hands tighten.

“There was nothing left of him but his legs and a boot. I packed what I could into my bag because I thought—I thought maybe his mother would want something. A sock. A photo. Anything. But we never got a body bag. So I folded my own shirt. Folded it clean. And kept it.”

He swallows. Hard.

“I’ve been carrying it for weeks.”

You want to say I didn’t know. You want to say I’m sorry.

But you don’t. You don’t interrupt him.

“It smells like diesel and antiseptic and the last hour of that day,” he says. “And I know that sounds fucked up, but that’s how I know it’s mine.”

You feel your chest cave in.

He still won’t look at you.

“I came home and I couldn’t sleep unless it was near me. Just in the room. On the chair. Something. It—”

Jack presses the shirt to his face. Not to smell it.

To stop himself.

His voice drops. Breaks.

“It was the only thing that didn’t forget me.”

You cross the rest of the room slowly. Step by step. Like any wrong movement might make him retreat.

He doesn’t move away when you reach him.

You lift your hand and rest it on his forearm, just above the place where his fingers are clenched in the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to erase anything.”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is a whisper. “You didn’t. I just—I didn’t know it would hit me like this.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes are bloodshot. Still holding back. But this time, you can see the grief there.

You reach up. Brush his damp temple with your thumb.

Jack lets the shirt fall to his side.

His hand finds yours.

You both stand in the too-hot basement for a long time. The dryer clicks. The smell of cotton softener and heat fills the space. Jack exhales, long and quiet, and leans into you—not like surrender, but like memory finally letting him bend.

And the shirt?

It stays in his hand.

Unfolded.

Still his.

3:58 pm. You didn’t mean to come here. The hospital’s not where people go to breathe, but the parking lot knows your car. Your badge still opens the back entrance. And Dana? Dana never stopped answering your texts.

So you park where you always used to, next to the yellow-striped curb with the half-broken wheelchair sign. The air smells like brake fluid and hot metal and something floral that might be coming from the retirement home next door.

Dana’s already out there, standing under the overhang near the loading zone. Her scrubs are dark gray, faded at the collar. She’s got her ID clipped to her waistband and her lighter in one hand.

“You look like shit,” she says as you walk up.

“Thanks.”

“I meant that fondly.”

You lean against the wall beside her, arms crossed, heat still clinging to your shirt. You didn’t even change. You realize your hands still smell like dryer sheets and dust.

Dana lights her cigarette. Exhales smoke in the opposite direction, not out of politeness—just force of habit.

“How is he?” she says, not looking at you.

You shrug.

Dana snorts. “I’m not the press, kid. Don’t shrug me.”

You stare out at the edge of the parking lot. The wind lifts your hair, then drops it again. You don’t answer right away.

Then you say, “I washed one of his shirts.”

Dana raises her eyebrows. Waits.

“It—meant something to him. I didn’t know. He lost someone. He folded that shirt and carried it back like it was a body bag. And I washed it like it was laundry.”

Dana doesn’t speak. Just flicks ash from her cigarette with one practiced gesture.

“He didn’t yell,” you add. “He didn’t even get mad. He just looked like I’d taken something he didn’t have a backup of.”

Dana inhales again. Her voice is rough when she says, “That’s because you did.”

You look at her.

She exhales smoke slowly. Her eyes are on the street, but her voice stays with you.

“That’s the thing no one tells you about grief, or trauma, or whatever the hell you wanna name it. Half the time, it’s stored in the dumbest shit. Coffee mugs. Baseball caps. T-shirts that still smell like dirt and diesel. You think you’re doing something kind—putting it back in order—but to them, it’s erasure.”

You nod. Quiet.

“I don’t want to fix him,” you say.

Dana cuts her eyes at you. “Bullshit.”

You flinch.

“You want him whole,” she continues. “And I get it. But he’s not. And he won’t be. So either you love what made it back, or you keep waiting for someone who didn’t.”

The words land like bricks.

You breathe through your nose.

“I do love what made it back.”

Dana’s voice softens, just a little. “Good. Then start showing up for him—not the version you built in your head while he was gone.”

Silence again.

The sun slants gold across the top of the ambulance bay awning. Someone inside slams a door. You both ignore it.

“I miss who I was when he left,” you say after a long minute. “Back then I still had answers.”

Dana nods. “Now you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll live.”

You huff a breath.

Dana stubs out the cigarette on the cement with the toe of her shoe. She doesn’t look at you when she says:

“He’s lucky you’re still here.”

You blink. “That’s not something you say.”

“I didn’t say it for you. I said it because it’s true.”

You let your head rest back against the wall.

The sun dips lower. Somewhere inside, someone yells for a gurney. Dana doesn’t move.

Then she adds, quieter, “I’m around. If you need someone to call next time you try to launder someone’s soul.”

You laugh—sharp, real.

“Thanks.”

Dana flicks her lighter once before pocketing it. “Now get out of here before someone hands you a chart.”

4:46 pm. The house is quiet when you get back. Not still—just quiet. The kind that feels occupied, but not lived in. The TV isn’t on. No fan running. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the sound of your key in the lock, the door shutting behind you, and the faintest creak from the upstairs floorboards as the house settles around a man who hasn’t moved in hours.

You toe off your shoes, still holding the weight of Dana’s voice in your shoulders.

You walk upstairs.

The bedroom door is open a few inches. Just like he left it the night he got back.

You push it gently.

Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s praying, but you know better.

He’s not praying.

He’s just trying to stay in his body.

The bedside light is on. The one with the too-warm bulb you used to complain about. It casts a golden pool across the blanket but doesn’t touch his face. He doesn’t turn toward you. But he knows you’re there.

You step inside.

He doesn’t speak.

You sit beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like tension.

You don’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, “You’re still in the same clothes.”

Jack lets out a breath—something like a laugh, but it’s dry. Empty.

“I was gonna change.”

“I figured.”

His shoulders move, just barely.

“I came home,” he says, “but this won’t come off.”

He gestures down at himself. At the shirt. At the pants. At the version of him that hasn’t known softness in months.

You nod.

Then, carefully, you reach for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. But he goes still.

You say, “Let me.”

He nods once.

You move slowly.

You slide your hands under the bottom of the shirt, just enough to lift it over his hips, then ribs, then shoulders. He leans forward as you ease it over his head.

It smells like sweat. Soap. Something older—metallic and dry. You fold it and set it beside you on the bed like it’s breakable.

He stays hunched over.

His back is scarred in ways you hadn’t seen yet. New calluses. Old burns. A dark bruise under his left shoulder blade, the kind that comes from armor worn too long or walls leaned against for too many hours.

You move to the belt.

Your fingers are careful. You don’t tug. You just unclip the buckle, slide the leather loose, and let the weight of it ease through the loops like a breath being released. His hands rest on his thighs. Still.

The pants slide down stiffly—heavy from wear, creased with memory. You pull them down to his ankles. He steps out of them wordlessly.

You fold them too.

Now he’s in boxers and socks. That’s all.

You kneel in front of him. Palms to his knees.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a moment, there’s no field medic, no trauma code, no silence. Just Jack. The man who came home. The man who’s still learning how to let someone see him like this.

You say, “Lie back.”

He hesitates.

You say it again. “Just rest.”

He exhales. Then does.

He lowers himself onto the bed, arms still too stiff, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them. You tug the blanket up over his legs. His chest is bare, rising steady, but you can still see the tension under the surface.

You crawl in beside him, fully clothed, facing him.

His eyes are open. Searching.

You reach out, lay a hand on his sternum.

Warm. Solid. Human.

Jack says, “I didn’t think I’d let anyone do that.”

You say, “You didn’t. You let me.”

His throat works. Then he whispers:

“Don’t leave.”

You tighten your hand against his chest.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time since he came home, he believes you.

DAY FIVE — THE KITCHEN

Where he reaches first. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 9:17 a.m.

You wake to the smell of something burning.

Not smoke. Just bread taken too far. A crisp edge curling up in the toaster tray, sugar from the crust turning dark and acrid. You blink into the morning light, still bleary, your legs tangled in the sheets.

Jack isn’t in the bed.

But the blankets are still warm where he was.

You sit up.

You don’t panic.

In the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the toaster, shirtless, barefoot, and blinking at the smoke like he forgot the world had timers. His dog tags are still on. You don’t think he ever took them off.

He hears you step in and glances up.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is raspy but present. Grounded.

You nod. “You made toast.”

“I made charcoal,” he corrects. “The toaster’s got a vendetta.”

You walk over. He waves a dish towel in front of the fire alarm that didn’t go off. His eyes flick toward you, once, then away again.

You pull open a cabinet. Grab a plate. Set it on the counter between you both.

Jack says, “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“You did.”

“You came running.”

“I smelled crime.”

He huffs a laugh, then reaches down and pries the toast out with his fingers. Winces as it singes him.

You move before you think—grab his wrist. “Let me.”

He lets go.

You throw the toast away.

Jack leans back against the counter. Dog tags swinging once, then stilling against his sternum. His body is loose in a way it hasn’t been all week. Still tall. Still lean. But not braced.

You look at him. Really look.

He looks back.

Then—quietly, like it’s nothing—he reaches out.

Fingers brush your hip.

A light touch. Groundless. Unscripted. But his.

You blink.

He says, “Just wanted to see if you were real.”

You step closer.

“I am.”

He nods. Swallows.

“Okay.”

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch again.

But you stand across from each other in the middle of the too-bright kitchen with the broken toaster and the lemon cleaner still clinging to the tile.

And for once?

He doesn't try to leave the room.

4:23 pm. It happens mid-afternoon.

Not in a moment you expect.

You’re on the floor in the living room, head resting against the couch cushion, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The TV is on but muted. One of those daytime true crime shows where the reenactments are always too dramatic. You’re not watching it.

Jack’s on the couch behind you, feet up, one arm slung across his chest. He’s not asleep. He’s just still, in that strange, too-conscious way you’ve come to recognize. The kind of stillness that says: I’m here. But not for long.

The room smells like furniture polish and warm laundry. There’s a breeze through the cracked window that lifts the edge of the curtain but doesn’t move it enough to matter.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“You remember when the power went out for two days last winter?”

Jack grunts. “You cried over the last Pop-Tart.”

“I did not.”

“You rationed it like you were in a bunker.”

“You refused to use the candles.”

“I hate vanilla.”

“They were unscented.”

Jack shrugs.

You smile to yourself. “We kept the fridge cold with a bag of snow in a Tupperware container.”

Jack glances down at you. “You slept on the floor, too.”

You turn your face toward him, cheek pressing into the cushion.

“There was more heat near the vent,” you say. “And I didn’t want to move too far from the outlet in case the power came back.”

“You were curled up like a cat,” he murmurs. “I was on the couch.”

“I know,” you say. “I didn’t want to be left.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But you feel it—the shift. The widening quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

You sit up slowly, turn toward him, and fold your legs beneath you, facing him.

He looks at you. And for a second—just one—his hand twitches like he might reach for your face.

But he doesn’t.

You say, “I keep thinking about what happens after this.”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours. His body stills again.

“What happens when the sixth day ends,” you continue. “What it means when the last thing you leave behind is a used towel and a folded shirt on the end of the bed.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat works.

You shake your head, softly. “I know it’s not fair.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You wait.

Then he says it:

“I’ve been thinking about it too.”

The air in the room thickens.

You don’t move.

He sits forward.

Hands on his knees. Shoulders hunched. Dog tags swinging once, then still.

“You want to ask me not to go,” he says.

You nod.

“But you won’t,” he finishes.

You shake your head. “No.”

He lets out a breath. It’s shaky.

“You’d be the first.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’d be the first person to ever ask.”

You whisper, “Would you stay if I did?”

Jack doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans forward—closer. Eyes fixed on yours.

And for a breathless moment, it feels like something might break open.

But then?

He blinks.

And leans back

Your eyes sting.

Because you both know what he’s doing.

Because you let him do it.

Because he’s still leaving.

8:43 pm. You were just putting away socks.

That’s all.

You were folding laundry from the basket you forgot in the dryer, and you were doing it without thinking—half-watching the muted news loop on Channel 11, half-counting how many days until you’d have to start buying groceries again.

Jack’s in the bathroom. Said he was going to shave.

You didn’t ask why now—why suddenly, after days of letting the stubble grow in, he’d decided tonight was the time.

You didn’t mention the faint scent of aftershave on him this morning, either. The same one he always uses. Clean. Sharp. Familiar. Even though you hadn’t seen him so much as look at a razor in four days.

You’re just putting away socks.

You open his nightstand drawer to make space—maybe for the shirt he left folded on the bed, maybe for something else. You haven’t organized it since before he left. You’ve let him keep it messy.

Inside: gum, receipts, a scratch-off ticket with no winner, a pen with no cap, and something folded.

It’s yellow legal pad paper. Soft at the edges.

Folded twice.

Not shoved in.

Not careless.

Tucked.

You hesitate.

You unfold it.

You read the first line.

And the second.

And suddenly it’s not the laundry that’s hot anymore.

It’s your face. Your throat. Your chest. Like the words are burning straight through you.

You sit down on the bed without realizing you’ve moved.

You read the whole thing.

I’m not leaving a note. That’s not what this is. This is just… something I need to write down so it stops choking me when I try to look at her. So I can leave without taking all of it in my throat. I was never supposed to stay this long. I knew the six days would stretch me, but I didn’t expect her to make them feel like the only real time I’ve had since I left the first time. She folds towels like the world isn’t ending. She hums when she’s trying not to cry. She asked if I’d stay, and the worst part is—I wanted to say yes. But I knew I wouldn’t. Staying means breaking every part of me that still runs toward sirens. Staying means taking off the uniform and not knowing what’s underneath. Staying means telling her that I don’t know how to live in a house where the lights aren’t always on. I’m going to leave while she’s sleeping. Like I never really got back. Like I was just passing through. She’ll be okay. She’s always been better at being alone than I have. I won’t leave this for her to find. She doesn’t need more wreckage. I’m just writing it down so I remember I meant it.

You fold it back with shaking hands.

Your chest feels hollow. Your mouth tastes like copper. The room is loud, suddenly—the fan, the TV, the fridge kicking on, pipes groaning somewhere in the walls—everything pressing in at once.

He wasn’t going to tell you.

Not even a goodbye.

He was going to wait for you to fall asleep tomorrow morning, when the sixth day was up, and he was going to walk out the door without a word.

Without this.

Without anything.

And now?

You know.

And he doesn’t know that you know.

DAY SIX — THE PORCH

Where he thinks he’s being brave. And you let him. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 6:38 a.m.

You were awake all night.

Not pacing. Not crying.

Just awake.

The letter still folded the way he left it, tucked back into the drawer you never should’ve opened. You didn’t put it on the pillow. You didn’t confront him. You were careful to tuck the corners the way he does. Military-style. Precise.

Because if he was going to ghost you, you’d meet him with the same clean symmetry he used to disappear from war zones.

You brewed the coffee at six. Toast in the toaster, just enough to make the kitchen smell like routine. You wiped down the counters. You opened the front door.

The porch is cold. Dew-soaked. Quiet.

You sit on the top step with your mug and wait for him.

Not because you’re hoping he’ll change his mind.

But because he thinks you don’t know. And you need to see how well he lies.

He comes down at 6:44 am.

Hair damp. Bag already packed. Boots laced.

He smells like bar soap and fabric softener. And the distance between you is already miles wide.

He steps onto the porch like a man who thinks he’s making a clean exit.

You don’t look up right away.

He sits beside you, carefully. Like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping animal.

You sip your coffee.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You nod like you didn’t already know that.

“Flight’s at eight?”

“Yeah.”

You glance over. “You packed light.”

He doesn’t catch the shift in your voice. He never was good at reading the tension when it was quiet.

He says, “Didn’t want to leave too much here.”

And there it is.

Not want to leave too much.

Like this was a staging ground, not a home.

You nod.

The silence stretches.

He’s waiting for a clean break. You’re waiting for him to break. Neither of you get what you want.

At 6:56, he stands.

You follow.

The front door is open behind you.

The duffel sits by the couch.

He looks at you for a long moment.

And then—he reaches out, cups your jaw the same way he did that first night he came home. Thumb at your temple. Fingers light at your neck. He tilts your face up.

And kisses you.

Soft. Warm. Final.

You let him.

You kiss him back.

Because he doesn’t know you know. Because you want this one last thing. Because you love him and you hate him and you’ll never forget this.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He says, “I’ll call when I land.”

You nod.

You say, “Safe flight.”

He leaves.

Just like he wrote.

No look back.

No guilt.

No pause.

You close the door behind him with shaking hands.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You just stand in the kitchen with your coffee and the toast that burned a little.

And when the sound of his engine fades down the block—that’s when it hits.

Not because he left.

But because he meant to leave like you never mattered. And you let him kiss you anyway.

[robbyology]

YOUR NEEDS, MY NEEDS

michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x f!reader

Summary: In an attempt to get over your ex-partners, you and Robby decide that hooking up with each other could potentially alleviate some of the heartache that’s been plaguing both of you.

To no one’s surprise, things don’t go as planned.

Warnings: f!reader, explicit sexual content (a lot of it), swearing, age gap (early 30s, early 50s), boss-employee dynamics, tension in the workplace, hurt/comfort, jealousy, co-workers to fwb to idiots in love, typical trauma center gore, past Robby/Heather, past Langdon/Reader, pet names (sweetheart, honey, pretty girl), other ships mentioned, *reader is a lil sassy, described as tying her hair up, being shorter than Robby, easy for him to manhandle her

Note: watched the pitt, fell in love with him, cried a lot, haven’t been able to think of anything else, so here we are. it’s been a long time since I have written for a series that isn’t anime, so hopefully that influence doesn’t make this weird (it will). Enjoy~

taglist <-

MASTERLIST

i. spiral out, try and float

ii. see a friend, see a ghost

iii. bitter-brained, always drunk

iv. rail-thin, zoloft

v. subtle change, shorter days

vi. dead-eyed, dead weight

vii. your life, your dreams, your mind

viii. your needs, my needs (part 1)

ix. your needs, my needs (part 2)

[cowardlycandy]

Have we discussed just how good he looks with those damn protective glasses on

They suit him so well.

[thepencilnerd]

Your Man

thank you very much to @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs for including me in the 𝘈 𝘋𝑂𝘊𝑇𝘖𝑅 𝐴 𝐷𝘈𝑌 writing event <3 i cannot wait to dive into the pieces written by my fellow writers (check out the full post for every tagged gem!) prompt: "I think to be so dumb must be nice." | colour: black 🖤 pairing: jack abbot x f!resident reader summary: You and Jack have been bickering your way through night shifts for ages now—until two flying trays, a stitched-up hand, and one too many almost-confessions turn everything into something neither of you can ignore. content/warnings: enemies to lovers (all the banter, jabs, & sarcasm), slow-burn, emotionally repressed idiots to emotionally repressed idiots in love, depiction of harassment towards healthcare workers, protective!reader & protective!jack, fluff, angst, Robby being done with both of you wc: 5.2k a/n: i def could have gone a certain direction *cough cough* but i was overcome with a sudden craving for enemies to lovers / "they're both stubborn and it's complicated tropes," so i present to you this emotionally constipated snippet of my heart 🩺🖤

It was a well-known fact that you always clocked in after Jack Abbot.

Not because you meant to. At least, not exactly.

It started one night during your first week on night shift. You’d been cramming for exams all day, convinced you could fit in just one more practice block before your shift—just one more. But you dozed off somewhere around question 43, mouth open against the back of your textbook, a puddle of drool collecting around what once was a diagram of the cardiac chambers.

You sprinted in at 6:45pm, flustered and un-caffeinated, only to find Jack already there. Leaning against the nurses’ station with a cup of coffee like he’d been born in that spot, annoyingly calm and smirking like he’d seen this coming.

"Cutting it close, Dr. L/N," he’d said, not even looking up from his chart. "Careful. That’s how habits start."

He was right.

At first, you were apologetic—nervous and over-eager, all stammered greetings and shuffled charts. Jack didn’t seem to notice you beyond the bare minimum, and you chalked that up to his status, his seniority, his general aura of don’t talk to me unless someone is actively dying.

But things changed. Somewhere between covering for each other during rounds, tagging out on disaster admits, and a running tally of how many times you each got paged during a single trauma night, familiarity set in. You became colleagues. Then reluctant allies. And somewhere along the line—rivals. Enemies, depending on who you asked and on how bad the night was going.

One time, you were both elbow-deep in post-codes, barely functioning off stale coffee and mutual spite, when he passed you a chart and muttered, "Try not to kill this one with your bedside manner."

You took it without looking up from the board above you. "I'll match your emotional range and we'll both be fine."

You were never late, but it soon became a silent game. He always beat you at it. Whether it was by five minutes or five steps, you never let yourself get there before him. A superstition, maybe. A routine. A rhythm. And because you liked to keep him on edge—just to get a reaction out of him.

Seeing Jack colored with shades of affect, even if it was playfully annoyed, was fun. It made him predictable, addictive, a full 180 from his usual stone-cold demeanor. He’d scowl, grumble something about professionalism, and still let you win half the time. It became a kind of game, and you were very good at it.

Now as a senior resident awaiting board licensure, it was practically tradition.

He was already at the nurses’ station, sipping black coffee like it was fuel and he was a half-full tank, eyes scanning over charts. His voice cut through the hum of bedlam as you approached. "Late again, Dr. L/N. At least you're consistent."

You flipped him off without breaking stride. "And yet, somehow, the hospital hasn't burned down yet. Miraculous, wouldn't you say so, Dr. Abbot?"

He raised a brow, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not even ten minutes in and already have our claws out, do we?"

"Oh, Jack," you pouted, "this is just foreplay."

"Ah, is that what you call passive-aggressive incompetence now?"

"Bold of you to assume it’s passive," you fired back, picking up an iPad and scanning through your list of patients for the night. "Or that I’m incompetent, considering I actually round with patients instead of brooding in corners like a gargoyle."

"Gargoyle?" he echoed. "I’m flattered you’ve been staring long enough to come up with nicknames."

"Please," you scoffed. "Your aura of gloom is visible from space. NASA actually filed a complaint saying it was interfering with their ability to conduct research."

Jack paused for a beat, gaze flicking over you more intently than usual. "Did you eat before your shift?"

You eyes were glued on the iPad, your only response a single head bobble "no."

He didn’t like that. Robby could tell from the way his jaw flexed slightly—but he said nothing. Just hummed under his breath and looked back at his clipboard.

Robby had been watching through his glasses the entire time, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like a dad wrangling in two over-caffeinated siblings. He blinked at the two of you, then sighed—long, theatrical, the kind of sigh that said he had survived more codes than he could count but this was titrating his patience.

"You two ever gonna kiss, or just keep trying to murder each other with sarcasm?" He took his glasses off to bury his face in his hands with a groan.

Jack didn’t look up, turning the page over on his clipboard. "I prefer homicide. Cleaner paperwork."

"Honestly, I'd take an explosive diarrhea case over having this conversation," you muttered, half to Robby, half to yourself, rubbing at the bridge of your nose like the words might erase Jack from your field of vision. 

Robby would be remiss if he didn't catch the way neither of you clocked his kiss and make up comment. He stared at you both, mouth frozen in a half-smile that said he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or launch you into separate time zones. He gave it two full seconds—long enough to confirm that you were both still hopeless—before shaking his head in defeat.

"I think," Robby hummed, patting both of your shoulders like a tired camp counselor, "to be so dumb must be nice."

You and Jack had the same unimpressed expression locked and loaded—scowls sharp and identical, contempt trained squarely on Robby, both of you about to mouth off in perfect sync.

He walked off before either of you could open your mouths. 

—

By 3am, the fatigue and hunger were chewing holes in your composure.

Too many admits. Not enough staff. Shen being chronically unbothered. Myrna threatening to murder her wife—when you and Jack turned to ask if she had a wife, matching expressions of disbelief already locked in place, she looked at you deadpan and asked, "You wanna get hitched?"

And always—always—Jack.

Fucking Jack.

With his clipboard full of passive-aggressive notes in that damn attractive calligraphy handwriting.

His tone clipped like a warning and welcome all at once.

And his black scrubs making him look like the grim reaper of constructive criticism and deconstructive mental undressing.

"Patient in six?" you asked.

"CT just came back. Small bowel obstruction. Classic presentation, apparently."

You glanced his way. "Told you it wasn’t just post-op gas."

Jack didn’t miss a beat. "And yet, you were already quoting discharge guidelines to the new intern before radiology even called back."

You shot him a look. Walsh would be proud of you for that one. "I was outlining possibilities. It’s called methodical thinking—must not be a concept you’re familiar with."

He grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Chaos works for me. You panic without bullet points."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re the only attending I know who thrives in complete chaos and calls it a ‘method.’"

"And you’re the only resident I know who color-codes her trauma alerts."

The edge of your lip curled. "That’s called being prepared."

He gestured vaguely. "It’s called being uptight."

You arched a brow. "Spoken like someone who thinks organized is a four-letter word that starts with 'f' and ends with 'k'."

He leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. "Spoken like someone who secretly enjoys cleaning up after my messes."

You blinked once. Then grinned wider. "One day, your beloved chaos is going to bite you in the ass."

He tapped your chart as he walked past. "I guess it’s a good thing you’ve already alphabetized the first aid supplies for me."

—

By 3:20, the storm hit.

Lightning cracked the sky. Power flickered. The backup generator hummed to life with a groan. You should've brought an extra jacket to keep in your locker but it would end up disappearing anyway. Jack was in the hallway already, flashlight in hand.

"OR’s shut down. We’re triaging manually. You good?"

You nodded, biting your tongue. This wasn’t the time.

You worked side by side in the makeshift command center. Tension simmered beneath the quiet coordination—until a grabby frat-boy type from bay four decided he didn’t like being told to sit still and wait.

It happened fast.

He flung the tray off his bed, sending instruments clattering across the floor. You instinctively raised your hand to shield your face—just as a stray scalpel nicked the back of your hand, slicing a sharp, shallow arc. The pain didn’t register immediately. Jack did.

He was on the guy in an instant, stepping in front of you, voice low and lethal. "Sit. Down." The words came out all but minced. 

Security had already been called, but Jack looked like he wanted to break the guy’s face just for breathing in your direction. He didn’t even turn back to you until the orderlies dragged the patient away.

Then his hand was cupping your elbow, his voice much softer. "Let me see it."

You hissed as he inspected the cut. "It’s not deep."

"You’re bleeding on my chaos," he muttered, guiding you gently to an empty room.

You snorted through the blossoming pain. "Told you my color-coding wasn’t excessive."

He grabbed a suture kit, pulling gloves on with the kind of care you usually saw him reserve for crics and broken ribs. "Hold still."

"Bossy."

"Only when someone I like gets stabbed in the hand."

Your breathing hitched. "Like, huh?"

Jack’s attention was fixed on your hand. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, watching him thread the needle, so close, so focused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. Quite the opposite. It felt warm. Easy. He worked methodically, hands sure, touch gentle, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check your expression like it mattered more than the wound. As he cleaned around the cut and prepped the lidocaine syringe, you both said it in unison—

"Slight prick and a burn."

You laughed under your breath, both at his expression of surprise and your synchrony. "God. That phrase is ingrained in my soul. I think I said it to a grapefruit during my 5th year."

Jack’s lips twitched. "I said it to a patient’s plush raccoon once."

You watched his hands move with steady precision, stitching you up like he had all the time in the world. The storm outside cracked again, but neither of you flinched.

"Make sure I don’t scar, Doc," you teased, settling in as he prepped the suture. "I need these hands to make magic and miracles happen. Might even become a hand model if this whole medicine thing doesn’t pan out."

Jack didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll do my best, ma’am. But if you end up on a billboard somewhere, I expect royalties."

You snorted. "In your dreams."

Jack didn’t say anything at first—just gave you a small, private smile like he was tucking something away in the back of his mind. Like he was keeping it just for himself.

And this time, when you looked at him, he didn’t look away.

For a few minutes, the raindrops tapping against the windows were the only sound that filled the empty space. Jack didn't speak. He just kept his gaze on your hand, now bandaged, resting on the edge of the tray table like it had never been hurt. You watched him watching you, your heart thudding quietly in your throat. 

"You always take care of your disasters this nicely?" you mumbled.

He smirked. "Only the pretty ones."

You didn’t speak of it.

Not until later, when the lights came back and the halls emptied and you were alone in the break room.

You noticed it as he leaned against the counter, scrubs rumpled, hair even more so. His scrubs were black, as always—just rumpled enough to prove he'd been moving all night, just fitted enough to be infuriating. You took a sip of water, eyeing him from across the break room table as you both took a seat. Something about the way the fluorescent light caught the curve of his jaw made the words slip out before you could stop them.

"Do you own anything that isn’t black?" you asked, voice light with sudden curiosity. "Or is your off-duty wardrobe just a series of increasingly gothic-toned hoodies that match your work-wear?"

Jack glanced up from his coffee, one brow arched. "It hides blood."

You stared. "You really don’t let anyone in, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away, just sipped his coffee and stared out at the empty hallway beyond the break room.

Finally, with a shrug that didn’t quite match the weight behind it, he said, "You’re one to talk."

That made you laugh, but it came out softer than expected. "Guess we’re both pretty terrible at normal."

Jack’s lips twitched. "Normal’s overrated."

You leaned back in your chair, legs stretched out in front of you, the tips of your sneakers barely brushing his. Neither of you moved. 

Suddenly, Jack got up and yanked open a small drawer by the coffee machine and pulled out a sad-looking granola bar, handing it to you without meeting your eyes.

"Eat this."

Your brow furrowed, suspicious. "Seriously?"

"You haven’t eaten since yesterday," he muttered, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t noticed.

You stared at the wrapper, then at him. "You really had that locked and loaded?"

He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and stuck the bar out at you further. "It’s chocolate. Don’t make me regret it."

Instead of prying further, your hand reached out slowly and took it, eyes still narrowed, studying him like he’d just burnt out a fuse in your brain.

Silence washed over you again. Occasionally filled by the sound of you munching on your granola bar and taking measured sips of your coffee. After a few minutes and one crumpled granola bar later, you caught Jack sneaking a glance at you over the rim of his cup.

You didn’t say anything—just raised a brow.

He looked away like he hadn’t been watching you at all.

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The words crept out of your mouth carefully. "Do you think..." 

Jack looked up, gaze intent. 

"Nevermind," you stopped yourself. 

He leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking into something almost unbearable. Not quite touching, not even brushing—but the air thickened under the weight of his stare. That kind of eye contact that felt like it could crack glass. Steady. Searching.

You let the quiet spool between you like a thread someone might tug, if they were brave enough.

"It's rude to start things you don't intend on finishing," he stated simply.

You blinked, still caught in the current of that look, then leaned in a little—almost like you were about to whisper a secret. Jack mirrored you without hesitation, like it was instinct.

Your voice was barely above a murmur. "Do you think..."

He waited, gaze steady, maybe even a tinge of hope if you squinted.

"...that the real reason you thrive in chaos is because it matches your personality?" you deadpanned.

Jack exhaled sharply, the ghost of a scoff tugging at his mouth. He sat back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

You grinned, eyes bright and playful. "What? I finished it."

"Barely," he muttered, but he was smiling too.

A few beats passed. You both sat in the lingering quiet, the kind that settled in only after long shifts and half-spoken things.

Then he leaned in—just a little—mirroring what you'd done earlier. You furrowed your brows, curious.

He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Do you think..."

You leaned in too, expecting something real, something heavy.

"...that you secretly enjoy being wrong? Because, statistically, it’s seems like your favorite hobby."

Your jaw dropped to let out a puff of air, baffled by his audacity, and pushed his arm. "God, you’re insufferable."

He chuckled under his breath. "And yet, here you are."

You gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking. "I will admit that it’s in my top five favorite hobbies. But it still doesn’t beat ‘annoying Jack Abbot.’ That one’s undefeated."

Jack shook his head, eyes warm and lips softened in a grin. "You’d miss me if I ever stopped letting you win."

Your only response was a coy smile. You nudged his foot with yours beneath the table, and he glanced down at the contact. He nudged back, subtle and sure, like he didn’t want the moment to end just yet—then looked back up at you. Something passed between the pair of you—unspoken, tentative, curious.

The room fell quiet again, comfortable this time. Neither of you moved to leave.

Until Jack's phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, then cursed under his breath. "Room seven. It's that kid who demanded to speak to the 'head doctor' because I wouldn't give him dilaudid for a tension headache."

You raised a brow. "So... a normal Friday?"

"Basically."

You watched him go, expecting a quick de-escalation. Room seven. You knew who that was. Height rivaled only by his ego. Frat letters drawn across his bare chest like illiterate war paint. Barked at nurses like he owned the floor. The kind of guy who made everything someone else's problem, backed by daddy’s legal team and a two-semester record of hazing infractions.

Jack had said he’d handle it. He always did. Especially with these types. It was like they were on a rotation—every Friday night, a new brand of uninhibited pre-frontal cortex, privileged chaos.

But then you heard his voice—Jack’s—sharp and too loud from down the hall. A clatter followed, unmistakable. Tray to tile. A chair scraping. Then another crash. A shout that definitely wasn’t Jack’s.

You were already moving.

By the time you rounded the corner, the frat boy was mid-lunge, fury twisting his face as he hurled a tray toward Jack’s head like he was reenacting some half-remembered bar fight. Jack ducked, barely—but he was boxed in, too close to the wall.

You didn’t think. Just moved.

"Hey!" you barked, adrenaline surging. You threw yourself at him, coming at him like a freight train and making him fall back onto the bed with a grunt. A nurse hit the emergency call. Security swarmed seconds later.

Jack had grabbed your arm and pulled you back—tight but not painful—pulling you just out of the fray. "What the hell?"

You glared at him, chest heaving. "Returning the favor."

He didn’t let go.

"On-call room. Now."

He practically hauled you down the hall, his hand never leaving yours. You were both silent until the door shut behind you. He pressed his palms to the counter and stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"What was that?" His voice was sharp, unfiltered, pissed in a way you didn’t see often—not like this. Not when it was about you. "You could’ve gotten hurt."

"So could you." You leaned against the metal bunkbed frame, still catching your breath. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

His Adam's apple bobbed, slow, like the movement itself took restraint. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual.

"You're reckless," he said quietly.

"Takes one to know one," you laughed.

Jack didn’t.

He stepped forward instead, jaw clenched. "You have no regard for your safety and only for that of others."

You took a step back.

"You will go out of your way to treat and protect everyone around you at the expense of your own well-being."

Another step back. Any closer and—

"Do you understand," he said, each word measured, devastating, "how much I worry about you?"

Your heartbeat was a war drum now—loud, insistent, thunderous.

"Do you know how much I think about you? How much I plan for the worst every time you throw yourself between danger and someone else without a second thought?" he added, voice cracking just enough to reveal the truth beneath it. Laid bare.

"When you walk into the ER and you haven't eaten since the night before and I can see it—you're running on caffeine and impulse and whatever scraps of adrenaline are left."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He didn’t stop there. "When you give your jacket to a freezing patient and spend the next six hours shivering without saying a word—like that’s normal."

You swallowed. "It wasn’t cold..."

Jack’s voice sharpened. "You forget your umbrella and show up soaked but act like it's fine. Like it’s not freezing. Like you didn’t just volunteer to get sick."

Your fingers twitched against your side.

"And when you blow off your own wound care to finish a chart. Or cover a code blue for someone else even though your shift ended twenty minutes ago."

You looked away. His eyes never left you.

He stepped even closer, willing you to look at him. "When you pretend you’re made of steel. And then crack alone in the stairwell when you think no one’s looking."

It felt like ice cold water had dropped from the ceiling.

"Jack—" you managed to force out. 

He held up a hand and turned around, cutting you off. "Please." 

He couldn’t hear it. Not unless you felt the same. Not unless you'd listened, actually listened, for once. He’d rather bleed out not knowing than survive a rejection he couldn’t patch. Just colleagues. He'd switch over to day shift if he had to. Robby could put in a word for him. Temporary, at least until he found a new hospital. Maybe in a different city. Of a different state.

He looked anywhere but you, turning like he meant to leave, like he could walk it off and pretend none of this ever happened.

"Jack, please..." The words came out desperate, begging, pleading for him to stop.

He didn't meet your eyes—couldn't. "I'll see you at the nurses station." 

"Oh, for the love of God—" You reached forward and yanked him back by his forearm.

And then your lips were on his.

It wasn’t clean or careful. It was a crash—years of tension detonating all at once. He froze for half a second, eyes wide open like his brain was short-circuiting, then kissed you back with everything he had and more. Desperation, disbelief, hunger—it all poured out of him like water breaking through a dam.

Your hands cradled his face, thumbs grazing over the light stubble along his jaw, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones like you were learning him by touch alone. He kissed you like he couldn’t stand to stop, and you held him like you weren’t going to let him. He tasted like spearmint—sharp and stubborn—the gum he always carried in his pocket, and behind that, burnt coffee and something so distinctly Jack it made your limbs tingle.

His hands found your waist, your jaw, your back—grasping like he didn’t trust the moment to be real unless he mapped every inch of you with his fingertips. You were pressed chest to chest, and it still didn’t feel close enough.

Jack had kissed people before. He had slept with people before. He'd been married, for God's sake. But this—this—was unreal. This was heat and gravity and every inch of restraint he’d stitched into place finally tearing wide open. This was the reason human beings fought in wars. Why people wrote poetry and ruined perfectly stable lives for one perfect, maddening kiss. Why everything else material and immaterial suddenly paled in comparison.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging salt and pepper curls just enough to make him groan, low and wrecked against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, share the oxygen in your lungs, the little gasp you made when his thumb grazed the spot behind your ear just right. He devoured everything you gave him and kissed you like a man who had run out of time and patience.

Because he had.

He’d wanted this too long to pretend otherwise, and he'd sooner die than deprive either of you from this any longer. 

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting lightly against his. Both of you were gasping, eyes locked in the kind of dazed silence that usually followed adrenaline crashes. 

"Took you long enough, old man," you whispered, lips still brushing his.

Jack blinked once, twice. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like the thought had crossed his mind a thousand times, but the reality of you—this—hit harder than he’d prepared for.

"You feel the same?" he asked quietly, in a tone that was more awe than question.

You nodded. "Since before either of us were brave enough to say it."

Jack let out a breath that shook at the edges. "I thought if I let it slip—if I looked too long, said too much—you’d shut me out."

"I thought if I admitted it, it would ruin everything."

"It didn’t," he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours.

"No," you whispered. "It finally made sense of everything."

Jack blinked again, almost like he hadn’t fully registered it until now. His gaze swept over your face, pausing at your lips, then your eyes, as if searching for the lie he couldn’t find.

"You really mean that?" he asked, quieter now. Not disbelieving—just internalizing.

You nodded again, slower this time. "I don’t do this if I don’t."

Jack let out another breath, but it wasn’t shaky this time—it was solid. Grounded. Relieved. He laughed under it, the sound warm and slightly incredulous.

"You really are impossible," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"And you’re dramatic," you whispered back, smiling.

"Fair," he said. "But you’re still mine."

"Yeah," you said. "I think I always was."

Jack huffed a breath, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Careful. You just kissed your attending. That kind of power could go to your head."

You grinned, still breathless. "Please. You kissed me back like your life depended on it."

"Who says it didn't?" he asked rhetorically, so quietly it almost got lost in the air between you.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing softly along the hairline, anchoring him there. Jack shivered. Not from cold—never from cold.

"Thank you," you admitted. "For taking care of me while I was busy taking care of everyone else."

His grip on your waist tightened, grounding himself, and then he leaned in again. This time it was slower. Less frantic. His lips found the curve of your neck, warm and reverent. You gasped—quietly—but it was enough. He kissed lower, just beneath your jaw, and your hands curled in the fabric at his shoulders.

"Always." The word left his lips like a prayer.

His fingers traced the hem of your scrub top, ghosting up your sides like he was overriding any and all memories of anything else other than you. No dissonance. Just Jack, desperate to feel something real in a world that never gave him space to.

You pressed closer, kissed the corner of his mouth. "You taste like that godawful spearmint gum."

He grinned against your skin. "You love it."

Another scoff. "If throwing myself in front of a raging frat boy was all it took to get you to shut up and kiss me, I would've done it ages ago."

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, smug. "If you do that again, I’m going to make you do my charting for a week."

You snorted. "With pleasure."

He didn’t argue. Just dipped his head and kissed you again.

—

You woke in the on-call room, a mess of tangled limbs and haphazardly strewn clothes. Your cheek pressed to the rise and fall of his chest. The storm had long passed, but its echo lingered in the hush around you. Jack’s arm was slung low around your waist, fingers drawing lazy, absent-minded shapes against your hip like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

"For what it’s worth, I still think you’re a pain in the ass," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His chest rumbled beneath your cheek. "Likewise," he said, but it came out softer than usual.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, your hand brushing gently across his ribs, then settling over his heart. "Don’t get used to this."

His brow arched. "This?" If you looked hard enough, you might have seen worry flash across his face. 

"Me being nice."

Relief painted his expression. He smiled, full and rare. "You’re the one curled into me like a particularly mouthy cat."

You buried your face in his chest. "Shut up."

His fingers tightened slightly at your hip. "Not complaining. Just saying... I could get used to this."

You looked up again, caught the vulnerability flickering there before he blinked it away. Your thumb brushed his jaw, and you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, a smile blooming in its wake.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Me too."

—

A few weeks and an undetermined number of shifts later, you walked through the double doors of the ER wearing a black hoodie—oversized and unassuming to anyone else, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him.

Robby and Dana spotted it from a mile away. The frayed drawstring, the hole near the front pocket, the faded cuff seams—the one he always reached for when the weather dropped below 60 degrees, too tired to bother, or too raw to pretend. Jack’s favorite and now second most prized possession.

The first being the shirt you wore when you stayed the night for the first time—oversized and soft, probably older than the first year med students—borrowed without asking. He never washed it. Claimed it smelled like you now and he'd keep it that way.

No one said a word.

Except Robby, who walked past and muttered, "Finally." Then, as you and Jack strolled side by side toward the nurses’ station—still bickering, now with smiles tucked behind every jab—he held out a fist to Jack.

Jack bumped it without hesitation.

Robby grinned. "Took you long enough."

"Shut up," you and Jack muttered in unison, but neither of you stopped smiling.

Jack's hand brushed yours between steps, a casual touch that lingered just long enough to say everything he couldn't say out loud in front of witnesses. You let your pinky hook around his for a second before letting go—just a flash of something soft beneath the usual snark.

"Didn't know we allowed pets in the ER," Dana remarked from her chair before looking up through her glasses. "Or are those lovebirds I hear?"

You smirked. "We’re just evolving."

Jack raised a brow. "Into better people?"

"No," you replied. "Into slightly better-functioning disasters. I am, anyway. Jack’s still somewhere between disaster and cryptid."

He bumped your shoulder gently before giving you a playful wink. "Speak for yourself. I was already perfect."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. A smile crept up like second nature. You'd get him next time.

Robby snorted. "God, you two are insufferable."

You turned just enough to shoot him a smug look. "You love it."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I do. But if I walk in on you making out in the supply closet, I’m blackmailing both of you. With photos."

Jack didn’t even flinch. "Make sure you get our good angles."

You could definitely get used to this.