i know ur working on bet!joe, but can the girlies request a fic where instead of getting bitten, joe is the biter 😛
here you go babe 🫦
Wordcount: 2.3K
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Love Bites
The first thing you notice is the mark on your face.
That’s… yea. That’s a bruise.
It doesn’t particularly hurt badly, but it absolutely should not be there.
You stand in front of the bathroom mirror with one hand flattening your hair behind your ear whilst the other inspects the faint purple mark near the curve of your jaw. It sits high enough up on your cheek that make-up probably won’t fully hide it, which is a problem. Although it’s not really noticeable unless the light catches it properly…
Still.
Joe bit your face.
“For fuck’s sake,” you mutter to yourself, leaning closer to the mirror as you have a closer look. The skin isn’t broken, you don’t think, but that doesn’t look okay. Then, the collar of your shirt gets tugged aside and, what the fuck. That’s worse.
Faint crescents decorate the skin scattered across your collarbone and shoulder, some darker than others, all unmistakably teeth marks if you know what you’re looking at. Once you see it, it can’t be unseen. You let your fingertips brush over them lightly and heat crawls up the back of your neck immediately as the memory of what all of this felt like floods back in.
You’d like to blame it all on Joe, but it’s not even his fault, really.
You were the one who started a war.
The sound of movement behind you distracts you from inspecting your battle wounds before Joe appears in the doorway. He’s barefoot, wearing black joggers low on his hips, and his hair is still sleep-messy. He tosses something into the hamper you keep in there before your eyes meet in the mirror, and then you see how his drop to the marks you’ve been looking at.
And the fucking bastard smiles.
Slowly too, like he’s genuinely pleased with himself.
“No,” you scold immediately, turning to look at him properly. “Stop fucking smiling, you can’t sm– you’re not allowed to smile.” It’s a bit difficult to keep your own smile hidden, but you think you just about manage.
Joe leans one shoulder against the doorway, completely unashamed. “Don’t let me disturb you admiring my work.”
“Your work?” you repeat incredulously. “These are battle wounds.”
His grin gets worse when you stare at him harder and you can see his eyes wander down to your cheek. “You’ve got one on your face.”
“I know.” You turn back to the mirror to have another look. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
Joe pushes himself off the doorway and steps into the bathroom, warm hands finding your waist automatically as he stands behind you. His chin hooks comfortably over your shoulder while he looks at your reflection again, eyes lingering briefly on the faint mark near your cheek.
“I didn’t mean to do–” one of his hands finds your chin to move it to the side a bit for a better look. “This one’s a mistake.”
“Yea? Just this one?” you raise your brows at him. “What about the rest?”
His mouth twitches against the side of your head. “I mean… what can I say?”
“Um, maybe a sorry would be appropriate?”
“No.” Joe says calmly as he moves a finger to pull at the neckline of your top, causing an immediate frown from you as he searches for more marks. Then he says, “I’m not sorry…” before adding, “you like being bitten.” and your expression betrays you instantly. Joe notices immediately too, and he laughs softly under his breath before pressing a kiss just beneath your ear.
“No, I like biting. I like being the biter, not the bitee.”
There’s something incredibly satisfying about leaving teeth marks on Joe’s arms, you can’t exactly explain it. Luckily, you don’t have to. Joe presses another kiss against the corner of your jaw, a bit more careful this time, warm mouth softly giving a bit of affection to the mark he left behind.
“Yea. Well… you’ve made a very convincing argument for biting,” he reasons, tapping your hips before stepping away from you to reach for his toothbrush.
You’re well aware that you can’t really complain, but you’re not looking forward to the amount of make-up you’ll have to apply to somewhat hide it. “I look like I lost a fight.”
Joe’s grin returns immediately.
“You did lose a fight.”
You glare at him in the mirror, though the effect is ruined slightly by the fact you’re trying not to laugh and he’s not even looking at you.
Honestly, the whole thing had escalated far quicker than either of you intended. It’d started on the sofa where you’d been half sprawled over Joe whilst he scrolled aimlessly through something on his phone. One of his hands rested absentmindedly against your thigh whilst your cheek pressed comfortably into his chest as rain tapped quietly against the windows outside.
Joe smelled warm.
Comfortable.
And, unfortunately for him, your mouth had ended up close to his shoulder.
So naturally, you bit him. Little nibble, because, why not. Just a little bite. Nothing worth noting, barely even enough to really count. You’d let your teeth push into his skin just enough to make his body tense slightly beneath you, and that’s all you’d wanted.
But then Joe sighed dramatically without looking up from his phone.
“Can you not?”
You grinned against his shirt. “Sorry. You’re comfy.”
“Comfy…” Joe spoke to the ceiling, eyes narrowed. “And then, biting? how… I don’t–”
“Shh, don’t question it. It’s a compliment and you should just take it as I mean it.”
Joe snorted quietly, and you bit him again right after. This time you could feel how Joe’s hand against your leg gripped at the feeling.
“You know,” he said slowly, sitting up a little, “most people just cuddle.” His movement made you slide away from him just enough for your mouth to be out of biting-vicinity. A tragedy. Particularly because now, you were forced to simply look at him instead. At the unfair shape of his arms beneath the sleeves of his shirt, thick through the bicep, solid without trying. Joe’s got the kind of arms that always make you want to hold onto him somehow.
You like wrapping yourself around one when you sleep beside him, big palm on your thigh.
Like clinging onto his forearm when you walk together, even more when it’s slung around you in order to keep you close.
Like the weight of his arm slung over your shoulders when you’re cuddling close like this almost an embarrassing amount.
And, unfortunately for Joe, you like to sink your teeth into them a little bit too.
“You’re being very judgemental for someone built like a chew toy.” You half-joked, which made him stare at you for a moment before slowly repeating, “A chew toy.”
“Mhm.”
“A fucking chew toy.”
“Yes.” You smiled sweetly, taking hold of his hand to pull the rest of his limb up towards your mouth.
“Careful,” he warned mildly, not fighting your guidance in the slightest.
You pressed a kiss against his forearm, and then just held it against your lips there. Waiting.
One of his eyebrows lifted slightly.
“You sure?”
You opened your mouth just a little, just enough for Joe to see the shine of your pearly whites, and that’s exactly when Joe moved.
One second you were sat on your sofa with your mouth pressed against his arm, and the next you were suddenly underneath him instead, flat on your back, sinking the sofa cushions as Joe rolled you effortlessly into position.
“Joe–”
“Oh, now it’s Joe? No longer your chew toy?”
You’d burst into startled laughter immediately, squirming beneath him while he trapped you easily between his arms. The sofa dipped beneath his weight, broad shoulders blocking out most of the light from the room as he hovered over you grinning.
“Get off me,” you tried to command between laughs.
“You started it.”
“You’re thirty times my size, this is hardly fair.”
Joe leaned down slightly then, close enough that you could feel his breath against your mouth.
“And yet,” he murmured, “you keep biting me anyway.”
Your stomach flipped annoyingly hard at the change in his tone of voice. Something that had felt playful before all felt a little rougher now, and Joe notices the shift in your facial expression.
“Not so tough now, are we?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed softly before leaning down to kiss you properly. What you thought might be a quick peck slowly changed into something deeper. His mouth moved against yours with an ease that immediately melted whatever sarcastic response you’d been preparing, whilst one hand sliding beneath the back of your shirt and the other braced beside your head. The warmth of his palm spread across your spine as he kissed you deeper, and the second you reacted to it, Joe made this low, pleased sound in the back of his throat that nearly ruined you completely right then and there.
God.
His mouth drifted from yours slowly, kissing along your jaw before pressing briefly against the sensitive spot beneath your ear just before dipping a bit lower.
Your breathing caught slightly as he kissed across your throat.
“Mm, you’re very responsive tonight,” he murmured against your skin.
“Shut up.”
Then his teeth grazed lightly against your collarbone and the sound that escaped you was immediate and deeply embarrassing.
Joe froze. Actually froze. You felt the pause travel through his entire body where he hovered over you, his mouth still pressed against your skin while silence stretched between you both for one dangerous second.
Slowly, he lifted his head. “Oh?” Joe said softly.
Your stomach dropped instantly. You were in danger.
“No,” you said immediately.
Joe looked unbearably calm. “No?”
“No.” nothing about your no sounded like you meant it.
“Did you like that?”
“No I didn’t.” You sounded unconvincing even to your own ears.
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth as you tried and failed to look unaffected beneath him. The corner of his mouth twitched slowly upward before he leaned down again. A breathy, “I… I think you did.” got spoken into your neck.
“You think? Do it again to make sure.”
A breathy laugh exposed all the spots Joe’s mouth had touched already just before he let his teeth scrape along your skin again.
This bite landed a bit harder.
It was on the edge of genuinely hurting, inflicting a spark of panic that dragged another helpless reaction from you before you could stop it.
Joe felt all of it.
Your reaction changed something within him. It changed the tension through his shoulders. Changed his grip at your waist, tightening automatically. Changed his breathing, sudden sharp inhales against your skin like he’d surprised himself as much as he’d surprised you.
“Do it again to make sure?” Joe repeated quietly, sounding dangerously pleased with himself now. “Or was that enough proof, hm? You hear yourself?”
“Yea, no, try again,” you whispered. “Just in case.”
A throaty chuckle bubbled up, “Oh, sweetheart,” Joe laughed quietly, forehead pressing briefly against your shoulder. “You’re never seeing peace again now.”
And, see, the thing about Joe is that, once he gets intrigued by something, he tends to want to commit to it entirely. It’s why his place is full of half started hobbies and obsessions, why there’s the beginning of a collection of records and a lot of unused working-out equipment lying around.
And right now, Joe seemed deeply fascinated by the effect he was having on you.
He let his mouth drag slowly across your skin, down your neck, across your collarbone once more before his teeth caught you there again, rough enough to make your hips jerk instinctively beneath him. It had Joe quietly swearing under his breath before his arms suddenly hooked underneath you.
“Yea, okay. Lets go.”
You barely had time to laugh before he lifted you effortlessly off the sofa.
It should probably feel ridiculous being carried around like this, but Joe is unfairly comfortable to be held by. Strong without any harshness, one arm secure beneath your thighs whilst the other supported your back, broad chest warm against yours as he walked you down the hallway towards the bedroom.
The bedroom door got shoved open with his shoulder before he dropped you onto the mattress with far less care than usual. You bounced once against the bed, laughing breathlessly, and then Joe followed immediately after you, all heavy warmth and broad shoulders as he crowded over you again.
“You know that I respect you, right?” He was already trying to shove his jeans and boxers down, impatient fingers fumbling whilst he kissed along your jaw at the same time. “Remember that, okay?”
The whole thing should’ve made you laugh, the awkward movements of undressing and the cheesy whispered lines. Instead, it made your stomach tighten painfully. Mostly because Joe looked completely gone already, hair messy, cheeks flushed, big hands clumsy with urgency for once.
“Why?” you asked in a quick exhale against his mouth.
“Because it’s about to seem like I don’t.” Joe muttered back immediately before his mouth found your jaw again.
And then–…
“Ahh!”
Joe jerked back. “Sorry, too much? Sorry. I didn’t–” he spoke so quickly he tumbled over his words as he looked seconds away from laughing. Before he could continue his half-assed apology or burst into actual laughter, you grabbed his jaw and bit him straight back.
Joe made this startled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
“Retaliation.”
“Relati–… yea, all right. Okay. That’s how you want to play this?” He breathed, smiling despite himself, watching as you twisted your neck in an attempt to bite his forearm that was pressed into the mattress next to your head. “You’ve started a war.”
A war you’d win even when you’d lose, Joe was just as aware as you were.
I need someone to write a good mob boss Harry Styles fic with the maturity of an adult but the essence of 2013’s “sorry guys i was grounded and my mum took away my laptop but i wrote this chapter in my math book”
thinking about santos becoming someone mel knows shes safe with. yeah she can be sarcastic but shes learning to make herself clear for mel ("damn you must have really messed up...... im just joking"). she doesnt question mel not having someone other than becca to spend the holiday with (because santos herself has no one to spend it with). mel realizing they can be weird and messy and awkward together at karaoke. they can let the rest of the room stare while they scream alanis morrisette cos today at work fucking sucked and no one else there can quite understand how much.
you're proactively planning your fertility like a responsible med student. dr. abbot, however, would greatly prefer you planned literally anything else.
pairing: jack abbot x angel reader
warnings: just a short lil drabble, fluff, anxiety and overthinking, age gap mentioned, reader is twenty something, reader is a med student, mentions of fertility, flirting in the workplace, implied sexual content, questionable reproductive proposals, basically just angel reader asking abbot to be her baby daddy
wc: 0.5k
“— and it’s not even like she means to do it, you know? Like she calls and it starts normal, totally normal, we’re talking about groceries or whatever, and then BAM, like clockwork, it’s ‘so how are your evaluations going’ and ‘have you thought about residency yet’ and I’m just sitting there like… yeah, mom, funny you mention it, I think about it all the time, constantly, obsessively, in a way that is probably not healthy for my long-term psychological stability.”
You cast a sidelong glance at Dr. Abbot, brows arched expectantly, silently imploring him to jump in and extinguish the slow, smoldering anxiety that has spontaneously combusted in your mind and body and soul.
He doesn’t bite.
Instead, he offers you his trademark stoic gaze, effectively deflating your balloon of expectation on impact.
“Your evaluations will be fine,” he says shortly. “You’ll match. Now type, please.”
“Sorry, charting, right. Doing that now,” you mumble, snapping dutifully back to the glowing screen like a golden retriever who briefly forgot what sit meant.
Your fingers move with genuine, industrious purpose for approximately three whole seconds before inevitably, you’re speaking again.
“But, then she mentions marriage and having children, multiple children, as if one isn’t intimidating enough, because why wouldn’t she? Perfect natural segue. And now all I can think about is this random fertility rabbit hole I fell into afterward. Which, by the way, was a lot. That was a lot of information. Like I’m literally sitting here as we speak, losing eggs by the second, practically fossilizing before your very eyes.”
You hear him release a short huff of air. Can picture him pressing his forefinger into the space between his browsz
“Kid, you’re — what, all of twenty-something?”
You wave a dismissive hand, not looking up. “Twenty-something with eggs dropping like New Year’s confetti at midnight. Tick tock.”
“You’re not even close to egg depletion,” he says dryly, nudging your chair slightly with his foot. “Trust your attending on this.”
You roll your eyes, immensely grateful he can’t see your face.
“Easy for you to say. Your biology lets you remain fertile until, like, the heat death of the universe.”
“Wasn’t aware you’d taken such a keen interest in my reproductive potential.”
You swivel around in your chair without warning, knees knocking lightly into the desk as you tip your chin up at him.
“Well, listen, I was actually thinking that if I hit a certain age and still have no romantic prospects, we could make a pact,” you muse. “You generously contribute your objectively excellent genetic blueprint, I carry the resulting small human. Voila, instant legacy preserved. It's a win-win.”
The words have barely left your lips when Abbot nearly sputters coffee all over his pressed white coat. His hand shoots up swiftly, coughing discreetly as his gaze flicks sharply, incredulously, up at you.
“Jesus — at least give me a heads-up before you proposition me for genetic samples,” he mutters under his breath, eyeing you cautiously now, like you’re a lab specimen who’s suddenly started speaking fluent Latin.
You gasp, pulling a hand to your chest. “Dr. Abbot, please — I was referring exclusively to a very professional sperm donation arrangement. Entirely above board, paperwork involved, sterile conditions, the whole thing.”
“Of course,” he drawls, skepticism coloring his voice. “Nothing questionable about that.”
“It’s all part of my incredibly thorough contingency plan. That I created last night,” you assure him, nodding fervently. “Proactive and forward-thinking, exactly the qualities you’re always nagging me to develop. See? I listen.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, fixing you with a stern, pensive look. “Face the screen.”
You obediently face the screen, fingers tapping out a half-hearted sentence once again, before your curiosity inevitably gets the best of you again, eyes flicking over your should to peer at him through lowered lashes.
“Not hearing a hard no,” you hum.
“It is a hard no,” he starts, leaning in to talk against your ear, “because If I decide to help you out with that particular problem, it’s going to be the old-fashioned way.”
He straightens smoothly, unbothered as he walks away, leaving your heart stumbling over itself in dizzy little circles.
summary: dr whitaker thinks he has a pretty good handle on his crush on you, until he sees you out of your scrubs for the first time.
pairing: fem!reader x dennis whitaker
warnings/tags: dennis being the little nervous cutie that he is, alcohol consumption, flirting, fluff, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you'd expect from the pitt!
notes: i can't believe it's taken me this long to write for the pitt, I love it sm <3
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
Growing up on a farm, Dennis Whitaker learnt early on the benefits of effectively compartmentalising things.
Like a flick of a switch, he could shut off one part of his brain when he went into work and could switch it back on when he stepped out of the PTMC doors.
It was a skill that served him well as an ER resident. A place where you were literally in sink or swim, life or death situations for 12 hours straight.
Steady hands, steady voice, steady mind. No matter how intense things got, how quickly he needed to react, he handled it.
Which is why his very manageable, very under-control crush on you had never been a problem.
He wasn't completely unaffected of course, he wasn't a total robot.
His heart rate still picked up when you smiled at him from across the pitt, his eyes sometimes lingered just a touch too long when you laughed, his pulse thrummed in his ears when you teased him and said his name coyly - Whitaker - like you knew just how much of an effect you had on him.
He noticed little things too, like the way you pushed your hair back with your wrist when you were gloved up and stressed, how you would bite your lip when you were locked in on charting, or the way you would anonymously (or at least thought you did) leave snacks in the break room for your colleagues.
But it was fine.
You and your radiant smile were completely compartmentalised.
Filed neatly away under do not open - things that will get me fired or someone killed or both if I think about it at work.
Until tonight.
Javadi's 21st birthday - organised by Princess, Perlah and Dana despite her weeks of protesting against it.
He almost hadn't come.
The clinical side of his brain warned him that mixing coworkers with alcohol and personal time was a bad move - teetering way too close to the 'friend' sphere - which would make it all the more harder for him to engage his compartmentalisation switch.
"You literally live with me, I think that ship has sailed Huckleberry." Santos had remarked when he'd confided in her about his doubts.
Amy had texted him that afternoon asking him if he was coming up to the farm. His thumbs had hovered over his phone, willing up the courage to text Javadi to say he wasn't going to be able to make it.
Then, his phone buzzed.
His heart leapt.
A message from you that simply read:
You're coming tonight, right?
An hour later, he was walking to the bar with Santos, trying to keep any thoughts of you shoved firmly in your assigned compartment.
When he stepped inside, he spotted the group instantly. Milling around in a corner clustered around a bunch of high tables, a set of slightly deflated pink balloons numbered '21' floating half heartedly above them.
A chorus of greetings met them as they approached. Dennis tried not to think about how weird it was to see everyone out of uniform, glowing in that post-shift, one drink in kind of buzz.
"Drink?" Santos turned to him.
He nodded, suddenly eager to be on the same level as his colleagues. They had just made their way to the bar when a set of wolf whistles and cheers erupted from their area.
"Watch out Pittsburgh!"
He turned to locate the source of their ruckus.
And then everything - every neatly labelled, meticulously stored thought - came crashing down around him.
You were not in scrubs.
Logically he had known that would be the case. People did not wear scrubs to bars. You were not going to be an exception. He had psyched himself up for this exact sight on the walk over.
But seeing it in person was something he could never have prepared himself for.
Your hair was down and styled, not tied back in that purely practical way he had grown so used to. Your makeup sculpted your features in a way that made you look even more angelic than usual.
Your outfit fit your body perfectly, hugging you in places and curves he had never dared to let himself think about, had trained himself very deliberately never to follow.
He found himself silently thanking the inventor of scrubs for designing them to be so baggy, because if this is how you looked all the time - he wouldn't be able to control himself.
Heck, who was he kidding, how was he ever going to control himself again now that he'd seen you like this?
He watched as you crossed the crowded bar, oblivious to the hungry looks of random men that you passed. A huge grin was on your face as you twirled around to show off your outfit to the group, causing another huge bout of cheers.
There was no clipped efficiency, no fluorescent lighting washing you out, no neat, clinical version he could pretend was easier to ignore.
This was what everyone else outside of the pitt had the privilege of seeing.
It felt almost wrong, like he was seeing a version of you that he hadn't been cleared access for.
"You might want to put your tongue back in your mouth Fuckleberry."
Dennis' cheeks bloomed violent red.
"W-what?" He stammered, finally tearing his eyes away from you.
"Trust me, I have eyes too. I get it." Santos continued, her gaze flickering over to you. "But she is so out of your league."
He huffed. "Gee thanks. Want to tell me something I don't know?" He grumbled before pressing his drink to his lips and downing it in one go.
"Atta boy Fuckleberry." Santos slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically. "Drown your sorrows with me."
"Why, Garcia not paying you enough attention?"
Santos shot him a glare. "Watch it or-" She cut herself off as she glanced over Whittaker's shoulder.
"Oh shit - incoming."
Dennis turned to see you making your way towards the bar.
"I gotta pee, good luck farmboy." Before he could protest, Santos pushed off the bar and disappeared into the crowd.
By the time he turned back around, you had spotted him.
Your smile widened when you locked eyes.
You slipped through the crowd toward him like it was the most casual thing in the world, like you hadn’t just fundamentally altered his understanding of reality.
"Whitaker!" You called out by way of greeting.
God. It was somehow even worse outside the pitt.
"I was worried you were going to bail." You teased as you slid in beside him at the bar. You were so close he could smell your perfume, see the flecks of mascara painting your lashes, the pink sheen of your lip gloss.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He cleared his throat, motioning for the bartender to try and stop the red from creeping back into his cheeks. "Yeah. I um- yeah. Do you want something to drink?"
Smooth.
"Please, I'll have whatever you're having."
You leant an arm against the bar, angling your body towards him. You tilted your head slightly, your eyes roaming his body as he ordered for you in a way that made his pulse trip over itself.
And then you grinned.
"You know, you scrub off quite well Whitaker."
Dennis was pretty sure there was a full, tangible moment where his brain fully short-circuited.
You had to be teasing him, surely. You'd probably made the same joke to every single one of his colleagues, who had all probably laughed in a way that only you could illicit from them.
He let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's uh.. that's not how that phrase usually goes."
"I know." You said easily. "I'm reinventing it."
"Right."
"I have a theory." You continued. He watched as you twisted around, pressing your back into the wooden edge of the bar.
"You either look way better in scrubs or way better out of scrubs, there's no in between."
You gestured to your table.
"Take Robby for example, can you imagine that man in anything other than scrubs? I saw him out on a run once and I can confirm, it was disturbing."
Dennis let out a genuine chuckle at that.
"Ok, I like this game." He nodded, feeling himself relax slightly without being under your intense gaze. "Javadi's an out of scrubs for sure."
Your grin widened at his willingness to go along with it. "Exactly. I never thought I'd see her part with that purple sweater."
Dennis laughed again, watching out of the corner of his eye at the way your eyes crinkled as you smiled.
"So uh- which one am I then?" He asked sheepishly just as the bartender plonked your drinks down on the sticky surface.
You grabbed your drink before you turned your attention back to him. You took a sip from your straw as your eyes flitted up and down his figure, a smirk forming on your lips.
"I haven't decided yet."
Dennis gulped.
"Thanks for the drink Whitaker."
He watched helplessly as you walked away.
All composure and restraint had flown out the window. He was a man completely undone, like putty in your gentle hands.
"What did I miss?" Santos reappeared at his side, surveying the dance floor with eagle eyes.
"She... she said I scrub off quite well." He murmured, his eyes never leaving your figure as you animatedly chatted with Mohan.
"Huh?"
"She said everyone either suits scrubs or normal clothes more, so I asked her which one I was."
"And?"
"She said she hadn't decided yet."
Santos looked over at him in disbelief. "Oh my fucking god."
Dennis' neck snapped to look at her. "What?"
"Huckleberry, she was fucking flirting with you!"
"What?" He repeated, blinking in a few times. "No she wasn't."
"Uh yeah - she was." Santos insisted. "What you just told me? That's a fucking line. She lined you!"
"No I-" Dennis stammered. "There's- there's no way she was flirting with me. Aren't you the one who said she was way out of my league anyway?"
"I did." Santos nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. "But even geniuses can be wrong on the rare occasion."
She turned to face him fully, her face completely serious. "This is your chance."
"What-"
"Go flirt with her! Ask her out! Do something!"
"B-but I-" He cut himself off as he glanced up, watching you twirl Javadi around.
"If you don't Huckleberry, I will."
One look at her face and Dennis knew she was fully serious.
-
As the night wore on, people began siphoning into the 'I have work at 7am tomorrow' and the 'I have a day off tomorrow' camps.
Mohan and Ellis were doing shots off a strangers stomach. Mel and Langdon were animatedly discussion the upcoming renaissance fair. Santos was making a point of flirting with any girl within earshot of Garcia.
Dennis had found himself and you alone, clustered together on stools at one of the high tables. He tried to ignore the way your shoulder casually brushed against his every now and then, sending a shiver up his spine. He couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse.
"I think Javadi is going to have a headache for about a week." You remarked. "I'm also pretty sure I just saw her sneak into the bathroom with Matteo."
"We've all been there."
You raised a brow.
"What, hooking up with co-workers?"
The tips of his ears turned pink. "No-no I-"
"Relax, I'm teasing." You laughed.
He let out a breathless chuckle. "Oh, right."
The thumping bass enveloped the two of you, preventing the possibility of awkward silence.
"You're quieter than usual." You observed after a few moments.
"I-" He cut himself off before he tried to deny it as you looked at him imploringly.
Who was he kidding? You would see right through him, you were way too good at reading people. He saw it everyday at work. It was a skill he'd always admired in you, your ability to coax the truth out of patients, but right now he found himself cursing your keen eye.
"Yeah, sorry." Was what he ended up saying.
You frowned. "You okay?"
He hesitated, then exhaled.
"Yeah I think just seeing everyone and you like this kind of threw me off."
You stilled, just slightly.
"Like what?"
"Like..." He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Like not in clinical grade hospital lighting."
That earned a quiet laugh from you.
He didn't know why he opened his mouth again. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Santos' words from earlier, maybe it was the way you'd ignored every single man in here tonight who had tried to hit on you and only seemed to want to talk to him, and he couldn’t help but hold onto the smallest spark of hope that it meant something.
"You um-" He gestured vaguely to your figure, immediately regretting it. "You just look... different."
He winced as the awkward words rolled off his tongue.
But instead of the teasing look he'd expected, your expression shifted into something gentler.
"Different....good?"
He huffed a small laugh, looking down at his drink for a second before gathering himself.
"Yeah." He looked up at you, his voice quieter. "Different good."
Your smile widened.
The familiar bass of Maneater started thumping through the bar speakers.
The sound of your name being called made the two of you break eye contact.
A slightly dishevelled Javadi, apparently having been summoned from the bathroom by Nelly Furtado, was grinning at you.
“This is our song!”
You and Dennis laughed as she pointed at you, demanding your presence on the dance floor immediately.
“Sorry, duty calls.”
Dennis pressed his two fingers to his head in mock salute. “Good luck soldier.”
You grinned, giving him a salute back before going to join the small dance circle that had started to form.
Dennis’ eyes followed you all the way there.
-
As the night wore on, the herd thinned.
Santos and Garcia had conveniently left at the same time. Abbott had muttered something about sunrise yoga before vanishing. Princess and Perlah were slow dancing in the corner.
It seemed you were next in line for departure. Dennis watched from his chair as you started doing your rounds, handing out obligatory goodbyes.
Dennis turned as Robby cleared his throat this throat beside him.
“You know, she told me she walked here.”
Dennis followed Robby’s gaze, leading directly back to you.
“Lives just a couple of blocks away.”
“Uh… ok.”
“So… she’ll probably walk home.” He spoke slowly, like he was describing some incredibly complex medical term to one of his patients.
“And she’d probably appreciate it if someone were to.. oh I don’t know…” His lips quirked ever so slightly, “… offer to walk her home?”
“Oh.” Dennis balked, jerking his head over to look at you as realisation hit him. “Right yeah- that’s a great idea.” He shot up of his seat so quickly that the table shuddered, half drunk, forgotten drinks sloshed in their glasses.
“Thanks Robby.”
Robby's eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched Dennis hastily make his way towards you.
“Kids.” He muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.
You were rifling through your purse, making sure you had everything as Dennis approached you.
“Hey.” He jerked a thumb towards the door. “You heading home?”
“Yeah.” You sighed. “Figured I should try and get at least four hours sleep before my shift, I don’t think it would be ethical otherwise.”
Dennis chuckled. “Yeah I feel that.”
There was a slight pause before.
“So, how are you getting home?”
“Oh I was just going to walk. I only live a couple blocks that way.” You gestured vaguely behind you.
“Right.” Dennis nodded. A heartbeat passed.
“Would you um- would you like me to walk you home? You can totally say no.”
You smiled softly. “Yeah I’d love that, thanks.”
He shot you a tight lipped smile back as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Great ok, well we can head off whenever you’re ready.”
You glanced over Dennis’ shoulder to see Robby watching the two of you.
“See you tomorrow Robby!”
Robby raised a hand in passive acknowledgment. “Later kiddo.”
The Pittsburgh weather had decided to be kind to the both of you as you spilled out onto the lamplit street. A warm, gentle breeze lapped at the two of you as you began the short walk to your apartment.
You made small talk, mostly about work, giggling about the crazy patients you'd both had recently, until you came to a reluctant stop at your doorstep.
Things felt calmer out here, away from the loud music and the preying eyes of co-workers.
“This is me.” You gestured to your building.
Dennis felt his heart sink. He thought he would have more time. More time to build up the courage to finally say something.
How was it that he could intubate a critical patient without breaking a sweat, but the thought of saying anything remotely risky to you was enough to turn him into a quivering, spiralling mess.
You peered up at him. “Thanks for walking me home.”
“Happy to.”
You observed him for a few moments.
Dennis wondered if you could tell exactly what he was thinking. Wondered if you knew the effect that you had on him. If you could tell that he was frantically flicking through a list of things to say that could stop this moment from ever ending.
“You’re giving me that look again.”
“What look?”
Your smile curved. “Like you’re still trying to get used to seeing me not under clinical grade hospital lighting.”
Dennis chuckled weakly. “Sorry for being weird tonight I…” He sighed as he looked at you.
As the soft light of the street lamp hit you, Dennis felt something unfurl beneath his ribs.
You were so beautiful, both in your scrubs and out of them. Neither one was better than the other. One would not exist without the other. Both sides made you whole, culminating in one perfect, sweet, smart person.
And now he had seen both sides, he didn't think that he could ever live without either of them again.
That feeling swelled in him, creating a tidal wave finally ready to knock down those barricades he'd held so stubbornly in place for so long.
He met your eyes then, properly, and whatever nerves he had seemed to settle into something steadier, the realisation grounding him.
"I've spent a long time trying to pretend that you don't exist outside of work." He finally said.
"Why's that?"
There was something so open about your face that made his remaining walls crumble, made him desperately want to spill all of his thoughts at your altar.
"Because... because I knew that you were someone I really, really wanted to know outside of work." He confessed.
"And uh-" He gestured to you. "I don't think I can keep pretending anymore. Actually, I think it might make me go insane if I keep trying."
You smiled softly.
"You know how you asked me earlier whether I thought you were a scrubs or no scrubs type?"
Dennis nodded, thrown off by the sudden change in conversation.
"Well, I've been waiting all night for you to ask me again. I uh- I had this whole thing planned out, I was going to say something lame like, 'I don't know, I think I'd need to see you a few more times not in your scrubs to make an assessment.'"
"Holy shit." Dennis blinked. "You were flirting with me."
That made you burst out into a fit of giggles, relieving some of the tense energy crackling between the two of you.
"Yeah no kidding. Trin said I was going to have to lay it on pretty thick for you to get it, but I didn't realise how thick she meant."
"Wait-" He stared down at you, eyes wide. "Santos knew about this?"
You nodded.
"I'm going to kill her."
"Wait no, don't be mad at her - I swore her to secrecy." You said hastily. "I only asked her for advice after none of my more subtle attempts worked. I figured since you literally live with her, she'd know you pretty well."
Dennis thought his brain was about to implode.
"What... what other subtle attempts?"
For the first time tonight, Dennis finally caught a hint of colour in your cheeks.
You chuckled sheepishly. "I don't know... I always made an excuse to consult with you, or to take a break at the same time. And didn't you think it was weird that I started bringing in your favourite snacks every time you mentioned what you liked?"
"Wait - you don't like Doritos? I thought you said you loved them."
You shrugged. "More of a Fritos girl."
Anyone who walked past them must have thought that Dennis resembled a stunned mullet.
"I'm an idiot." He stated matter-of-factly.
"You're not an idiot." You reassured him. "You're just-"
"Blind? Stupid? A combination of both?" He let out a dramatic groan, burying his face into his hands.
"I'm so sorry I- I was so focused on keeping you off my mind and convincing myself that I didn't like you that I had total tunnel vision at work."
"It's ok, really." You insisted. "I can get so emotional at work." You huffed. "But you...you're always so composed and clinical and precise." You cut yourself off before you started rambling.
Dennis' heart hammered in his chest.
"Really?"
"Really. I wish I was more like you at work."
Dennis' brow furrowed. How could you not see that you were perfect?
"What do you mean? You're a literal ball of sunshine at work. Everyone loves you, you manage to make the grumpiest of patients smile. Jesus Christ I'm pretty sure I even saw Park the Shark crack a smile once-"
"-I think he was just trying not to sneeze."
He glared at you playfully. "It was a smile...by Park's standards anyway." He insisted. "You light up every room you're in. And you just get patients. If anything, I wish I was more like you."
This time, a fully fledged blush flushed your cheeks.
"Well then…I guess we balance each other out."
Dennis smiled, "I guess we do."
"And for the record." Dennis continued, "That's one of the many reasons why I.. you know..." He bit his lip as he glanced down at his feet. "...like you."
He looked up at you shyly, his nerves making his stomach churn. There was a pause. Then you whispered your next words so quietly that Dennis almost missed it.
"I like you too, Whitaker."
You eyed each other for a few moments, like you were both trying to figure out the new energy that swirled between the two of you.
It was uncharted territory, but it was something new and exciting, something that you both wanted to explore.
You only broke your eye contact to glance down at your phone, wincing at the time.
"I really should get to bed." You eventually said reluctantly.
"Yeah, me to." Dennis studied you for a moment. "I guess I'll see you today?"
You chuckled. "I guess you will."
A small silence settled between you.
Not awkward.
Just...comfortable, full.
"Good night Whitaker." You finally said, your eyes bright despite your sleep deprivation.
"Good night." He replied softly.
Dennis waited until you were up the stairs, behind the safety of a locked door and out of sight before he started his walk home.
You didn't need to know that his apartment was in the complete opposite direction of yours, meaning he had to double back past the very bar you had just been in.
As he approached the bar, he noticed a familiar figure standing by the curb.
Robby looked up from his phone as Whitaker approached. He peered over his glasses, observing the biggest grin he had ever seen on Whitaker plastered across his face.
"You get our bundle of sunshine home safely?"
"Delivered without a scratch."
"Alright, well I'll see you bright and early."
Whittaker's grin somehow widened as he patted Robby on the shoulder as he walked past.
"Thanks Robby."
This time, Robby couldn't fight the smile that appeared on his features.
"Anytime kiddo."
-
Five hours later, you shuffled through the ED doors, clinging to a double strength red bull like it was your life blood.
Shen rounded the corner, his eyes lighting up when he spotted you.
"Well well well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
You shot him a weak smile, pressing the can to your lips.
"What? No witty reply?"
"I don't have the brain capacity."
Shen chuckled, twisting around to grab something off one of the nurses desks.
“Here. This might help.”
He watched as your eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning at the sight of an extra large Dunkin iced coffee.
You immediately threw your measly substitute in the bin beside you.
“You are a lifesaver.”
“Actually it’s pronounced doctor.”
You let that joke slide as you eagerly took a sip, resisting the urge to let out a moan. If you could, you would have this stuff injected straight into your veins.
“Thank you. Seriously.”
“Anytime. Oh and good luck today, it’s a shit show.” He called out after you.
“As opposed to what?” You called back, giving him one final wave before making your way to your locker.
You went to keypad in your code, only to realise the door was slightly ajar. You were the worst offender when it came to leaving your locker unlocked, much to Dana's despair.
You froze when you yanked open the door.
Placed unassumingly on top of your things, was a packet of Fritos.
Upon closer inspection, you realised there was a small note attached to it, fastened with what appeared to be surgical floss contorted into a delicate looking bow.
You glanced around to make sure no one was in sight before leaning forward and carefully unfolding the note, revealing scrawling handwriting.
Figured you would need some sustenance to get you through this shift.
P.S I've completed my initial assessment. My findings are that you scrub up just as well as you scrub off.
P.P.S To really make sure, I think I need to run some further observations. Dinner this Saturday?
You bit your lip, unable to contain the wide grin that spread across your face.
Unbeknownst to you, Dennis was peaking through the glass, scrutinising every micro expression that appeared on your features.
A smile just as wide as yours spread across his face as he watched you fold the note back up neatly and tuck it into the front pocket of your scrubs.
Dennis subconsciously filed you under a different tab.
Except this time, it was labelled something far more dangerous.
High risk, once in a lifetime opportunity - proceed anyway.
He allowed himself to stare at you for moment before making his way towards the centre of the pitt for the day shift handover.
"Whitaker!"
He turned around, his heart rate increasing at the sight of you making your way towards him.
"Morning."
"Good morning."
The two of you naturally fell into step with one another.
"Ready for another day in paradise?"
He glanced over at you to see you peering up at him.
"With you? Always."
Both your smiles widened.
Then, very deliberately, he turned off the switch.
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something something soft dom dennis forcing you to look into his eyes when he’s fucking you or else he stops perhaps grabbing your face
hmm well something something him slipping his thumb into your mouth while he holds your gaze on his. when your eyes glaze over n you start looking dazed he presses down on your tongue, the blunt of his nail digging into the sensitive flesh. making your focus come back to him.
“look at me..?”
it’s phrased like it is, but it’s not a question. “stay with me sweetness, m’right here. you and me.” he presses harder, slipping his thumb back farther causing a soft gag to constrict your throat. his four fingers resting gently under your chin. he himself not paying mind to the steady stream of drool leaking over your lips n onto him.
instead he moves his hand up and down, forcing your head to nod. dennis mirrors your—his actions technically almost condescendingly.
“there we go..someone’s feeling good hm? keep your eyes on me, can you do that?”
another tug to make you nod. he’s essentially having a conversation with himself. using you as a human marionette.
summary: your relationship with jack has always been 50/50: he buys you everything, and you let him. this arrangement, as he calls it, works perfectly - until you start to worry that you may not be the only one who's doing it with. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, mentor!michael robinavitch, baran al-hashimi, samira mohan
contents: friends with benefits, sugar daddy!jack, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort, so much sexual tension cw for mentions of injuries, medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, heavy mentions of smut 18+ (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Jack Abbot rushes into the ER with a high-velocity GSW, a close call of his own, and a terribly smart mouth.
Splotches of dark crimson stain the camo of heavy-duty tactical gear as he bursts through the double doors of the ambulance bay, squeezing rhythmically at the intubation bag he holds in a bloodied hand. You rush instantly from the work station to meet him halfway without a second thought.
“I thought you were off today,” you tell him, in lieu of a greeting, as you escort him to the nearest open trauma room from the opposite side of the gurney.
“Well, my therapist said I needed a hobby, so…” he quips, with sweat dripping from his greying curls. He manages to flash you a playful look in the midst of all the chaos as you situate the unconscious policeman in the center of the room. “What about you, huh? You’re supposed to be off, too— What’s your excuse?”
“Well, I had a strange feeling that I might see a pretty man in uniform today,” you shrug, slipping on a pair of gloves. “So I decided to work a double— See if my wish would come true.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts into a crooked, tight-lipped smile. “Well, if you like this, you should see me as a flight attendant—”
Robby rushes in with Dr. Al-Hashimi just behind him a second later, shattering the playful tension between the two of you with a thousand different questions. You’re left as the only resident in a sea of attendings and nurses; Dr. Al passes you the reins accordingly. “This is a learning hospital, right? Time for you to learn how to be the boss, R4.”
“Hear that, Abbot?” you joke as the older man migrates inevitably to your side, smelling of blood and sweat and the cologne he always leaves on your pillow. “I’m the boss here.”
“Well, you could try to be a little more humble about it, sweetheart,” he squints and tugs on a disposable PPE gown, which Perlah helps him tie in the back. “Let’s do some skin hooks— 4 Shiley. Sound good?”
You hiss through your teeth and drag the clear blue sleeves of your own gown over your shoulders, while Robby stands behind you to knot the garment in place. “I don’t really like the curve of a Shiley… Especially not if we’re about to rush him up to the O.R.”
“I didn’t know you were so picky.”
“Well, you should know better than anyone, Dr. Abbot,” you grin. “Cut me an ET tube, will you? 6-0?”
“Yes, ma’am…” the older man nods and holds back his giddy grin until he turns away from you.
Robby grumbles a noise of disgust in the back of his throat in the meanwhile — quickly realizing that the two of you were much easier to stomach when you were working night shifts together, and he only had to see you for half an hour in passing, at most.
“Jesus Christ— Get a room, you two.”
“Well, technically, this is a room,” Jack quips distantly as he returns to your side with the endotracheal tube in tow. You make room for him at the head of the gurney on instinct, and drape a thin blue cloth over the patient’s neck, centering the aperture over the gushing wound.
Robby moves to the opposite side of the bed and pulls the haphazardly placed intubation bag from the man’s mouth with careful hands. “One without me in it, preferably,” he argues.
“Ooh…” you lilt. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dr. Robby.”
“Just focus,” he scolds in a gritty tone of voice.
“You need to find the second and third tracheal rings,” Dr. Al instructs, sliding between the crowd and motioning to his neck with her gloved pinky. “You’ll be able to feel them with your fingers— just make the incision through the cricoid cartilage and be careful to avoid hitting the vocal cords, yeah?”
She flashes you a dark, doe-eyed, and distantly unamused look, seemingly immune to the playful banter surrounding her.
You nod once, scalpel in hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
You make the incision while Jack preps the tube. You work together with deft hands and a relative silence, aside from a few procedural directions. For the most part, the two of you communicate without words — you locate the man’s ruptured trachea in a sea of bright red blood while Jack slides the thin tubing to make an airway.
“I’m in,” he blurts after a few tense minutes. “Balloon up.”
The rapid beeping of his dropping SATs begins to even out almost instantly.
“I’ll sew the tracheal to the skin,” you announce within a sigh of relief. “2-0 silk, please.”
Jack passes you the round of sutures with a proud nod and a quiet smile. “Not too shabby, Doc… We make a pretty good team.”
“Or maybe I’m just really good at telling you what to do, Abbot,” you quip.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “That, too.”
Robby and Dr. Al take their leave when the chaos dissipates, and Garcia comes down from the O.R. for a consultation. They trade the crowded trauma room for an equally crowded emergency department — slowly filling to the brim, like a pot bound to boil over. But, even still, it’s not nearly as tense as whatever you and Abbot have going on.
“Are they always like that?” the woman wonders aloud, nodding her tied-back curls towards the room behind them.
“Yep…” Robby nods with a heavy sigh, rubbing hand sanitizer between his calloused palms. “But they’re not usually dayshift, so… My philosophy is— let the night crew deal with it.”
You and Jack decide to follow Robby’s advice and find a room of your own — on the half-abandoned wing of the eighth floor, where everything smells like dust and time gone by, and the dying overhead lights only work a quarter of the time. It’s a good enough place to be alone with him, though; it gives you ample time to patch up the wound on his shoulder, and saves Jack the trouble of getting caught with the injury and being forced to fill out a mountain of paperwork accordingly.
He sits on the edge of the hospital bed with his shirt off and his broad arms crossed over his chest. The tendons in his freckled back twitch despite himself when you smooth a fresh bandage over his freshly cleaned scrape.
“Does it feel okay?” you ask him.
“Yep…” he nods once, trying and failing to get a peek of the gauze from over his shoulder. “Fine.”
Your concern doesn’t waver. Your brows lower with it, in a palpable look of worry that etches across your face. “You’d tell me if you were, like, in pain, though, right?”
Jack ponders for a moment, lips jutting faintly. “No, probably not,” he answers, too blunt for his own good.
“Well. At least you’re honest…”
You sigh and turn on the heel of your sneaker to chuck the dirtied napkins and crumpled wrappers into the bin across the room. Jack watches you go with something mischievous glimmering in his gaze.
“But I am fine, though— If you’re really all that worried about me,” he assures you with a quiet smile. “I’m a little banged up, but… I’ll survive.”
“So I can still come over tonight?” you wonder, half-shy.
Jack nods slowly and tilts his scruffy chin to keep your gaze when you walk the short distance back over to him. “Yes, sweetheart— I still plan on buying you dinner tonight,” he answers in a dry, sarcastic lilt.
Because that’s usually how it goes nowadays. You keep him company for a night, and he gets you food, pays off your grocery bill, or covers your rent — and then you go to work the next day like none of it ever happened.
It didn’t always used to be that way, though, this quid pro quo thing that the two of you had struck up over time. Jack bought things for you because he cared about you, because he didn’t want you to go hungry or homeless when he knew he had the money to help. It was all a part of his job, he figured, to help his residents out whenever he could. But, somewhere down the line, he became more than just your attending, and a whole lot less than your boyfriend. It was more like a secret, third thing that the two of you never bothered to put a label on.
You frown. “That’s not why I was asking, smartass.”
“Well, that’s the arrangement, though, right?”
“Calling it an arrangement makes it sound like I’m your— mail-order bride or something,” you scoff and cross your arms over his chest, following his form with a squinted gaze as he reaches for his discarded shirt. “You don’t have to make it sound so formal, Jack. I know this is fun for you, too.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t…” he quips with a faint wince as he slides the thin black t-shirt over his head, grimacing at the burn that blooms beneath the bandage as he does so.
“And no pressure or anything, obviously, but, uh…” You trail off and swallow hard, struggling to find the courage to continue as your eyes flit everywhere but at the man before you. “My student loans are about to hit for this month, and I—”
“I know,” Jack interjects with a polite nod. “I already took care of it.”
You lose your breath almost instantly, for a reason you can’t quite name.
“…Seriously?”
He scoffs like it’s obvious and rises from the bed, towering several inches over you. “Well, yeah. I told you, sweetheart— You don’t have to worry about that stuff anymore. As per the arrangement...” he croons lowly, with a playful half-smile, before bending softly at the waist to press a fleeting kiss to your lips.
You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe to respond.
You struggle to finish the rest of your charting through the thoughts of Jack still plaguing your mind. You don’t think you’ve been so taken care of before; so seen, so held. You’re not entirely sure what to do with all of it now — these feelings that you’re harboring for your boss, of which you’re almost certain there is no room for in such an arrangement, as he so lovingly calls it.
Because he doesn’t take care of you because he loves you. He takes care of you so you’ll come over at the end of every night, and remind him what it feels like to be a little less lonely. And even still, you run hopelessly to his side anyway — half-ashamed because you don’t even care that he’s using you; half-ashamed because you like it.
“Have you seen Dr. Abbot?” Samira wonders through panted breaths, disrupting your distracted train of thought. She enters your tunnel vision from the opposite side of the desk, and all of a sudden, you’re back in the E.R. The distant droning of constant noise fills your ears when you’re shoved back to reality again. “I’ve been trying to find him for, like, ten minutes at this point.”
“Uh… No— Not recently, no,” you stammer.
Her chest deflates with an exhaled breath. “Shit…”
Your eyes narrow as they scan over her form, frazzled and sweaty, with dark curls falling out of her claw clip to frame either side of her face. “You okay? What happened?”
She sighs and leans her elbows on the desk in front of her.
“Nothing, I just… I should’ve planned this better,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. She talks with her hands as she rambles, “My patient doesn’t have any insurance. And he’s already in a mountain of medical debt as it is, so I was gonna send him home with some supplies, right? But then I lost him, and I was gonna Uber the stuff to his house, but then Dr. Abbot said he’d pay for it, and… Now I can’t find either of them, so…”
She trails off with a deep huff.
You forget that it’s your turn to respond, too hung up on the fact that Jack had offered to help her pay. It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but it hits you like a punch to the stomach all the same. Because you weren’t special, Jack was just kind; and you’re only realizing now that this arrangement of yours was never exactly exclusive.
“Sorry,” Samira shakes her head. “I know I’m rambling. It’s just… been a long day.”
You blink rapidly, clearing the haze of hurt from your eyes. “No, I— I totally get it. You should check upstairs. He might be with Hiro in the O.R.”
“Thanks,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, that disappears the second she heads back for the elevator across the room.
You return to your charting when she’s gone, but forget to do any of it. You lose yourself in the void of the stark white computer screen, instead, while your hurt and distant jealousy scratches at your chest from the inside out.
Robby watches from afar, giving you a few minutes alone, before dismissing himself from the interns and shattering your cynical stream of consciousness. “How’s the charting coming along?” he asks in lieu of a greeting as he walks to stand at your side.
“Great,” you deadpan, muffled into the hands holding up your heavy head.
He scoffs out a quiet laugh. “Not to say I told you so, but… I did kinda tell you so…”
You turn slowly, peeking at him with one glaring eye as he leans against the desk beside you with his arm crossed over his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you question in a gritty monotone.
“I told you not to get involved with Abbot,” Robby shrugs. “Not until you were done with your residency— ‘cause you already repeated one year, and if you want that neuro fellowship, you can’t have Jack screwing with your head.”
“Oh, yeah?” you squint, feigning interest as you slouch back in your chair. “The same way you screwed with Heather’s? When you got her pregnant when she was your resident?”
You say it to hurt him, and you can tell that it does, though it doesn’t feel as rewarding as you thought it would.
“Yeah, actually…” Robby nods and scratches at the greying patch in his beard. There’s a hurt look swimming in his dark eyes that almost makes you cower when he peers down at you. “Look, kid. I don’t care what you and Abbot get up to in your free time. That’s not what this is. But I’ve known you since you were an MS3— and I know you’re gonna go off to do great things, because I’m the one that taught you, right?”
Your frown deepens.
He smiles wider. “I just don’t want some relationship getting in your head, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s not, so…” you trail off with a less than convincing waver in your voice.
“Really?” he hums, eyes narrowing in a challenging squint. “Have you checked in with that fellowship you wanted?”
You smack your lips against your teeth. “Not yet…”
“And why’s that?”
“When did you become my mom, exactly, Dr. Robby?” you joke and spin in your chair to face him. “‘Cause it feels a little like you’re reprimanding me here—”
“I am reprimanding you,” he tells you, only partially joking, before turning at the distant call of his name. He stands to full height again and flashes you a playfully stern look as he walks away. “Take care of it, alright? Or else I’m grounding you.”
“For how long?” you call after him.
“However long it takes to get your head out of your ass—”
You’re left reeling for the rest of the day, trapped in a merciless cycle of want and unwavering doubt.
Jack is not yet close enough, even when he’s all but smothering you in the center of his bed, pressing you into the mussed sheets below with his broad body propped on top of yours. He smells distinctly of sweat, stale cologne, and the steak dinner he took you to after your shift ended.
You wrap your arms around his freckled shoulders in a feeble attempt to pull him impossibly closer, careful to avoid the bandage still stuck on his left shoulder blade. You bury your nose in his greying curls while he sprinkles warm, wet kisses along the tendons of your neck, relishing in the salty tang of sweat staining your skin.
But even as he slots himself between your spread thighs, even as he marks his territory in the lovebites he litters on your collarbone, you can’t shake the feeling that he’d rather be somewhere else — that there’s someone else he’s thinking of, someone else he’ll call after you’ve left for home, someone else he’ll take care of when you’re gone.
The train of thought leads you inevitably back to the root of your cynicism, which you struggle to shake out of your mind once the visual has entered it.
“Did you ever find Samira?” you hear yourself ask, shattering the honeyed quiet of his lamplit bedroom.
Jack’s head is far too cloudy to hear you properly the first time.
He pulls away from you with a quiet smack and sits back on his haunches. Your hands fall to your stomach, clad only in a thin white tank top, while his rest over your bare thighs, propped on either side of his waist. Your cotton panties are the only thing keeping you hidden from him now, and his form-fitting boxers cradle a hardening length that threatens to make your mouth water.
He wears a swirled look of confusion across his scruffy face, along with his spit on his swollen, kissbitten mouth, as he asks, “Did I ever find what?”
“Samira,” you echo, brows raised to your hairline. “She was looking for you a little bit before we left— Said she needed your help paying for something.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Jack hums, pale shoulders bouncing in a lazy shrug. “Her patient needed some supplies Ubered to his house, so… I took care of it. No big deal.”
He bends down to kiss you again, but freezes with his nose pressed against the bridge of yours when he feels you tense below him. His heavy sigh fans warm across your jaw before he sits back again, features screwed in a faint grimace.
“And I’m realizing now that that’s probably not the best phrase to use, but… I was just helping out a friend— a patient, actually,” he rambles. “That’s it.”
Your eyes narrow in a playful squint.
“That’s it?” you echo.
“Trust me, sweetheart,” Jack scoffs and shifts between your thighs, lifting your hips with his wide hands cradling your ass and bending at the waist to press his mouth over the bow in the center of your underwear. “The only girl getting her student loans paid off by me, is you.”
He leaves another chaste kiss on the cotton of your panties, right over the place where you throb like a heartbeat for him. Your stomach blooms with warmth.
“Because I’m special or because you don’t have the money to afford anyone else?” you ask.
Jack squints, light eyes glimmering with mischief in the low light. “Because you’re special and because I don’t have the money to afford anyone else. How about that?”
You roll your eyes despite the soft smile hinting at the corners of your mouth. “Just get to work, Dr. Abbot,” you scold in a distant monotone.
“With pleasure,” he mumbles, right before sliding his fingers through the hem of your underwear, pulling them to the side, and kissing your glittering pussy the way he would your mouth.
The lamplit bedroom swells with panted breaths and the heavy scent of sex.
Jack slouches against the headboard, heavy-eyed and wearing a mixture of your cum and spit down to his scruffy chin. His toned chest is coated in a thin layer of hair and glittering sweat. You watch a rogue bead trail down his sternum from where you’re perched on top of him — with the sheets bunched around your hips, and your thighs straddling his waist. Your pussy still clenches with the aftershocks of your orgasm while his spent cock softens slowly inside of you.
His calloused hands trail slowly up and down the length of your torso — from your shoulder blades, down to your ribs, over the bend of your waist, and up again. His touch is softer than summer rain, warmer than the cum leaking slowly out of you now.
“Do you think you could write me a letter of recommendation?” you ask, tracing the freckles on his chest with your pointer finger. “You know, for the neuro fellowship we talked about?”
“Wow…” Jack croons drily, brows raised to his hairline. His words slur slightly together as he comes down from the remnants of his high. “No aftercare, huh? Not even a little pillow talk? Just… straight to the point?”
You flash him a playfully stern look from beneath your lashes, lips quirking in a shy smile. “‘M just asking a question…”
“Yeah, while I’m still inside you,” he scoffs a tired laugh. “You know you don’t have to sex with me to get what you want—”
You frown. “That’s not what I was—”
“—You can just ask.”
“I’m having sex with you because I like it, Jack,” you blurt, very foreignly stern with him, as your eyes harden in a glare. “And I’m asking you for a letter of rec because I respect your opinion—”
“And because you don’t trust Robby to give you a good one, I’m assuming?” he quips with an arched brow.
“Exactly,” you nod.
Jack laughs. You can feel it rumbling in his chest beneath your palms. “I’ll e-mail it to you later. How about that?”
“There’s no rush,” you assure him. “Seriously. I haven’t even applied for it yet—”
“Don’t worry about it. I already wrote it.”
He steals the breath from your lungs for the second, third, or hundredth time that day.
“You already wrote it?” you echo, brows furrowed. “When?”
“When you told me about it the first time,” he confesses, bouncing a bare shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I knew you’d need a letter of rec eventually, so... I wrote while I had some free time and just… waited for you to ask, I guess.”
Your face screws with skepticism. It burns somewhere in your chest, too.
Even with him softening inside of you, leaking out of you, you can’t help but feel slightly suspicious of his sincerity. You still can’t quite believe that he cares about you this much.
“…Really?”
“Yeah,” he laughs and squeezes gently at your sides. “Why do you look so shocked? I do care about you outside of… all this. You know that, right?”
“I didn’t…” you confess, painfully shy, and lacking the courage to meet his gaze for several long moments. You focus instead on your hands, and the shapes you trace along his chest. “Not until now…”
“Well, what do I gotta do to prove it to you, huh?” Jack asks within a huff as he rises from his slouched position against the headboard.
The mattress creaks softly as his weight shifts. His warm chest presses firmly to yours, smothering your breasts against his heartbeat, as he cradles you to his chest. His glittering eyes dart back and forth between the two of yours as he says, “I’ve already given you everything, sweetheart…”
“I don’t want everything,” you murmur with a shake of your head, unable to tear your gaze from his attentive one. “I just want you.”
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