secret gardens in my mind

25 / autistic / she/her always looking for new friends !! @cowboylikeme! on ao3

[gigglewater-art]

Scott cuts Stiles' hair...

[melioristicbeast]

Neckz 'n Throats Friday, anyone?

Concept: Stiles models for the magazine but will only let Derek mark him up > Derek in turn marks him up even more bc he's a possessive little shit > Stiles' pictures get even more popular > Derek marks him up more > etc etc

Apparently I am not done recalling 2014 sterek trends to get my grubby little hands on - the vision could also be stiles snapping derek his handiwork to get him to come home early from work 💭💭

Sketched directly over this post @myrrhhymns put on my dash; thought stiles would look cute in the pose and outfit, even though I almost completely changed the colors anyway lol. I liked the contrast of the reds of the bruises against the soft white of the linen and clothes 🫶

Closeup:

[utterlyvanya]

Heart of a teenage girl

Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader

Wc: 4.8k

Description: Recently broken up, you end up drunkenly crying from watching teenage girls doing karaoke to sad Olivia Rodrigo songs. Cue your hot attending comforting you, who only hates two things: 1. Incompetence 2. His favorite nurse looking sad

Tags/warnings: idk why i included santos, drinking, r is drunk, age gap (r is in 20’s, abbot is 50), very much flirting, tons of teasing, jack refers to himself as daddy at one point (non sexual context), this man is a sweetie pie, and also as protective as a guard dog, slightly suggestive themes, many OR references, no allusions to r’s gender, petnames: sweetheart

Note: Not my best, but it’s pretty cute. Like you all. My cuties fr.

“I wish I was 13 again,” Santos murmurs, wistfully eyeing the pack of teenage girls who are currently moving in flashes of glitter, dancing uncoordinated steps on the karaoke floor.

You lean back in your seat, watching your friend with curiosity. “Really? Thought you had a dark past,” you playfully whisper the last part, so as to not accidentally trigger a serious conversation. That is not the mood you are in. You are in a floaty wonderland: surrounding loud, chirpy, noises kept at bay — thanks to the long island iced tea you're sipping on. 

Trinity finally tears her gaze away, though it's impossible to ignore the delighted, uninhibited singing coming from the other side.

GUESS YOU DIDN'T MEAN WHAT YOU WROTE IN THAT SONG ABOUT MEEEEE….

Before she can expertly dodge your question, everyone — Shen, Walsh, and Mateo — come back with their drinks. You slowly rise to your feet and take a sidestep, so Mateo and Walsh can slip into the booth. Having already been squished enough, you're willing to take only the corner this time.

You settle in again, next to Walsh, the leather under you creaking with every drag of your thighs.

“Are you both always so fun at parties?” Emery sips through a straw, eyes darting between you and Santos.

“This one —” Shen points a thumb at you “— is already uptight as it is. And Santos is just a poor influence. Don't think I've ever seen her smile, actually.”

“Yeah, she only smiles on her day shift when huckle– Dennis gets pissed on. Or, something of the same sorts,” you join in, ignoring the dig at you.

However, everyone's attention is quickly stolen away by the lives of the party again.

‘CAUSE I STILL FUCKING LOVE YOU, BABE OOoooOohhhOOO

You cannot stifle your laughter anymore when Mateo cheers them on, hooting with his palms cupped around his mouth. The best part is that he looks genuine and sincere, rooting for them no hint of mockingness.

Yeah, you wish you could be 13 again.

It's your turn to miserably and longingly watch the teenager birthday party taking its full swing, completely drowning out the overlapping conversations — and petty arguing — of your colleagues.

You smile at one of the young girls on stage, giving her a lazy wave. Suddenly, she's flushing and whispering in her friend's ear, presumably about a “cool adult” that interacted with her. You wish you could tell her that even though you might look the part — the sitcom adult who sits in a booth with a friend group and drinks — your life couldn't be less boring.

You work at the PTMC, go home, watch TV, fall asleep in front of the said TV, and daydream of a certain honey-eyed doctor. Maybe he's your rebound crush after your recent breakup. Not to mention, a deeply inappropriate one, both work and age wise.

Speak of the devil.

Your face snaps up when you hear your name in that low, raspy, voice. You register his face, tired under the dim lights, and his perfect salt & pepper curls frazzled from the ride over. He's in a white t-shirt stretched taut across his pecs, and a simple pair of black jeans. Though, nothing about how he looks is ‘simple.’

“Doctor…” you speak slowly, narrowing your eyes, and making a show of thinking very, very deeply. You snap your fingers in front of your chin, Before pointing your index at him, “aha! Doctor Abbot, attending of the nightcrawlers. What will you drink?”

The corner of his lips quirk up, amused by your liquor-induced playfulness. “Two of whatever you're having,” he replies, smoothly stealing the glass right out of your hands, holding it in front of his eyes to examine the brown liquid.

“Long island?” 

“Yep. L-I-I-T, it's pretty L-I-T. Lit. It means cool.”

“I know what lit means.” He takes in your sluggish blinks, the drop in your usually tight shoulders, and the almost giddy smile on your lips. “How many have you had?”

You hold up one digit, wiggling it back and forth for emphasis. 

Jack tuts, “L-I-G-H-T-W-E-I-G-H-T”

“F-U-K-C-Y-O-U,” you proudly smile at your mature retort, mind completely unbothered that your mouth just sweared at your boss. 

He shakes his head, contemplating if he should tell you that you spelled your insult wrong.

“Jesus…” he watches you carefully for a second, before handing your cocktail back to you. His thick fingers brush against yours, sending a jolt up your arm.

“Jack! Man, we thought you abandoned your children,” Shen exclaims, realising along with everyone the presence of the new arrival, and bringing you out of your head.

“Well, Shen, daddy's gotta come home.” 

Daddy. 

Well, technically, he is the attending, so he is the daddy. Daddy of the department, daddy of the floor, daddy of your–

Getting a little off-track there.

You clear your throat, trying to push the sinful thoughts away, putting them back in the compartment that only opens itself in sleepless, late, horny, nights.

“Do you wanna sit orrrr…?” Trinity trails off, jutting her chin towards the karaoke stage.

You bring your glass to your lips again, savouring the citrusy taste on your tongue. You expect to hear the scrape of a chair's legs dragged along the floor — Jack, as always, hauling an extra seat to sit at the head of the table. You always thought it was a way to maintain boundaries even outside the workplace, to make sure there's a tangible difference to avoid misuse of power dynamics. Your attending was quite easygoing, as far as bosses went, but that never deterred his ability to be responsible. 

Instead, “Yeah, there's some space here.”

You don't realise you're being spoken to, until you look and everyone is staring expectantly at you. “Wha– oh.”

You try to visibly measure the space next to you, barely larger than your hand. You look back up at the towering man, raising his grey brows in impatience. 

You move your ass.

As soon as he's shifting next to you, your senses are overwhelmed by his dominating presence. Your entire side is pressed against his. And he must've showered before coming here, because you can smell the soap he must use — cedarwood. You're thankful for the alcohol in your system, calming your nerves enough to not send a body-wide emergency signal.

“So…” you begin, taking in his face, which is so, so close to you. The disco lights of the place dance on his features, and you try not to chase the shine with your fingers. 

“Sorry for crashing. Must be a bummer to have your boss here,” he speaks louder than usual, voice trying to carry over the singing, though his attention is on waving over a server.

You wait until Jack orders a whiskey for himself, continuing after the waiter leaves, “oh, you're not a regular boss. You're a cool boss.”

“Yeah? Is it because I yell a lot less than Robby?”

“That and more.”

“Care to explain, nurse?”

Biceps. Charming. Funny. Biceps. Competent. Sexy. Hardworking. Generous. Biceps.

“No.” You lean forward to catch the view of the little pop-stars again. It seems they've moved on from Olivia Rodrigo to…more Olivia Rodrigo. It's a song you've only recently heard — something about higher standards and expectations.

THEY SEEM SO DESPERATE FOR LOVIN’, BUT BABY, I'M NOT…

The loud singing must have called for his attention too, because now he’s focusing intently on the concert since the first time he came here. 

NOW I TAKE CAREFUL CONSIDERATIONS

I'M NOT KISSING ANY BOY THAT IS PASSIVE…

His eyebrows draw together in concern, and almost to himself, he murmurs, “they shouldn't be kissing any boys right now.”

“They're 13, grandpa,” your voice snaps his gaze to you again, “kissing at that age is normal.”

“I'm 50. Anyone under 25 is a kid to me. They—” he gestures to the pack, “—are practically toddlers to me.”

“To remind you, you also have staff in their 20’s working for you. We, very much, aren't kids.”

That makes him pause. If you would've blinked, you would've failed to notice how his gaze dropped to your lips for just a second, before flicking up.

The server brings his order, and Jack is quick to take a swig. “That's what I try to remind myself, too.”

“Do you think Stacy would mind if I join them?” you whisper in Jack's ear with the eager expression of a dog waiting for its owner. You're practically vibrating in your seat, knee bouncing from the third drink you definitely should've refused. 

But it's not like you're the only one stupidly drunk. Santos and Mateo are at the pool table, losing to strangers. Shen is in a corner on a facetime with his wife — like, just go back home — and Walsh is nowhere to be seen. So, it’s a thing to wonder why you and your senior are still sitting glued together. You are drunk. What reason does the most rational man you know have?

“Who is Stacy?” He shifts, trying to maintain some semblance of a physical distance between you both, but you just end up closing the space again.

“The birthday girl, Dr. Abbot!”

“The 13 year-old on the karaoke with her friends?”

“Yes!”

Jack sighs, “you don't have to exclaim everything, you know.”

“YES, I DO!”

He physically recoils at your sudden raise in pitch. He takes in your erratic energy: the restless leg, the speedy talking, eyes blown wide. His palm slowly reaches out, firmly cupping your knee, bringing the bouncing to a halt. “Okay, exclaim away. But–”

“But?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking the deep breath of a man who wasn't expecting to babysit his drunk colleague today. 

“Okay, this time, we let me finish talking. Yeah?” You immediately nod your head. In reality, you have no idea what he just said. You only heard the “yeah?” in his authoritative voice, and agreed.

“I'm very concerned you know her name.”

“Who? Stacy's?”

“Exactly. You're referring to a random teenage girl as if she's a close, personal, friend,” he explains carefully, like he's talking to a child.

“Nooo! She's not a friend, doc.”

“Of course, that would be creep–”

“But I want to be her friend sooo bad,” you whine, staring adoringly at Stacy and friends like they hung the moon. “Just look at them! They did Olivia, moved to Glee's soundtrack, and are now doing Olivia again. They're sooo cool.”

Jack shoots them a quick look and lets out a small huff of laughter when he sees the deep longing in your eyes, a pure look of awe. 

He says your name, and your gaze darts straight from the stage, and into his eyes again. It always steals your breath when he calls you by your first name, anchoring you completely to him with just one word. One person should never have so much power.

“I'm cutting you off.”

“What?” Your mouth hangs open, words blurting out from shock, “like, from your life?”

“What? No–” he uses his free hand to pry the drink out of your hand. He lifts the glass, swinging it in front of your eyes, before setting it far on the table. Out of your reach. “From drinking. No more alcohol for you.”

A huge sigh of relief leaves you, and you dramatically clutch your palm to your chest. “That's nice. It would've been hard to work together with beef between us.”

“It's already hard to work with you, sweetheart,” he says under his breath, scanning your face for any signs of distress.

Your brows draw tight in confusion. Huh, what does that mean?

OH BECAUSE MY HEAD IS FULL OF POISON 

AND MY HEART IS FULL OF DOUBTS…

The sound of collective cries panics you before you realise sad girl hours have started. You look from Stacy to her other two friends, fortunately not knowing their names. They're clutching the mics tightly enough that you're sure one of them ought to break the device. The singing is a little uneasy on the ears, but you find yourself softly smiling. 

Then frowning.

And next you know, your eyes are welling up with tears when the song comes to an end.

IT'LL NEVER BE THE CURE

IT'LL NEVER BE…

Poor girls. They're crying thinking about their eighth grade crush, but they have no idea what's coming for them. One day, they'll be in their 20's and a stupid man with a stupid name will tell them he loves them, and they will believe him, even though he does nothing to prove it. Poor, poor, girls.

You're not sure if it's them you're upset about, since you feel like the only poor, poor person in this entire room.

“Are they okay?” Jack has forgotten his drink, attention fixated on the young girls. His hand unknowingly slides off your knee, hovering near the edge of the table, as if he's about to get up any second. “Why is the girl in the green dress crying? She can't possibly relate to this. Where are their parents?”

“I'm gonna go make sure–” He turns to look at you for assurance, but he sees a fat tear rolling down your flushed cheek. Suddenly, the concern in his eyes is replaced by panic. “Woah, hey, what's wrong? Do you feel dizzy? Overstimulated?”

His head tips down to map your face. You were fine just a few minutes ago. Now, you're tearing up, and your breath is hitching, and his hands are hovering unsurely near your face.

“It's just,” you sniffle, “it's just so…”

“Sad…?” He prompts.

“Yes!” Your eyes flash like he just invented a new word. “Exactly! See, you have the heart of a teenage girl.”

He shakes his head, “I'm 50, but thank you.”

“Why do you tell me you're 50, like 50 times a day? We get it, grandpa.” You sniffle again, trying to look at the stage. But Jack effectively blocks your view with his sturdy frame, instead offering you his handkerchief like some sort of a gentleman from a 60's rom-com.

You wipe your nose in what you hope is in a dignified fashion, barely hiccuping a thank-you to him. “Is it that you forget it too? And you have to keep reminding me so you don't forget it yourself?”

He sighs, finally swiping his thumb under your eye to brush the wetness away. 

“Believe me, I try to forget it.”

As if catching up to what he just did, his hands rush towards the safe territory of your upper arms.

You nod thoughtfully, “that makes sense.”

“Yeah?” You watch as hope flickers in his eyes. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, as if contemplating if he should say something. “You understand why?”

“Mhm,” you nod again. “If I was 50, I'd be trying to forget my age too,” you say completely sincerely, eyes swimming with sympathy. 

His head falls forward, and his shoulders shake. For a second, your drunk mind makes you believe you made him cry. But when he looks up at you again, he's flashing an amused grin, shaking his head at you.

“Real funny.”

“I wasn't trying to be funny.”

WENT TO THE DOCTOR AND SHE SAID I WAS FINE

BUT EVERY MOVIE THAT I SEE MAKES ME CRYYYyyYY…

Oh, no. When did they start singing this one? It's that song. The one you've had on replay since your breakup, the one you've been singing in showers, in cars, and in the kitchen.

You feel a fresh wave of tears clawing their way up again. Your lower lip juts out in a pout, and you flush in embarrassment when Jack's laugh dies. “I'm fine.” 

He gently squeezes your arm, “up.”

Before you have any mind to be confused, your world tilts when you're suddenly hauled off your seat. You sway on your feet for a moment, before Jack steadies you, firmly planting his hands on your elbows.

“Are we finally going to join Stacy?”

“No. Not while you're doing your best impression of a kicked puppy.”

I CAN'T SLEEEEEP

I CAN'T EAAAATTTT

I THINK YOU'RE WHAT'S WRONG WITH MEEEE…

A soft sob escapes your throat. What is wrong with you? 

“Nothing. Three-drink-you is just not as fun as two-drink-you,” Jack assures you, his fingers twitching at your elbows without his permission, stuck between staying noble and wiping away the hot tears that are rushing from your ducts again.

Oh. You hadn't realised you'd said that out loud. You can't believe you're breaking down in front of your attending. Because of a breakup song. Because you're drunk. That's, like, top 3 tell-tale signs you need some help. Or, another drink. But you're quite sure that four-drink-you is a horny you, so, maybe not.

The surrounding noises get muffled when Jack spins you around, and starts walking you towards a hushed corner. He swiftly steers you away from any table, chair, or a group of people that comes in your way, before you even register it.

You're disappointed when his hands drop to his own sides, when you're both tucked away in a corner. You look around, and the lights are even dimmer in here, painting everything a dull shade of yellow. There's a door behind you, presumably leading to a bathroom, because you can see the universal signage for a male. Before you can ask Jack to move from here, you notice a lock on the door.

“No one's gonna come here. Talk.”

You clear your throat, managing to speak through your watery throat, “It was just really–”

“Sad? Yes, we covered that,” he catches the sharp edge in his tone, and quickly smoothes it over, gentling himself for you, “but as sensitive as you are, I know that you're not really sobbing because some little girls are crying along to a sad Taylor Swift song.”

“It's Olivia, not Taylor.”

“They're all the same.”

You immediately gasp, narrowing your eyes at his disgusting comment, “I take my words back. You have the heart of a cold, unfeeling, man.”

Jack bites the inside of his cheek to not burst out laughing. “I'm sorry. Will you please tell me why you're worrying yourself over an Olive song?”

“OLIVIA!”

He raises his palms in surrender, but instead of giving up like you'd expect anyone to, he apologises again. Now he's looking at you expectantly, as patient as a saint, and you feel your sob story tumbling out of your mouth.

“I had a break-up recently. And it's,” you click your tongue in frustration, “I don't even miss him. He was a mistake. A big one. But…”

“But?”

You sigh, “I don't know. It's humiliating. Can we go back?”

“What's humiliating?”

You scramble for words but all that comes out is, “this! You! Here!” 

“I'm humiliating?”

“Gosh, no. You're– you're not. You're anything but. You're sweet and patient and kind–” you immediately lock your lips when you realise you're verbally fawning over the man in front of you. “That's not what I mean.”

“So, I'm not sweet and patient and kind?” His eyes are crinkling with amusement, and you would want to wipe that smile from his face if it wasn't so goddamn beautiful. 

You take a deep breath, “what I am trying to say is, It's humiliating because we work together. You're my senior. Like, super, super senior.”

“And that makes me unempathetic towards one of my staff having a meltdown in a public place?”

“Okay, I think we're throwing the word ‘meltdown’ a little too easy here.”

Jack pretends to ponder for a moment, observant brown eyes scanning your face slow enough to make you squirm. “I think not. Look at yourself.”

You immediately straighten up. “Huh, do I look like a mess?” Your hands rush to your face, trying to harshly rub the messy tears away.

His eyes immediately soften. “No, hey, that's not…You just look so upset is all. Otherwise, you look fine. Good. As always.” He says it like it's obvious, like it's a rule he learned in medical school.

Almost hesitantly, he pries your wrists away from your face, leaving them in his grip, hanging between you both. You have no option but to look straight at him.

“I'm sorry. You've just caught me on a bad day.”

“What do you mean? I'm having a really good time.”

You let out a watery laugh. “You don't have to make me feel better.”

“Gloria is always on my ass about keeping staff happy. Consider this a part of my duty.”

You have a good couple of inches between you, but the distance seems really, really little right now. You're not sure if it's him or you who takes a step closer. Probably you, since his thumb is stroking the side of your wrist, and you're feeling floaty again.

“I'm not sure this is what duty looks like, Jack,” your voice comes out barely more than whisper.

He tuts in disapproval when you use his first time, voice dropping an octave lower. “No, it doesn't. You should be thankful. Robby just yells at people and tells them to pack it up.”

“Don't joke.”

“If I stop joking, I'll have to tell you that you have no reason to cry for a fuckin’ idiot who owned forty different colors of the same polo t-shirt.”

For a second, you're taken back enough to not speak. “How…how do you know that?”

“Used to see him everyday when he would pick you up, remember?” He reminds you as you watch irritation flare up in his eyes, “and he was 20 minutes late. Every single day.”

“20 minutes is not a lot. He was, after all, picking me up.”

“If you're gonna do something, do it right. I wouldn't even be 2 minutes late for someone who spent the entire night working their ass off.”

You downcast your gaze to avoid his sharp eyes. “Shame you're not the one picking me up, then.” You try to play it off as a joke, but it only comes out as wistful.

“Shame,” he murmurs. “So, you don't miss him?”

You shake your head. “No, but it gets lonely.” You sigh before continuing, admitting with a hint of shame, “I like the whole routine — the dates, the places, the high while it lasts.”

“So? Go on a date again.”

“Right,” You laugh in self-deprecation, “It's not like I've queues outside my door, people waiting to take me out.”

“Impossible. Look at you,” he replies, without missing a beat. You examine his face, trying to gauge the intent behind his words. Mindless affirmation or meaningful compliment?

“You're just saying that,” you whisper.

“What reason do I have to lie?”

“Getting me off your hands, and back to your whiskey again.”

His breath mingles with yours when he tips his face forward, gaze locking in on your soft lips. “I'm not so eager to get my hands on whiskey. I've got better things going on for me,” he speaks, voice dropping low and intimate.

“Like me having a meltdown?”

“Like you allowing me to be here for it.”

“Of course. You're sweet and patient and kind.”

“Pray tell. Don't let me stop you from singing my praise.”

“And…calm and funny and…” you pause, trying to even out your shallow breaths, “incredibly, stupidly, frustrating.”

“Careful. Still your attending.” Irony is that right as he's saying it, he's letting go of your wrists to cup your hips instead — long fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt, settling heavy and firm, grounding you in place.

“You're not acting like it.”

He playfully squeezes your hips, “why am i frustrating?”

“Because…sometimes, I come to the shift, and I get to hear from Santos that somebody decided to play the hero and got shot. And I'm obviously never there, because it all happens during the day shift.”

“You worry?”

“You're not a man with ill styling choices. I can worry.”

“As long as you don't cry.”

“Are you one of those people who don't like people crying? You get all awkward and uncomfortable?”

His hand drags up your arm to swipe across your cheekbone, brushing over the dried tears. “I don't like when you cry. It makes me frustrated and insistent.”

“Insistent to do what?”

“To fix whatever caused it. Or whoever.”

Your throat dries up, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “It's not recommended to go causing trouble in the name of nurses.”

“What if it's a pretty nurse?”

Red rushes to your cheeks, and you feel yourself warming up. You urge the alcohol in your system to deliver you courage, but all you feel is like wet noodles in front of him.

“That's not a valid reason,” you murmur.

“My floor, my rules.”

“Careful. Next thing you know, it's 20 missed calls from HR.”

“Shit,” he says, not sounding concerned in the slightest.

You clear your throat, “now that I'm not actively sobbing, we should head back. Somebody will notice we're gone.”

“They're all too busy being idiots. Besides, there's nothing to notice. I'll just tell them–” your eyelids flutter when he lightly blows air into your right eye, “–there was something in your eye.”

“And you were helping me while using your bedroom voice?”

Jack sputters a small laugh, “oh, this is not my bedroom voice.” His hand on your hip moves, leaving a trail of fire up your side, settling high on your waist. “Or my bedroom hands. Or my bedroom acts.”

Your eyes flutter close, and heat melts low in your belly, leaving an ache between your thighs. Your thoughts wander, trying to imagine his ‘bedroom acts.’ 

You snap your eyes open before your body can take control from you, and start acting on its own accord. 

“HR. 20 missed calls,” you breathily say, not sure if it’s him or you you’re trying to remind.

He sighs as he backs away from you, and you feel sharp dissatisfaction at the loss of his burning, comforting touch. He holds his arm out towards the small hallway from where you both entered. “Pretty nurses first.”

I KNOW THAT THE BAR CLOSES AT ELEVENNN

I HOPE YOU NEVER FINISH THAT BEEEERRR…

What do you know? Your colleagues were indeed too busy being idiots to notice any change. You sit in the booth again, next to Jack, watching the girls be happy and bright again.

You on the other hand feel disappointment settling deep in your chest. You're suddenly wishing that you hadn't urged Jack to come back out here. Something could've happened. Something you had been wishing and hoping for. And now you have let the moment pass.

OOOO, ONE NIGHT, I WAS BORED IN BED

AND STALKED YOU ON THE INTERNET…

“So, I'm gonna leave.”

You turn to look at him, trying very hard not to let your dismay show, instead sweetly smiling at him and nodding your head a little too quickly.

A pause.

“You can leave 10 minutes later. I'll be in my truck.”

Your brows snap together in confusion, lips parting to say something, but Jack is already getting up, grabbing his leather jacket from where he kept it in the booth.

“They're idiots, yes, but it's better if they don't see us leaving together.”

You scramble for words but nothing comes out.

‘CUZ I ALWAYS HAD A VISION OF US STANDING LIKE THIS

ALL PRESSED UP IN THE BATHROOM LINE…

“Where will we go?” you dumbly ask.

Jack shrugs, “dates, places, chasing the high while it lasts.”

Your heart leaps out of your ribcage, body unable to do anything but watch his back as he walks towards the door. Your lips open. And close again.

What.

Deep breaths. It’s chill. All good. Just a normal hangout with Dr. Abbot. Surely, nothing will happen.

Fuck.

You give a final glance towards the cheerful trio of girls, a luminous grin finally breaking out on your face.

They'll be okay. So will you.

You take out your phone and tap the screen awake. One minute passed, nine more to go.

KISS MEEE AND I MIIIGHTT

KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD.

Sigh…i missed my husband. Now everyone say, “thank you, stacy” and then everyone who liked this, please glaze all over me. Likes, comments especially, and reblogs increase one minute of my lifespan.

Taglist: @mismwaa @imthecowboylikesmehee @cherbicdollie @wildflowerluver @unenthusedprofiler @cmysecondattemptsims @canillionare @winterreader-nowwriter @marquiserose @kittygeniusprincess @athousandghosts @princesspinkbaby @samaelisdead @sofretro @velvetyhydrangea @mxrxlxy @ryannnleigh @kaaisnl @stvrl1ghtt00 @ilikebeingdelulu @llcalumllhoodll @bluberrychampagne | @you-go-too-slow-for-me @voidsagent @moonlitmaureder @ratsnash @liviemalfoy @lovergirlellie @colorgeek @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing

[heytherestriker]

Pls tell us more about Yiddish so we can all use it in our fics I BEG OF THEE OH WISE ONE

absolutely! i would just love to see more yiddish in fics like i think it's so awesome so please guys make robby speak yiddish #cool

Common Exclamations: Some good, common exclamations include the classic "oy vey" ("woe is me" for when something frustrating happens), "oy gevalt" ("oh, violence!" for when something worse happens, but can be good for over-exaggerating to mildly annoying circumstances), "feh" (reaction of disgust that sounds like spitting), and "Goten him" ("God in heaven!" as a reaction to some terrible news or something scandalous)

Common Nouns and Adjectives: "yenta" (a busybody or someone nosy, i really like the thought of robby being a yenta himself but still scolding princess and perlah for being ones as well), "mensch" (a good/honorable person, a fun one to use sarcastically), "schmuck" (a bad/dishonorable person, a jerk), "chutzpah" (gall, audacity, nerve), "meshuga" (crazy), "meshugaas" (crazy or senseless behavior), "macher" (a self-important person, someone who gets things done)

Common Verbs: "kvetch" (to complain or whine), "kvell" (to be beaming with pride often due to the success of someone else), "schlep" (to drag or haul), "dayven" (to pray), "schvitz" (to sweat heavily), "schmooze" (to network or chat in a very persuasive way)

Nicknames/Pet Names: "Zeeskeit/Ziskayt" (sweetness or sweetie; I love how much i see this one in Rabbot fics), "Lebn" (life or dear), "Sheyfele" (little sheep or lamb), "Mayzele" (little mouse), "Moyz" (mouse), "Oytzerl" (little treasure), "Bubbeleh/Bubele" (little one, sweetie, little doll)

that's just the common stuff off the top of my head! let me know if y'all want anymore. also please send me your pitt fics in which you use yiddish bc that's awesome

[utterlyvanya]

Barbie Doll You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control. ↳ Jackass You and boyfriend haven't done much besides making out. Cut to a drunk you trying to get him to fuck you last night (and him fending you off with remarkable constraint). The morning comes with heartfelt conversations and pancakes nobody ends up eating because, well…Jack was craving something else.

Gold or Silver Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it. 

[jaimerrexu]

STEREK!!!! Really cute couple of TV serie Teen Wolf!! love them!!

[homemadesterekpie]

on the drive back today i thought about Derek developing pyromania after the fire. it starts small but it escalates then plateaus until Laura dies. after she dies Derek loses all sense of control. he was always able to contain things, he was able to satisfy his growing obsession by burning things in a very controlled way that assured no one got hurt and kept the damage to a minimum.

the biggest fire he sets before Laura dies is in an abandoned building somewhere in New York. he watches it burn until it’s only a wet smoky pile of rubble and ash and the firefighters are gone.

wtv he’s feeling as he burns things he hates it but he can’t stop. and its probably a sexual thing too. so double hate. he feels gross and dirty every single time but also very alive and it scratches an itch deep inside. it gets him going like nothing else.

in beacon hills, after losing Laura, its like he’s on a rampage. he burns the Argent house down. he starts a fire in Beacon High School (the damage is minimal), him and Stiles starts a thing, call it dating or call it fucking, it doesn’t matter but it ends with Derek burning the Stilinski house down while Stiles is off at school and the sheriff is at work.

the sheer lack of remorse he feels at destroying Stiles’ childhood home definitely frightens him and he probably tells himself he’ll stop.

because Stiles is obviously very upset and Derek is the one to comfort him. he’s the one to offer him a place to stay while his dad is busy taking care of everything and practically moving in at the station.

the sex he and Stiles have after that day tho is phenomenal. Derek is balls deep in him and all he sees in his mind is Stiles’ home engulfed in flames.

Stiles doesn’t suspect Derek of anything but he does start to suspect there’s someone starting fires in town. he’s smart and he’s good at figuring out patterns.

but Derek is always a step ahead. because he knows Stiles will never suspect him, not really, because Stiles loves him and that blinds him even if he thinks it doesn’t. Stiles loves him and Derek lost his whole family to a fire, he’s the last person who would do such a thing.

Stiles also doesn’t question the fact that Derek likes to light campfires almost every night. because they sit together all cuddled up to watch the flames. cozy and warm and Stiles is so happy. Derek is happy too, happier than he ever thought he would ever be.

[utterlyvanya]

Gold or Silver?

Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader

Wc: 7k

Description: Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it. 

Tags/warnings: big age gap (r is in 20's and abbot is 50), "ive got tattoos older than you" gets said, yes he has tats bcos i said so, size diff, mentions of concussion, medical inaccuracies (idk shit), (1) allusion to reader having a choking kink (💀), r has a used to have a massive crush on him, made ellis a lesbian bcos ofc, abbot life's goal is to make fun of r's bf, flirting (so much), bit of yearner!jack & dom!jack vibes, gets dialogue heavy at the end, angsty fights & confessions, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, i use loads of em dashes (dont even compare me to chatgpt bcos im better), pet names: kid, kiddo, sweetheart

Note: tysm for the love on my first ff, it means the world to me. Writing something longer made me lose all objectivity, and I genuinely cannot tell if it's good or great or whatever. Please give me feedback (PERSONALLY). Again, I tried to keep r neutral but you might see mentions of r having hair.

Enjoy. This is for the ones with a competency kink. And for the ones who def wanted him to call you “kid.” and the ones who love silver foxes (get checked) (ur girl incl)

1

“I told him not to take me here,” you mutter to Jack, who's checking for tenderness in your neck, his thick fingers pressing against the side, while you try not to think of his hands on your neck in a very different context.

“Let him. Something the boy can do right, hm?”

After checking for initial symptoms — making you walk in a straight line, and balancing yourself on a single foot, you're subjugated to the very hands-on physical examination. You're suddenly wondering how other patients remain composed when Dr. Abbot touches them like this.

Well, usually, attending physicians don't do a history check or a physical exam, but this one does. For you. Probably because you're his staff.

Focus. 

You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”

“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.

Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.

“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”

Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”

You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.

God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.

Handsome. Not rugged.

Competent. Doubtful.

Caring. Well, caring enough.

“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.

“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?” 

The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —

“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.

He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”

His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat. 

Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”

“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?

“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost. 

“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.

“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.

Jack huffs. “Just go.”

You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.

Well.

Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.

As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.

“Penlight. Incoming.”

You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.

You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.

The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.

Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him.

Fuck it. Too late for that. 

“So…” the man begins.

“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.

“Nick seems like a good guy.”

“Noah.”

“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”

You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.

“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”

“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”

A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.

“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.

“Yes, you just sai —”

“Only care about yours.”

That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.

Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.

You quickly regain your senses to retort.

“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.

The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”

You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.

Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”

"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."

"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.

"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.

"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."

He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”

“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after. 

“She prefers lattes, by the way.”

2

Bzzzzzzz 

“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”

Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.

Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today. 

“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.

“Yolanda, you listen to music?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”

Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second. 

“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”

Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.

“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.

“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”

Huh, Strange. 

***

The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —

Bzzzzzzzzz.

You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”

The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.

You hate loud. So much.

You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.

Look at you being fiscally responsible. 

“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you. 

Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.

“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys. 

“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.

“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks. 

In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.

You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.

Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”

“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”

Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”

“Only women?”

“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”

“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush. 

In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face. 

You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."

“Oh, I tried.” 

You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”

“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —

“Did he forget his Roblox password?”

You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.

“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.

Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”

You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.

You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.

You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.

You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.

Does he want you to hold…?

“Your phone, nurse.”

Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.

“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”

His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.

“You're not a teenager.”

“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.

Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.

Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.

“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.

He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”

With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.

Kid. 

You need a chair. 

3

“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.

“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.

Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.

You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.

“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.

Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”

“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.

Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.

“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”

You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.

“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.

“How much is a while?”

This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.

“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.

“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.

It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.

You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left. 

“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.

“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.

You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear. 

Is nobody watching this?

You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.

His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.

“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair. 

Oh. Oh. OH.

“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.

Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.

You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.

***

You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.

“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.

“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”

“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.

Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.

“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”

“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”

“Thanks, sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”

“Hm?”

“Where he took you. Nick.”

“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.

“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”

“What?”

He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.

“I'm an anything person, really.”

Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.

“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.

Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.

“I know.”

He says your name.

Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.

Please say my name again.

“I know, kid.”

“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.

You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.

By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.

“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”

Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.

You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though. 

Desperation.

You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.

+1

“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.

You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.

The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”

“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.

Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.

Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.” 

For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.

No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.

You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier. 

Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.

Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?

As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.

Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”

The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.

9 missed calls from Noah.

“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.

“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”

“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.

“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”

You take a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”

“No.”

“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”

That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears. 

When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.

You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”

“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.

You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.

This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!

Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.

You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”

The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.

Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.

“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.

“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”

“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”

“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.

“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.

“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.

In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.

“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”

He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.

“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.

“I know that. Do you?”

“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.

“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.

Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.

Nurse, there's people that are dying.

“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.

“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”

Sweetheart.

“You're killing me.” 

“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders. 

A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.

“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”

You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.

The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.

“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.

Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.

“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.

Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.

“I asked you something, kid.” 

You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes. 

And, oh.

His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.

He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.

“You can continue yelling at me now.”

In and out. Deep breath.

“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.

“As I said —”

“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.

A pause.

“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Jac —”

“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”

His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.

“Me? What about me?”

He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”

You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip. 

He thinks that?

Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.

“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.

He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.

“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.

“What? You're my senior, you're older —”

He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.

“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."

You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.

You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.

You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.

“Why haven't you sent it?”

“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”

Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.

“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”

With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.

His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”

Deep breath. In and out.

You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow. 

Send. 

You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him. 

You did that. You.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.

He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.

But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”

“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.

“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.

“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”

You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.

Fuck.

Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.

Just as you try to move your lips against his —

“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle. 

“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.

His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt. 

“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.

“That's a lot.”

“What can I say? I like paying for things.”

His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.

Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later. 

“One hand, wow.” 

“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”

He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.

He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.

You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.

“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.

“Yes, doctor.”

He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his. 

“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.

“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.

“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.

“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.

“Yes, doctor”

“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.

Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.

I enjoyed writing this sm, and i hope you lovely people do too. again, feel free to glaze me in asks, comments, and dms. likes and reblogs appreciated much <3 i also need to know if yall blushed reading this, if yes, WHEN

[sparassiss]

au after stiles graduates high school. he leaves town and rarely hears from derek except on his birthday. his number changes occasionally but stiles still knows it's from derek. all the wolf says is "happy birthday" and stiles is just grateful someone remembered. sometimes scott doesn't even remember these days. stiles wishes he was a kid again, where his mother would throw him a birthday party and make him feel special. he just wants to feel special again. so these little texts from derek, however infrequent they are, mean everything to him.

the year of stiles' 21st birthday, he doesn't get a text from derek. he figures derek has finally forgotten about him, or didn't care enough anymore. it had to end sometime, stiles figures. it was good while it lasted.

a week goes by of stiles trying not to feel let down and depressed, trying to push all thoughts of derek and his high school friends from his mind. his heart jumps, though, when he's driving down the road and his phone buzzes in his pocket. it's probably just his dad. who else—

"help," the text says. stiles knows who it is immediately. it's one of the numbers he has saved for derek in his phone; he didn't know it was still active. "derek??" stiles texts back. then his phone rings immediately, and he stops everything he's doing, swerves onto the side of the road, tires screeching, as he fumbles and hurries to pick it up.

the voice on the other end is familiar, and pained, and stiles' heart is in his throat. but it's derek. he's okay, he's alive, for now, and stiles knows right then that he'll do anything in his power to bring him home safely. if only to get another birthday text from him next year. if that's all it is, if that's all it can be, it's enough. it's derek.

[alexisneverokay]

this cat picture but it's omegaverse hucklerobby:

like, robby's been invited to an awards ceremony and formal dinner for healthcare workers who've made great contributions to the field, and he's going to accept a prize. its a global event and hundreds of doctors and surgeons and nurses from across the world are in attendance. of course, he brings his darling omega dennis with him as his plus one, and he parades his pretty wife around proudly, even trying to centre dennis in the photos that are taken of them. he doesn't want a single photo alone.

dennis looks so pretty, he was excited at the chance to accompany his alpha to something so special, and robby was delighted to dress dennis up. as it is, the omega's neck and wrists are dripping with jewellery and he's in a silken dress than shimmers and shows off his delicate curves. he's stunning.

they have a lovely night and everyone adores dennis when he's introduced to them, sweet and kind and beautiful as he is. the real interesting thing starts to happen after pictures are posted online of "outstanding emergency medicine doctor" michael robinavitch- with dennis in all of them. the pictures go viral.

the comments, rather than being focused on robby's medical achievement, range from "ughhhh he treats that omega good, look at him, he's fucking glowing...", "godddd I just know his dick is fucking big, look at the smile on his omega.. he knows he's gonna feel so good later", to "michael robinavitch, alpha of the yeah... he's got that omega plump and shining, no stress on his face, you just know that robinavitch is on his hands and knees for that little blonde thing..."...

robby becomes THE ideal alpha and has a lot of alphas worldwide re-evaluate their actions when their omegas pointedly look at them to ask, why isn't my life as stress free as dennis's? why aren't I as important to you as dennis is to michael?

dennis himself finds the whole thing hilarious- though even more funny is the way robby now shows him off even more than before. he sure does have it good with michael as his alpha.

[alexisneverokay]

oh this is just a reminder that I dont want you here if you're still actively a fan of harry potter and you interact with and platform anything jkr has created or worked on. you're not a safe person for me to be around, or for any trans+ person to be around- there's no hiding from that.

no, you cannot separate the art from the artist when the artist in question is alive and raking in millions that she directly uses to fund policies that have me stripped of my human rights. I dont care whatever your wanky "workaround" is where you get to call yourself a good person and still consume and promote the material that ends with people like me dead or murdered. it's not good enough.

telling me you've separated the art from the artist is like telling a Jewish person in the 1930s and 40s that you've separated hitlers art from who he was, and that it was actually super fine to promote and buy his art while he was actively using the money made from it to kill minorities en masse. (and if you don't like that comparison, we can talk about jkrs blatant holocaust denial too).

yeah. anyway. fuck off, I dont want you here. you make my life actively harder and worse. trans people's lives are more important than your childhood book.

[imthecowboylikemehee]

!!!!!!!!

[alirhi]

clearly unpopular opinion, but Derek would not be the dominant one. idc that he's taller, older (and no one, not even the actors, knows how much older lol) and has superpowers. Derek is the softest fucking werewolf on the show. he gets beat up more than Stiles does. he's consistently shown to be unsuited to being an alpha. Stiles is a snarky bastard whose response to being threatened by people with literal superpowers is to threaten them right back. even when he admits he's afraid of someone, he still has no problem standing his ground if he feels it's worth it.

Forget gruff top Derek and leetle softboi Stiles. Give me tired, jumpy Derek who can only finally let his mask down and work through his trauma around his boyfriend, who maybe doesn't seem like much at first glance, but goes toe-to-toe with crazed shapeshifters and kicked a demon out of his own body and once held paralyzed Derek up in a pool for two fucking hours do you know how much denser muscle is than fat?! Derek had the buoyancy of a goddamn anvil.

Derek is soft and forced to act tough. Stiles is tough as hell but constantly dismissed and underestimated. Derek offered to teach Scott how to be a wolf but couldn't because he was born one. Stiles figured it out with one night, an internet connection, and a fistful of Adderall (and a nice big dose of spite XD).

let Derek be soft. Stiles's got him.

[kittykatstiles]

all the unresolved sexual tension and years of looking but not touching between them i just know sterek’s first kiss would be heated as HELL like the grip. the passion. the moaning. the desperation. derek pulling stiles into his lap and holding him there like he wants to keep stiles here forever. stiles whimpering and clinging to derek like he’s afraid to be let go. his fingers accidentally leaving marks on stiles’ waist. derek saying “open your mouth” and get back to kiss stiles violently, they kiss like they’ve been missing each other their entire lives i am NOT well at all

[unusualhysteria]

[killerblueeyesxprettybluedude]

“you have to be very careful with your omega,” a voice says behind derek.

he turns sharply. catches his breath, and breathes. 

“didn’t i tell you to stop doing that?” he says. 

peter looks at him innocently. 

“alpha,” he says. “what do you think that means?” 

“it means stop sneaking up on me,” derek says, and tries to just keep walking home without listening anymore, but peter says, “it means that if you’re not exceedingly careful, the culmination of even the most well-meaning courtship can leave a trusting omega irreparably traumatized.”

“so i’ll be careful,” derek says, and peter says, “of course, even the most delicate approach will be painful for your poor omega.” 

“no it won’t,” derek says. “i’ll—obviously i’ll be careful, the first time. very careful.” 

it feels wrong even talking about stiles like this. even thinking of him like that. your poor omega.  

peter’s obviously never met an omega like stiles. which is probably for the best, the way he’s talking about it. 

derek’s never gonna be that kind of alpha. unless someone like that comes near stiles, maybe. 

but only to protect him from it.

it takes peter a million years to finally say what about alphas is actually so much more dangerous for omegas. and by then, derek’s half-sure peter just means that alphas have stronger hormones. which everyone knows, and which you learn to rein in in like the first year of puberty if you’re not a complete dick, so hopefully it’s obvious that derek doesn’t need an extra warning. 

but then peter’s like, “i’m talking about knotting.”

and that’s something that derek’s never even thought about before. 

“that’s real?” he says, and peter’s immediately too pleased with himself. “i mean, nice try. i know that’s not real.”

“oh, but it is,” peter says. “though there are half a dozen terms for it. the lover’s lock is my favorite, personally.”

“you’re fucking with me,” derek says, and peter says, “i’m warning you.”

but… that can’t just be normal. just because derek’s an alpha, he’s not just gonna, automatically…

“do omegas know?” derek says, and then, “how do i stop it? or control it, or whatever it is. how do i make it not a bad thing?” 

if stiles, if he was with stiles? if everything went right, somehow, leading up to it, if stiles liked him, and trusted him, and then, suddenly—

“so you see why i felt the need to warn you,” peter says, and derek nods, and nods. 

but there has to be a way to stop it. there has to be. 

to—concentrate on something else, until it becomes a muscle he can relax when it happens. or to—take care of it, himself, ahead of time, so when he’s with stiles, he can just be normal. 

but if it really is that dangerous? maybe alphas shouldn’t date omegas at all.

if the risk’s that high? maybe it’s just not worth it.

but there’s no good way to explain it. why he’s suddenly pulling back, when stiles is kissing him, why derek keeps slowing them down. 

“whoa,” stiles says, like there’s already some sign of it on derek’s face. “wait, wait. derek, hey. what just happened?” 

“what?” derek says, and then, “it’s nothing.”

“yeah, i always break away mid-makeout when it’s nothing,” stiles jokes, but derek doesn’t laugh, and stiles’ eyes widen. “no, seriously. do you wanna, like, stop?”

no. but maybe that’s why the answer should be an unequivocal yes. 

or, what do you think about knotting? because i’m starting to think i shouldn’t trust myself. 

but that feels way too forward. 

so really, there’s no good answer.

“break time,” stiles decides, and derek nods. “chill time, bro time.” 

that, derek’s less sure about. but stiles puts an arm around him, and kind of slumps in against derek’s shirt. 

it can’t just be normal. but even if it is, derek’s not gonna be one more asshole alpha.

whatever it takes to keep things safe, he’ll do it. and if there’s really no way around it? then they just won’t.

nothing’s worth stiles being traumatized. 

[sublimeinfatuation]

Hucklerobby with accidental bed sharing

Drunk Dennis passing out in Robbys bed, forgetting Robbys home from his sabbatical. He didn't want to go home with Santos and the girl shes been flirting with all night so he goes to the one place he feels safest.

Robby, waking up, drowsy from sleep meds going into autopilot and assuming the body next to him is one of his flings. He cuddles into it and they both have the best sleep they have had in years.

The next morning Robby can't move because Dennis is on top of him but his confusion is enough to wake the smaller man. Dennis panics and jumps away, not so subtly checking if he has clothes on. Robby eventually calms him down and they have breakfast together, Dennis' face red the whole time.

When Dennis leaves he jokes that anytime Whitaker wants to sleep with him, buy him dinner first.

[timelooplesbianlesbianlooptime]

trinity who reasons robby is just like any dirty old man after all and dennis can just exaggerate the innocent/shy act around him to get in his pants

dennis is offended bc dr. robby is better than this (right?), but all the same, during a night out with the pitt crew, he’s a little bit more pouty, looks up at robby with wide eyes, puts a bit of a whine in his voice when he says dr. robby, asks him for help with basically everything

and it works so well. robby is putty in his hands, happy to do anything dennis tells him too. dennis doesn’t know if he should be disappointed on turned on