summary: you find yourself in a bit of a predicament when a night out with your girlfriends turns into you matching the voice of your favorite audio erotica creator to his face.
a/n: i originally wrote this fic (series) years ago for another fandom but i decided to rework it for da pitt/robby. the audio erotica website mentioned is quinn <3
wc: 2.1k
contains: a few lines of dirty talk, no smut mentioned.
a single voice shouldn’t be able to stop you in your tracks, especially not in a crowded pittsburgh bar on a thursday night, but somehow, it does. you and your girlfriends had been out for some casual drinks and you’d been overstimulated by the sounds of dozens of voices swirling around you, but none have made you pause like this one. at first, you just thought it was a pleasant voice drifting over to you from somewhere near, but you couldn’t shake how familiar it sounded.
you, almost unconsciously at first, start listening for the voice, slowly tuning out the familiar tones and cadences of your friends. you’ve always been more of an observer when it comes to nights like this, so your friends pay you no mind as you keep to yourself instead of paying attention to whatever work gossip is being spilled. your ears perk up every time you hear it, your eyes scanning the crowded bar, longing for its source.
you’re rewarded for your observant nature when your eyes finally land on a crowded high top table just to your right. you don’t even have to turn much in your chair to get a good view of the man at the head of the table. it had to be him, you just knew it. the table was cramped with bottles and glasses, chairs squished so men and women could all fit. but there’s only one man that voice could belong to. you just knew it was him.
“want in on another round?”
the hand on your wrist startles you, pulling you completely out of your thoughts. your friends' dark eyes search yours as you scramble for a response. you reach for your glass, the last dredges of your vodka cranberry diluted with melted ice. you smile at your friend, “i’d love another, thanks.”
you give her a grateful smile as she squeezes your wrist before turning in the direction of the bar. you take the last sip of your drink, trying to put that voice out of your mind. your stomach tugs with guilt and shame reminding you what you’re actually here for, to catch up with your closest friends. but your eyes quickly fall back to that goddamn high top when a voice from that table exclaims, rather loudly, “oh, come on, robby!”
robby.
robby.
robby michael.
you must be dreaming. you must have fallen asleep on your couch instead of making it to the bar because there was no way robby was just a stones throw away from you right now. before, you had just been caught in the fantasy, of the what-if of it being robby, but it had to be just some other guy named robby, right? a few more moments of eavesdropping makes your stomach twist because the voice is just too spot on.
“ohoh, you’re so going to pay for that, brat.”
you had stumbled across robby a few months ago, he was new on the website and typically you didn’t stray too far from your rotation of voices, but you had made an exception for him. it had been his profile picture that really piqued your interest, it was a close up selfie that cut off right below his eyes.
he had a full, but well trimmed beard and your eyes had immediately darted between all the grey sprinkled in the dark hair, finally landing on the grey patch on his chin. you had always loved a man that was capable of growing a thick, full beard. and his nose. god, his nose. a strong, built nose that sat perfectly on his long face. you were smitten from that picture alone.
and his voice. his voice ruined you for every other guy on the app. his voice was deep and gravely, it definitely came with age, which you certainly had no complaints about. he had a handful of audios regarding age gaps, with him being all sorts of older and domineering figures, which always left you feeling incredibly wet. but even with the obvious tropes he was very clever and creative when it came to his audios.
one of your favorites of his was a short series he did where he played the owner of a used bookstore. his voice was so soft as he had read passages from a book that you couldn’t remember, the sounds of pages turning completely calming your brain. there was a first time audio that you had listened to at least a dozen times at this point, his voice had been so sweet and gentle right in your ear. and the audio that made you squirm the most just thinking about it was a gynecology roleplay he did, you had sighed out dr. robby as you came that night.
“everything feels perfectly normal, miss, but let me add another finger just to be sure.”
and maybe it was a little bit pathetic, cumming to a voice nearly every night that you would never know, so that's why you kept that part of yourself locked away. never talked about it with your friends because it was your dirty little secret. so that’s why this whole situation, is your worst fucking nightmare.
you look over again, stealing a peek of the scene before you. he’s still at the head of the table, nursing a glass of dark liquor while listening to the guy next to him tell a story using mostly his hands. they look to be the oldest ones at the table, robby with his deep crows feet and his friend with his silver curls.
it wasn’t like they were significantly older than the rest of the men and women around them, but some of them were in much flashier clothing. more appropriate for a nightclub than for a casual bar. maybe they were going to a club later, seemingly having much more energy than robby, with his ruddy cheeks and his tired eyes.
shame washes over you, feeling like a voyeur, as you turn away from the group as your friends return from the bar with more drinks. you gladly take yours, more so chewing on the straw to give you something to do as you try to tap back in on the conversation at hand. luckily, it was one of your closer friends rehashing work drama she’d already called you about earlier in the week. it gives you the opportunity to sit back and throw in comments when appropriate and within a few minutes you’re enthralled in the conversation again.
but your eyes can’t help but cut back to that high top table when you hear the sounds of chairs scraping against the bar floor. you watch as the younger girls of the group, dressed in skirts and kitten heels, get up from their seats. you overhear drawn out goodbyes and mentions of “stay together” and “don’t get too fucked up”. but the timber of robby’s voice cuts right through to you. “i’ll walk you guys out, gotta hit the bathroom, anyway.”
he walks behind the girls, making their way past your table towards the front of the bar. “god, robby, already breaking the seal after just one beer?” one of the girls jokes, familiar humor in her voice.
you watch as robby’s face scrunches up in an annoyed huff of breath, “oh, santos, you’ll understand when you’re my age.”
the teasing lilt of his voice washes over you, your eyes taking long drags over his body as he passes by. he's tall, that's what you first notice. he towers over the girls even in their heels. but he's not imposing, instead he walks behind the small group and gives them a wave as they make it out of the bar and he ducks into the bathrooms tucked into the corner by the front entrance.
the salt and pepper in his hair wasn't surprising, you knew he was older and it showed quite clearly in his profile picture on the site. but seeing all the grey in his well kept beard in person? you had to squeeze your thighs together when he finally came back to his now much less crowded table.
you watch him take his seat at the head again, his shoulders relaxing as he wraps his long fingers around a dewy pint glass. you watch him laugh at something someone says, delighting at the crows feet around his eyes and the way his cheeks flush. but you feel like your stomach is going to fall out of your ass when his eyes cut directly to you. oh shit. he caught you staring.
you feel your eyes widen in embarrassment as he unfortunately holds eye contact with you, before you finally get it together enough to dart your eyes away. you look down at your sugary cocktail, bringing your shaky hand up to the glass. you take a long sip, giving yourself something to do as you try to slow down your erratic heart beat.
you firmly set down your glass, the ice rattling at the bottom, the dredges of your vodka cranberry coloring the pieces a soft pink. the coolness of the glass helps to ground you a little bit. you tell yourself that even though it kind of feels like it, it's absolutely not the end of the world that you were caught staring.
after a few more moments, you force yourself back into the conversation happening around you. you turn your back fully to the man, not allowing yourself to get distracted by him for the rest of the night. but your new position makes you miss the way his eyes shine in delight and his lips curl into a barely there smile. your gaze sends a spark up his spine and even though you don’t allow him another look at your face for the rest of the night, he still shamelessly watches you as you leave the bar with your girlfriends.
the following days are frustrating to say the least and you end up falling into a cycle of remembering being caught by robby, feeling so embarrassed, and then trying to push the whole thing from your mind completely. but, nothing helps. you can’t stop thinking about him. his hands, his beard, his eyes, his voice were all you could think about and it was becoming a major problem.
you were also experiencing another problem, you hadn’t been able to get off since that night. you had banned yourself from listening to any of robby's audios in the following days, but nobody else on the site did it for you anymore, so you were left feeling frustrated and unsatisfied.
but, you end up aimlessly scrolling through the app anyways, just like tonight. multiple new audios were uploaded to the site earlier that morning, but nothing sounded even remotely interesting to you. then you saw it, the slope of his perfect nose in his profile picture. you couldn’t help but feel like he was mocking you by uploading so soon after your blunder. but then your stomach drops when you see the title of his audio, “Meet Cute at the Bar”. oh no. then your eyes skim over the tags he's included, [M4F] [Strangers to Lovers] [Banter] [Slow Burn] [First Time] [Gentle] [Praise] [Curve Appreciation]. but what really gets you is the summary, “I caught you looking from across the bar, mind if I join you?"
you’re pressing play before you can even think about what you’re doing. your ears are initially filled with mindless chatter and the clinking of pint glasses, background noise, before you hear robby's all too familiar voice, “this seat taken?” followed by the sound of him settling into what you assumed was a bar stool. “i know us locking eyes for all of 5 seconds isn’t exactly an invitation for me to come over and bother you, but i guess i’m pressing my luck tonight.”
he follows it up with a laugh, a barely there huff of breath that you've become very familiar with. robby knew how to flirt, which was something that you might have found dickish in other guys, but with robby there was always a sort of bashfulness to it. you scroll down to the comments, reading through the gushing praise that was par for the course for any of the man's audios. when you scroll down to the end, though, you find that the first comment left on the audio was from…robby.
“Made eyes with a gorgeous woman across the bar a few days ago and haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since. Tried to get over it by recording this but, I'm still stuck on her.”
you roll over, your laptop landing askew on your bed as you shove your face in one of your pillows and scream. you were so fucked.
Summary: You accidentally send some very compromising pictures (and a particularly filthy video) to your boss/attending/crush. Chaos follows and, along with it, a very pleasant surprise.
wc: 7.6k
Warnings: f!reader, secondhand embarrassment probably (it ends well), kind of non-con voyeurism, resident/attending, implied age gap, lewds n’ nudes, jerking off at work, banter, robby has a dirty mouth, mutual pining, (they’re both down so bad but robby is better at hiding it), tension, reader is shorter than robby, alternating pov
A/N: *sobbing into my hands* it was not supposed to be like this. i need help. i need to be sedated. actual smut in part 2, i promise </3
Honestly, you really shouldn’t be putting in this kind of effort for a guy who’s failed to get you off not just once, not twice, but three times now, which happens to be the same number of times you’ve hooked up with him.
Yet here you are, striking various poses in various states of undress with the hope of inspiring Tony to just try harder.
You start on your knees in your thigh highs, cheeksters, and a way-too-short crop top. Arch the back, make sure to get some under and side boob, a tasteful lewd to whet his palate.
Move to the bed and lose the panties. Part of your face is in the shot, lip between your teeth, but the main focus is your ass that’s pushed into the air enough to get a better view.
The last photo is of your tits—most of them, anyway, but if Tony is smart enough to press his thumb to the screen, he’ll see that it’s a live and be generously afforded the sight of your nipples on screen for half a second when you give a little bounce.
None of it is crazy, just enough to make him hungry, prepare him for the video you film. Back in bed, you take the time to get yourself wet with your favorite vibrator, feel your muscles contract and loosen in preparation for your fingers first, then your dildo.
About seven inches with a satisfying girth, the toy is a shade of light teal (and glows in the dark, but that’s irrelevant). Phone secured in a telescopic stand that gives you more reach, you click ‘record’ again and spend the next 20 minutes filming and editing until you’re pleased with the end result.
Your moans are loud enough to hear but not over the top, still leave gaps that are filled by the squelch of your pussy. Some frames catch the quiver of your thighs, others a glimpse of the curve of your tits where your shirt has ridden up. The star of the show, however, is the toy you’re plunging in and out of your cunt, coated in gossamer arousal at first but eventually smeared with white cream as you continue to fuck yourself with it.
The orgasm at the end is faked, impossible for you to achieve without clitoral stimulation, but you’re positive Tony won’t know the difference considering you’ve already faked three with him.
Scrolling through, you hum at everything you’ve managed to capture. Good work. Maybe he’ll finally go down on you for longer than three minutes. Maybe next time you see him, you’ll actually cum.
Wishful thinking, but enough to motivate you to send the suggestive images and filthy fucking video.
It’s about four PM, so Tony will be at work for another hour. Refusing to wait with baited breath, you toss your phone to the side and busy yourself with cleaning your toys. You’ve done enough for this guy; you’re not gonna let him take up any more space in your mind by obsessing over what his reply might be.
You have no idea that you’ve just made a horrible mistake.
You should’ve double checked. Maybe then you would’ve been quick enough to delete everything.
But, you didn’t, so you’re not, and about 15 minutes later when you pick up your phone again your heart drops into your ass.
It’s so fucking stupid. You’re so fucking stupid. But Tony was your most recent message, and you were positive that when you unlocked your phone, it opened up his thread like it usually does. You hadn’t even noticed that it had, instead, taken you to your most recent notification—an older text thread that had remained untouched for over a week.
Until now.
>> I know you just worked 5 in a row, but Mel is out with the flu. Is there any way you can come in for her tomorrow?
From Robby.
As in Dr. Robinavitch. As in your senior attending, your boss, your teacher (your crush for the last two years).
And, right there under his question, or really in response to it, are your three pictures and amateur video.
You slap a hand over your mouth to keep vomit from spewing past your lips, ohh God, your stomach is rolling. There are literal tears in your eyes as you frantically type
<< DO NOT FULLY OPEN THIS THREAD!!!
<< JUST DELETE IT
<< PLEASE
But, you’re kidding yourself. It’s already been 15 minutes since you sent them, and that dreaded ‘Read’ is already time-stamped beneath your video.
Dizzy and hot with humiliation, you walk into your bathroom and sit on the tile, want to be as close to the toilet as possible in case you really do hurl.
<< I am SO sorry those obviously weren’t meant for you
<< I didn’t realize you texted
<< I should have double checked. Triple checked
<< I’m so so sorry oh my god
Three dots appear, and you bite down on your lip so hard, you just might open the scars left by old piercings.
The dots disappear for several seconds. Pop back up. Disappear again.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
>> No worries. Deleted.
You inhale shakily, the text almost impossible to read with how your phone quakes in your trembling hands.
There is no way you’ll be able to look Robby in the face ever again. You should just go to the hospital now and grab any shit you have in the locker you share with Trinity. Start looking at different residency programs. See if you can get some kind of letter of recommendation from an attending who is not Robby.
His question, you remember. If you can work for Mel. You can’t agree to it—absolutely not.
Should you tell him that, though? Is he waiting for a real answer that does not involve your naked fucking body? Oh, this is bad. This is very not good.
You don’t tell him that you’ll cover the shift, and Robby doesn’t ask a second time. He probably knows you’re going through the five stages of grief and are nowhere near ‘acceptance’. He’s a smart guy, merciful despite what some of the other residents say. You need time to process your egregious mistake, and he’s giving it to you.
Or, so you assume.
In reality, Robby is about ten miles away, dealing with what might be the most painful erection in the history of mankind, and he can’t even do anything about it aside from hide in the bathroom, staring and cursing at his traitorous dick for reacting like this.
He’s at work, for fuck’s sake. There are patients bleeding out on the other side of this door, and he’s standing here like an asshole, contemplating if it’s possible to will his predicament away, or if it’ll be easier to just jerk off right here. Robby has no doubt that he’d be able to cum within thirty seconds, but the morality aspect of it…
Getting himself off in the bathroom of his own emergency department is goddamn degenerate behavior, but how the fuck is he supposed to focus like this?
Holy fuck, he’s so hard it hurts, and when Robby finally pulls his cock from his cargos, the pressure of his hand alone has him gasping and hissing. His tip is leaking precum, and he decides that yeah, this was the right move. Most ethical? Fuck no. But at least now he won’t have to explain any suspicious fluid that may bleed through his pants.
The weight of his phone in his pocket is comparable to that of an anvil. Robby tries to ignore it, gives himself a few slow strokes while bracing his other hand on the wall.
Don’t. Don’t look at the pictures. Do not fucking open that thread again (the one that he definitely did not delete). Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t—
“Shit,” Robby huffs, grabbing his phone, unlocking it, immediately opening your messages.
He’s fucked. He is fucked. Can’t believe he’s actually doing this. It’s wrong on so many levels, but God, you are gorgeous and splayed out, on display for Robby to drink in even though these images were not meant for his eyes.
The arch of your back in the picture of you on your knees. The outline—the suggestion—of your tits beneath that impractically tiny top, completely gone in the next image to show off the slopes and curves and valley between. Robby thinks about what it might feel like to suck on your pebbled nipples, what sounds you’d make for him.
Then, he sees the video, the one he hadn’t actually opened because the screencap was already too much. It’s what sent him speed walking to the nearest bathroom in the first place.
He’s smart enough to turn his volume all the way down, looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is nearby despite being in a very locked staff restroom that is one, marked as occupied, and two, requires a code to get in. Still, it never hurts to double check (as you learned just a few minutes ago).
With a deep breath, hand still wrapped around his cock, Robby taps his screen to play the video and—
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, sucking saliva from his teeth as he watches you move the camera from your chest down your torso, your hips, and finally the hand between your legs. The toy between your legs.
Robby is panting as he watches you, stroking himself and time-locked with the bright dildo you’re thrusting in and out of your cunt.
He wants to hear you, fuck, he wants to find out if you’re moaning or whimpering or letting your pussy do all the talking.
The toy shines in the light whenever you pull it out, but Robby zeroes in on the ring of cream you leave around the base, smearing it up and down as you keep fucking yourself, and fuckfuck, he’s gonna cum. He’s gonna cum in this hospital restroom to this video that he was never supposed to see, the video he’d told you he deleted.
So wrong, so fucking wrong, possibly the most fucked up thing he’s ever done, but he couldn’t help it—can’t help it when you tremble and buck and shove the dildo into your pussy as far as it’ll go like you’re greedy for more.
Robby can give you more. He wants to give you more, has wanted to for too fucking long. From the first time he stood behind you to guide you through a procedure, got a whiff of your shampoo, saw the way you smiled at him. Cute and competent, beautiful, flexible, good. You’re so fucking good.
He’s ignored it for two years. Two years of squeezing his eyes shut to block out the stars in yours. Two years of biting back groans when you end up pressed against him in a crowded trauma room. Two years of flushed skin and heart palpitations and staring at someone he shouldn’t even be glancing at.
But, now he has the pictures and this video, and it’s like he’s been damned to a special kind of hell. He’s watching you take that dildo, obsessed with the idea of watching you take something bigger, take him, let him fill you up with more than just his cock. Shit, he could give you so much more, load after load until his cum is dripping out of your pussy rather than off of his hand like it is now.
“Fuuucking—”
Robby drops his head to the wall and takes a few deep breaths while letting the shame wash over him, wishing he would drown in it instead of simply bathing.
•
Robby quickly figures out that he is going to have to be the mature one out of the two of you. He doesn’t really have a choice, has to pretend that he didn’t get off to your photos or that he’s watched the video so many times he has it fucking memorized. Every breath, every moan, the faked orgasm at the end that’s honestly kind of insulting. He’s offended on your behalf because you should never ever have to fake that. You should have never gotten so good at faking it.
The first shift that you work with one another, you go out of your way to avoid him. It’s impossible to keep up considering the environment and pace that goes along with traumas, but whenever you aren’t stuck in a room with him, you do your best to hide.
It isn’t subtle.
If Robby could, he would also be making himself scarce, but again, he was supposed to delete your messages, not obsess over them with his hand shoved down the front of his pants.
After stepping into an exam room that you’re already in then watching you scurry out of it at the first opportunity, Robby decides he’s had enough. This kind of avoidant behavior, though understandable in this case, just doesn’t fucking work in an ER, and he refuses to let you fuck up the rest of your residency over some accidental nudes.
So, Robby plasters on his best ‘I have never seen your pussy before’ expression and, when he gets his chance, wraps a hand around your elbow and gently guides you out to the ambulance bay.
You don’t protest or shrug him off, just sigh, resign yourself to whatever fate you think Robby has in store for you.
He looks around, checking for any coworkers or, you know, incoming ambulances, and once he deems it safe, Robby takes you by the shoulders, looks you dead in the eye, and states, “you have got to fucking relax.”
He thinks you might sputter or gawk, but that is not what happens.
“That’s easy for you to say!” and you do not bother censoring yourself when you continue, “you’re not the one who sent fucking nudes to your boss.”
“Definitely not arguing that, and I get that you’re embarrassed, but I’m telling you—” he notices that he’s still holding onto you, drops his hands and shoves them into his jacket pockets, “—it’s fine, alright? I’m not gonna fucking blackmail you or make fun of you or some shit. I’m not twelve.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re a grown ass man who I work with every day who has now seen my—my, like…”
You can’t even say it, can’t even look at him, just hide your face in your hands.
It’s fine. Robby can finish it for you. Maybe if he’s blunt about it, the awkwardness will dissipate. Lay it out. Rip off the band-aid. Exposure therapy.
“I’m a fucking doctor. Seeing a pair of tits,” perfect, pretty tits, “and a vulva,” slick and creamy, hole all twitchy and greedy… Christ. Robby has to clear his throat in order to finish, “it’s not gonna faze me. Yours is not the first female body I’ve seen.”
The number of emotions that play out on your face is more entertaining than it should be. Mortification to surprise to confusion to something very fucking pouty.
“What? What are frowning about?”
Your, “nothing,” comes out suspiciously fast, and Robby narrows his eyes as you avert yours. “Nothing. It’s just weird hearing you talk like that.”
He rubs a hand down his face. Of all the things to focus on.
“Tits. Pussy. Cock. Cunt,” he lists because if you’re gonna hash all of this out, he can’t have you on the brink of combusting.
“Oh my god, stop! Stop talking!” It’s practically a squeal, and the noise sends heat racing down Robby’s spine to settle right at the base of it.
It reminds him of the sounds you made in that video, turned up all the way while in the privacy of his own home. Gasps, and mewls, and adorable whines. Little ‘please please please’s thrown in there as a treat, but even if the begging isn’t genuine, it still sounds damn good, still ricochets in Robby’s brain even now.
“I’m just trying to show that this isn’t a big fucking deal,” he tries, then immediately backtracks when he sees yet another emotion play out on your face: anger. “Hold on, wait, listen. I’m not trying to invalidate you. I—look, I get that you’re probably feeling vulnerable, or that now I don’t know, I have something on you, or more power or some other bullshit. I recognize that, okay? Nod with me,” he pauses to make sure you’re following, would be worried about condescending, but you don’t seem to take it as such, just stare and do as you’re told, nodding slowly. “As far as I’m concerned, it never happened,” a lie, “it was a mistake. You have a life outside of this ER just like I do.”
“You send dick pics to the wrong people?” you pipe up, finally starting to look more like a person and less like a deer being hunted.
“Well, no…” Robby cradles the back of his neck, “but I’m sure some of the people who’ve seen it wish they hadn’t.”
He never noticed how fucking cute you are when you’re caught off guard—eyes widening, brows rising, lips parting.
“Didn’t ever think I’d end up in a conversation with my attending about his dick,” you mutter.
Robby laughs, “yeah, well, I didn’t ever think my best resident would send me a sex tape.”
Your jaw drops, but the corners of your mouth are still upturned. “It was not a sex tape—”
Hands back in his pockets, Robby’s body language screams his disagreement. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, presses his lips into a line, rocks his head back and forth as if he’s waffling on the idea until he eventually responds, “mmmyeah, except it is. That was a sex tape.”
“It was n—wait,” you stop, eyes going wide again only they don’t stop growing, threatening to pop out of their sockets.
Confused, Robby raises an eyebrow and—
Ohh, shit.
“You watched it?”
Yep, he just outed himself, and now all he can do is cringe.
“Robby, what the fuck?!”
He expects a slap to the face. Deserves that and more. But all you do is stand there, hands on your cheeks like you just stepped out of whatever art museum The Scream is mounted in.
“I’m sorry—I don’t…” He runs his palms up his face, presses them to his temples before settling at the top of his head and squeezing his skull as if it’ll ground him. “I have no fucking excuse. I’m sorry. It was just base brain curiosity.”
Head hanging forward, you shake it back and forth, muttering something Robby can’t hear as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.
Should he go back inside? He should go back inside. Jesus, this is about to be an HR clusterfuck, god dammit—
“Okay, the least you can do is tell me I looked good in it, fuck.”
You seem to steel yourself, crossing your arms over your chest, hip cocked out, chin up in some kind of unnecessary defiance.
“You…” Robby blinks at you, stunned. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, blushing all the way to his scalp. “You want me to fucking critique it?”
“Absolutely not. If you criticize any of it, I will kill myself,” you say so seriously that Robby actually believes you. “I want you to tell me that I didn’t fucking film it for no goddamn reason, ‘cause the guy it was for didn’t seem to care, so—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Robby cuts you off, startled by how loud his voice is.
It makes you jump, but you still release something that might be a giggle.
“I wish I was. He just said ‘you’re sexy’,” finger quotation marks, “with a sweating emoji.”
You roll your eyes, and Robby lets out an incredulous laugh about an octave higher than is normal for him, looks up at the bay awning while uttering, “Jesus, men are so fucking stupid,” before he levels his gaze back on you.
“Yeah, I’m well aware.” All moody and inpatient, literally tapping your foot as you look at Robby expectantly. “Well?”
He checks his surroundings again, must be habit at this point, then asks, “you want me to be honest?” and when you nod, he pushes a little more, “one hundred percent?” just to be sure.
“Oh my god. You watched the video like a fucking pervert. I think I deserve some validation—yes, I’m sure.”
How is his skin still getting hotter?
Robby exhales through his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut for a second before shaking off his nerves.
You aren’t mad at him. Irritated, maybe, but not about to shove a scalpel into his carotid. And, you’re asking for his opinion, asking for his praise, brimming with curiosity.
It gives Robby undeserved confidence, and he slowly walks you backward toward the brick wall behind you until he’s got you crowded against it.
Lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, he confesses—quiet, deep, rough, “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cum to that video of you.”
You inhale sharp enough for him to hear, air filling your lungs and making your chest rise, and suddenly Robby isn’t the only one who’s burning. He can feel the heat radiating off of you.
So, he keeps going.
“You want validation?”
He’s met with the tiniest nod, as if you’re ashamed for asking. Robby tells you exactly why you shouldn’t be.
“I got those messages while I was here, right in the middle of the pitt. Didn’t even move ‘cause I was too busy staring at how pretty you are in them…” He raises a hand to catch a strand of your hair, tries to memorize how soft it is between his fingers. “Locked myself in the bathroom ‘cause I couldn’t let anyone see how fucking hard I was getting. Doubt I need to tell you what I did in there.”
He’s getting bold. Too bold. About to cross the last line bold. Your head is tilted back so you can gaze up at him, and Robby takes it as an invitation, drops your hair in favor of running a knuckle up the side of your neck then along your jaw.
“I watched that video and stroked my cock until I came all over my hand like some fucking teenager. And, then I went home and did it again.”
Biting your lip, your eyes are hooded and desirous as you slide down the wall a couple inches, stopped by the leg Robby slots between yours without thinking.
“Listened to you over and over—so fuckin’ sweet when you started whining, when your pussy started begging.”
“Holy fuck,” you whisper, and it pulls a chuckle from his chest. It’s easy to tell you’ve never had a man speak to you like this. Robby is glad to be the first. Honored, even.
Some of your weight rests against his thigh, and he has to bite back a groan when your hips twitch against him.
It was just a few days ago that Robby was locked in a prison of arousal and self-loathing, hating himself for even thinking about getting off in the EC. Now, he’s got you pinned to the wall outside of the same department, and all he wants is to watch you grind and squirm against him.
Any shame he felt before is long fucking gone.
“The photos, the video… I know you’re embarrassed, but I am fucking ruined, okay? I can’t think straight anymore, not when you’re around. Fuck, not even when you’re gone.”
He’s telling you too much, admitting things he shouldn’t, but he’s spent days walking around with the image of you fucking yourself with a dildo burned into his retinas (days walking around with his cock being at least half hard at any given time).
Pent up, frustrated, and stupid, Robby really can’t be held at fault for running his mouth and letting his hands wander.
“And, the worst part of it all,” his fingers curl over where your neck meets your shoulder, but his thumb is stretched out to lightly press against your throat, wishing he could leave his unique print on your skin.
“The fucking worst part is that you took those while thinking of someone else, put on your little thigh-highs and fucked yourself for some asshole who can’t tell the difference between a real orgasm and a fake one.”
You go rigid between Robby and the wall, staring up at him in shock. You’re still simmering from the contact, with where all this is heading because it is heading somewhere.
But, the difference between… there’s no way he could know. He’s just talking shit about Tony because he’s jealous apparently (and that idea is extremely fucking hot), but his words hit home because yeah, you have faked every orgasm with Tony, and no, he hasn’t noticed.
But, how could Robby? He’s seen one video; it’s not like he knows—
“Honey, I’ve been fucking for longer than you’ve been alive,” oh, good lord, “I know what an orgasm looks and sounds like.” His hand is calloused where he cups your cheek, and you melt straight into it. “What you did in that video was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t real.”
He raises the leg between yours, probably rocks onto the ball of his foot, and it presses harder against you, but it’s not enough. Even when you grind down, clutch at his shoulders, it is not fucking enough.
His brazen display of self-assuredness makes you dizzy and dumb. If he’s this confident, there must be a reason, and that reason is likely how you’re responding to him. Your body language, how you can barely even see him through your half-lidded eyes, how your bottom lip is raw from chewing on it.
It makes you desperate—embarrassingly so, and when his coarse beard grazes over your cheek bone, you let the last of your inhibitions dissipate.
“Robby, I swear to God, if you keep talking, I will literally fuck you in one of the parked ambulances.”
He has the audacity to laugh, a puff of air straight from his throat that cascades over the shell of your ear, and it makes you want to cry. It makes you hit your head against the wall behind you. One, two, three times before Robby slips his hand between your skull and the bricks.
“Not in an ambulance,” he shakes his head, brown eyes trained on your mouth. “You won’t be able to move the way I want you to in an ambulance.”
His voice is so low, a rumble, a vibration, and it makes you pulse, pussy hungry for what you can’t have.
You roll your hips in a plea for more friction, and you’re about ready to strip right here and now if it means he’ll fuck you.
If you could just push him a little further. If you could just make him as crazy as he’s made you.
Eager to the point of hysteria, you squeeze your eyes shut and tell him the secret you’ve been harboring since starting at the hospital (part of it, anyway), something you never imagined telling him, and it comes out in the form of pathetic incoherencies— “it was you. I was thinking about you when I made the video, ‘nd I’ve done it before—made myself cum while—I try not to, t-to think and, like, imagine other things, but can’t—”
A surprised grunt (squeak) is forced out of you when Robby crushes his lips against yours, and you cannot remember the last time a man has rendered you so fucking useless, but fuck, you’re holding onto him as if it’ll keep you in a solid state because it sure feels like you’re about to evaporate out of his hands and into the clouds.
You are going to die here. No way you can survive his beard scratching against your face or the sensation of his lips on yours, warm and a little chapped but so, so hungry as they move with yours.
Jesus fuck, you feel his tongue, do not hesitate to stroke it with your own, licking into his mouth before pulling back and catching his bottom lip between your incisors and biting.
Robby groans, the fingers at the back of your head curling into your hair. He cants his hips forward, and you finally see that it’s not just you who’s affected. Worked up. Not thinking straight.
This is Robby—the man who is obsessed with controlling everything he can, who refuses to let anyone see what he’s bottled up, who compartmentalizes so much you’re surprised he doesn’t have multiple active bleeding ulcers—tearing apart at the seams little by little.
Quick, tiny rips that turn to longer cuts then into deep gashes until he’s cleaved right down the middle. You feel the way his eyebrows pinch together when you hold his face to yours, inhale every one of his shaky breaths, grind yourself down on his thigh as his hips move in short, abortive thrusts.
Fuck, fuck, “on-call room—”
“No.” Growled. Rough. Leaving no room for argument. “I’m not doing this until I can spread you out,” —the way he keeps running his nose up your cheek is driving you crazy, but not as much as his voice in your ear, “until I can make you scream my fucking name.”
“God, fuck, Robby—”
He smiles, you think, judging by the way his beard scratches at you differently, “not a chance in hell I’m letting anyone else hear you like this.”
There is a very good chance, however, that you’re dripping through your panties and possibly your scrubs. You surge forward, demanding another kiss that Robby eagerly bends to.
A siren sounds in the distance, distorted by the doppler effect that matches the way you feel inside, like your sanity is waxing and waning, screaming then whimpering.
“There are still three fucking hours left in this shift,” you grumble, “and you expect me to just power through? Wet?”
He swears under his breath, something that is so very satisfying, but when he actually lifts his head and pulls back enough for you to see his flushed face, he somehow manages to school his expression into something professional.
“I expect you to do your job,” he says, masterfully composed. You pout, and Robby brushes hair from your face at the same time that he shifts his leg against your cunt, and you think he must really enjoy seeing you unstable because he tacks on a low, sing-songy, “be good for me.”
Fucking devilish.
Hands on his chest, you shove him backward, eyes narrowed in a heatless glare.
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“Oh, you have no idea how mean I can be,” he shoots back, winks, then turns his attention to the ambulance that’s pulling up into the bay.
Back to business, hands in his pockets, brown eyes clear and alert, like nothing even happened.
“34-year-old female with multiple fractures after a hit-and-run while biking…”
You move on autopilot, falling into step beside the gurney as the medic rattles off numbers and injuries. The motions come easily, muscle memory, but even as you assess and examine, you can’t ignore how damp your panties are. When Robby announces that the biker’s hip needs to be reduced, you almost roll your eyes at him before stepping up to get a better angle.
External rotation, upward pull, praise the Gods for fast-acting pain meds.
A hand steadies you as you begin to lower yourself, and you don’t have to look to know who it belongs to. Scorching and far too familiar, following your movements while remaining planted on the small of your back.
When you’re on solid ground, you lean close to Robby’s shoulder and clack your teeth together as if snapping at him. Playful, maybe even cheeky, but quick so that no one else notices.
He goes along with it, scrunches his nose while imitating a snarl, and you gallop to put distance between you and him before he can catch the ridiculous fucking giggle that bubbles out of you.
What have you gotten yourself into?
Two and a half more hours, a case of appendicitis, and a knowing smirk.
An hour and 45 minutes, a collapsed lung, and fingers that linger a little too long.
30 minutes, a football player with a compound fracture, and breath on the nape of your neck as he slides to get to your other side.
The night shift crew starts trickling in, and Ellis nearly pulls you into what would probably be a witty conversation full of laughs and subtle shit-talking, but you spin away from her with the excuse of being late for a family dinner.
You need to shower and you need to give yourself a pep talk in the mirror and you need to—
“Family dinner?”
Robby catches up to you outside, which was not supposed to happen because he always stays later than necessary, wants to be his control freak self and keep an eye on the night shift for at least an hour.
“Too late for you to play dumb. I already know you’re an evil goddamn mastermind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responds, eyes to the sky, whistling in a casual, cartoonish manner.
Bouncing back and forth between overwhelming frustration and giddy anticipation, you walk a little closer to him, biting the inside of your cheek when Robby gently shoulders into you.
Then, like a bucket full of ice water, the situation washes over you all at once. From the accidental pictures up to now. The mortification and anxiety, the compulsive avoidance, the enthusiastic conversation you had mere hours ago.
You stop walking.
Flirting at work is one thing, but bringing it out into the real world…?
You want it. You want him. You have for too long, and you’ve struggled with it.
Dating apps and hookups and finding new fucking hobbies—they’re just attempts at distracting yourself. You wish you could cope with extra shifts, but that would be counterproductive. It’s hard enough seeing Robby a few days a week. Any more than that and there would be no hope for you to get over this thing you’ve had for him.
This can’t be a hookup brought on by a few filthy photos. This can’t be the first time he’s ever seen you as more than just a resident. This can’t be a roaring fire tonight that gets doused in the morning.
Robby only gets a few steps further before noticing your standstill, stops a few feet ahead at the edge of the lot your car is parked in.
“You okay?” he ventures, “rethinking all of this?”
You shake your head, “no,” then, “yes.”
Robby frowns but the expression doesn’t come off as upset. More confused than anything.
“You can back out. I know you’re in limbo or… something, but—”
“No, it’s not that,” you wave off, and you notice that your hand is shaking. Actually, all of you is shaking. It’s pretty well contained, you think, but the antsy energy makes you clench your jaw too tight.
Robby is looking at you in a way only he can—concerned, compassionate, exhausted—and he’s about to open his mouth again, push for you to talk to him with that gentle tone that’s usually meant to placate patients and family, and unfortunately, you’re going to be completely honest, tell him what you left out in the ambulance bay, because you’ve never been able to lie to him.
“What is it, then?” He takes a step forward but keeps his hands in his pockets. It makes him look relaxed, unimposing, I am restrained; I cannot hurt you. “This can end right here if you want it to, but you’ve gotta tell me.”
Kind despite the gravel, just as you predicted.
Heaving a sigh, you snort to yourself, truly cannot believe you’re about to ruin the rest of your residency with a single conversation.
“I know, yeah, just… I’m about to say some things, and they might make you feel awkward or, I don’t know, like, trapped or whatever, so—”
“Is this about the crush you’ve had since you started?”
He just says it. To your face, right out in the open!
Jaw dropping all the way, you stare at Robby completely dumbfounded. Your cheeks blaze and your ears ring and the world around you comes to a jerky stop.
“You—you knew?”
His eyes are damn near blinding with the way they shine, a smile tugging at his lips, so fucking self-satisfied even as he blushes.
“It took me a while to catch on, but yeah,” he nods, moving closer now as he pulls a hand from his pocket to scratch over the hair on his cheek.
You’re only torturing yourself by asking, “how?” but you need to know. What did you do? What tipped him off?
Robby’s grin softens, his blinks get slower, and for the first time today, he sounds a little unsure.
“You remember that marathon last year? Some charity event, I think for Alzheimer’s or dementia, one of those nightmare diseases.”
“It was Parkinson’s,” you remind him.
“Right, anyway, we were fucking packed with broken ankles and torn ligaments, that one guy with rhabdomyolosis…” he lists, eyes cast upward instead of on you. “Then, that kid came in with a dislocated jaw, and—”
“Oh, no, I remember now.” Because you do. You remember this story almost as well as you remember the butterflies.
Robby chuckles. “I still don’t know why, but you got this fucking look on your face when I showed you how to pop it back into place, like I’d just performed some goddamn miracle, and it didn’t—no, it still doesn’t make sense to me, but I remember liking that look way too fuckin’ much, thought about it too much, wondered if you thought about me too much, and eventually it sort of… started making more sense. Not that it’s me, that doesn’t—the doe eyes, I mean, I understood a little better.”
His rambling would be adorable if you weren’t so fucking embarrassed. Shit, how many times had you stared at him with those “doe eyes” without realizing it? Like a dumb puppy chewing on his pant leg to get his attention.
You slap a hand over your face and shake your head. “So, you’ve just been going along with it no matter how uncomfortable it probably made you.”
If you were to actually look at him again, you’d see the way Robby rolls his eyes.
“Didn’t listen to a fucking word I said, Jesus…”
Now, you do glance up, see the familiar way his fingers lock at the back of his neck as Robby slides his jaw back and forth like he’s thinking. Debating.
“Okay, here’s what it is—I went along with it. I ignored it.” Ah, ouch. “Or, I tried to, ‘cause it’s fucking distracting, but not… it doesn’t make me feel like—what’d you say earlier? Awkward or trapped. It's distracting ‘cause I can see it. On your face. And, I lose my goddamn focus ‘cause all I can think about is—fuck—what can I do to make you keep looking at me like that?”
He looks stressed, like he’s arguing with an ignorant, unruly patient, even releases one of those incredulous laughs. It doesn’t feel like he’s frustrated with you, though, and you think that maybe he hadn’t planned on telling you all of this.
“Wait…” you massage your temples, “what are you—hold on.”
Is he saying what you think he’s saying? No. No, definitely not.
“You’re my resident,” Robby groans, and you know. You know you’re his resident and he’s your attending.
You know it’s cliché and stupid and impossible which is why you’ve been doing everything you can to move the fuck on. It even felt like you’d been making progress, slow and minuscule as it was, it was still progress.
But, now you’ve seen how heated his gaze is, heard how rough his voice gets, felt his body pressing against yours, and all of that progress has been lost. In fact, you’ve fallen behind your initial starting point, and this time he knows.
“I’m sorry—I know. I didn’t mean to put you in a shitty spot, but I couldn’t help it! If I could stop, I would.”
“Please fucking don’t,” Robby replies swiftly, covers the last bit of distance until he’s right in front of you, shaking his head and keeping you pinned under those endlessly tortured brown eyes, “don’t be sorry, don’t try to stop.”
His hand feels huge on your cheek, and you subconsciously lean into it while gazing up at him. Curling his fingers, you feel his nails graze your cheekbone as a devastatingly soft plea falls from him, “don’t stop fucking looking at me like this.”
You wouldn’t be able to even if you wanted to.
The kiss is a surprise. You didn’t think he’d be the type to be comfortable displaying something like this in a public setting; any of your coworkers could walk by, could snicker, could judge, so either he’s not in his right mind, or he really does not care.
“There are people,” half-hearted and muffled against his lips as you raise up to your tiptoes.
Robby huffs a laugh and tells you, “couldn’t give less of a fuck,” and proves it by settling his free hand on your back, just over the waistband of your pants, and pulls until you’re slotted against him.
It’s… not softer than before, there’s definitely still force behind the kiss, but it’s less greedy. Less about taking, more about giving—giving up, giving in, giving everything.
You’re still just as desperate as you were three hours ago, want him between your legs, want him to wreck you, but the way his mouth feels moving with yours is all you can focus on. Harsh pressure receding into something feather light, angling your face, tender yet controlling, so that his nose bumps yours, parted lips barely dragging over yours, and he’s teasing, making you want him more and more.
“So, here’s my plan,” Robby breathes so, so close.
You think you hear footsteps nearby, can’t find it in yourself to be bothered by them.
“You have my…” you barely manage to swallow a whimper when he pulls you impossibly closer, “—undivided attention.”
Robby smiles and hums, “like the sound of that,” before getting back on track, “my plan, though—”
“Mhm, your plan,” your hands travel down his torso, finding belt loops to hook your fingers in.
“It involves going to your place first, so you can grab clothes, your toothbrush, and whatever toys you use to get yourself off—”
The way he says it punches the air straight from your lungs.
“Then, we’re going to mine, and I’m gonna use every one of those toys, make sure you actually cum.”
Robby nips at your lower lip, traps it and sucks before he continues.
His voice isn’t just gravel now; it’s stone. Firm, deep, excavated from his chest—
“And then, I am going to fuck you until the only thought in your pretty head is how good I can make you feel.”
If it weren’t for Robby’s broad frame in front of you, the setting sun would beam straight through your dangerously blown pupils, fry both of your fucking optic nerves, but the danger is blocked, eclipsed by this menace of a man.
You’ve seen Robby goof around, seen him play and poke fun, but you have never seen him look and sound and be so fiendish—an honest to god villain.
And you are so fucking wet, you think you’re getting dehydrated.
“That… that sounds, uh,” you try, possibly panting, definitely light-headed. But, you are nothing if not stubborn, so you counter, “sounds kinda presumptuous, actually. Assuming I’m just gonna, like, spend the night and cum my brains out.”
You make a show of rolling your eyes. The petulance doesn’t quite land when you shudder from the sensation of his fingers toying with your waistband, so you add, “I’ve noticed that when guys talk a big game, I usually leave disappointed.”
Robby looks entertained, a little endeared, an expression that reads something like, that’s cute.
“I’m sure that’s been your experience in the past, but I’m not some fucking,” he makes a dismissive motion like he can’t be bothered to think too hard about it, “some douchey real estate agent you found on Tinder.”
“What side of Tinder are you on?” you snort.
“I’m not on it at all, actually, but you’re missing the point.”
“Right,” you suck your teeth, still challenging but refusing to move away from him. “The point being you’re gonna rock my world or whatever.”
Robby takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger then uses them to shake your head for you. With his eyebrows raised, his responding, “no,” sounds like an admonishment, “the point being I actually care about making you cum, and plan to do so—multiple times, if I have it my way…”
“Your way,” you parrot.
“My way.” He strokes your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Gonna make sure you don’t send more filthy fucking pictures to anyone but me from now on.”
Is it possible to climax from words alone? It must be because having Robby talk to you like this, show how possessive he can be, it feels like you’re about to explode.
“So I can keep sending videos, then? Didn’t say anything about those.”
“As long as it shows my head between your thighs, go for it.”
Your pitchy, disbelieving giggle breaks enough for him to hear, “what? Are you serious?”
“No, I’m not fucking serious, are you kidding me? My eyes only, got it?”
Your pussy clenches as if he’s already fucking you.
“I—didn’t you have a fucking plan, or are you just gonna keep riling me up?”
“Oh, so you’re on board then?” he toys, smile growing both in size and smugness.
You click your tongue, quietly scoff, “as if you don’t know. Asshole.”
Robby laughs, and you grab a handful of his hoodie before turning and making your way to your car.
He’s more than happy to be tugged along behind you.
On night shift at The Pitt, everyone knows Dr. Jack Abbot only ever asks for one nurse, except her. What starts as seamless teamwork slowly unravels into something harder to ignore when a harmless flirtation forces him to confront the one thing he never planned for... wanting her to choose him back. 3.7k
Oh to be the go to nurse for Dr. Abbot, I would simply pass out. I hope you guys like it, kinda ran out if steam with ideas seeing as this on had nothing to do with my absolute fav thing in the world, tiny humans 🥲
As always please go into this knowing that these stories are mostly built from my maladaptive daydreams, knowing that most points that aren't described in detail are indications I didn’t fascinate on it enough and others over explained because I hyper fixated on that certain point, but most importantly please know I do use AI as my unpaid employee to fix things and act as my co reader. Enjoy!
Night shift runs on patterns.
Lena knows all of them.
She knows which resident spirals when the trauma bay gets loud, which tech vanishes the second restraints come out, which nurse over preps because it makes their hands stop shaking. She knows which attendings are good and which ones are dangerous when they’re tired. She knows who drinks coffee like it’s medication and who swears they don’t need it until their hands start to tremble over a central line tray.
And she knows, without a shadow of doubt, that Dr. Jack Abbot has claimed you.
He doesn’t hide it.
He doesn’t announce it.
He just does it.
“Abbot, trauma alert. Who do you want?” she calls across the nurses’ station.
He doesn’t look up from the chart in his hands.
“Her.”
Not your name. Not a question. Just her.
You don’t react like it’s special. You’re already stepping forward, snapping gloves against your wrists as you move toward him. It’s been like this for months. If he’s lead, you’re with him. If someone tries to float you to another pod,
“She’s with me,” he says.
Calm. Final.
No one argues. Not because he’s intimidating. But because the way he says it makes it feel like the decision was made long before the sentence leaves his mouth.
Chen has started keeping track like it’s a personal hobby.
“He hasn’t taken a single case without her in three weeks,” he mutters one night, leaning against the med cart beside Lena.
Lena hums into her coffee. “Oh, I know.”
Ellis watches too. She’s sharp in a way that misses very little, the kind of woman who can read a room in a glance. She leans her shoulder against the counter, eyes tracking the way you and Jack move through a trauma like you’ve rehearsed it.
“He’s not subtle,” Ellis says lightly.
“No,” Lena agrees. “He’s not.”
Chen checks his phone like he’s timing a marathon. “How long you think before she realises?”
Lena smiles faintly. “Not when it comes to herself.”
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
The sync between you and Jack isn’t learned.
It’s instinct.
He reaches for suction, your hand is already there. He shifts his stance, you lower the bed without being asked. He starts a sentence, you finish it without stepping on his authority. There’s no wasted movement, no friction, no “wait—what do you need?” that slows the room down.
During trauma, when the ER is all noise and bodies and adrenaline and a resident’s voice goes too high with panic, it narrows down to the two of you at the center of it.
“Pressure’s dropping,” someone says.
“I see it,” Jack replies, and his jaw tightens the way it always does when something starts going sideways.
You step closer. Not dramatic. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his arm.
“Jack,” you murmur.
Soft. Grounding.
He steadies instantly.
Chen sees it and leans toward Ellis like he can’t help himself. “Did you see that?”
“She calls him by his first name during trauma,” Ellis replies quietly. “That’s intimate.”
“It’s something,” Chen says.
Lena doesn’t comment. She doesn’t need to. She’s been watching this longer than either of them.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
It shifts mid night, when the ER settles into that dangerous lull where people start to feel almost human again.
You’re at the desk charting when Ellis slides into the chair beside you. She’s warm, easy in her confidence. The kind of person who flirts like it’s second nature, not aggressive, not predatory, just the sort of effortless charm that makes people smile before they’ve decided to.
“You ever take a night off?” she asks casually.
You glance at her. “Sometimes.”
“When’s the last time?”
You think. “Two weeks ago?”
“That’s tragic,” Ellis says, smiling. “You should let me fix that.”
You laugh. Not the polite half smile you give most people. A real one.
Across the station, Jack looks up.
He doesn’t mean to. But the sound of your laugh pulls his attention every time, like some part of him is wired to it. This laugh is light, open, unguarded. It’s not the one you give him in the trauma bay when you’re both running on protocol.
Ellis leans a little closer. “There’s a place down the street. Good music. Strong drinks. I promise I’m excellent company.”
You tilt your head, amused. “Is that a professional recommendation?”
“Very,” she says. “Strictly morale related.”
You grin.
And you don’t pull away when her fingers brush lightly against your forearm.
The room doesn’t change.
But Jack does.
He doesn’t get loud. Doesn’t move immediately. He just… stills, and his mind does something he hates, it starts running through possibilities it shouldn’t have to.
She’s flirting.
And she’s flirting back.
The thought lands heavier than he expects, and with it comes something sharp and unwelcome, doubt.
Is she..?
He stops himself. Don’t assume.
But he can’t unsee what he’s seeing, Ellis leaning in, you smiling, your laughter soft and warm like the night shift isn’t chewing you up.
Maybe I misread this. Maybe she’s just comfortable with me because I’m safe. Maybe I,
You laugh again, like Ellis has said something that genuinely delights you.
That’s when Jack moves.
Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.
He crosses the floor and stops behind you. His hand settles at the small of your back.
It’s instinctive. Protective. The same place his hand lands when people rush past too fast.
But tonight, it means something else.
“Room seven,” he says.
His voice is calm. Lower than usual.
You glance up at him. “Oh—okay.”
You look back at Ellis. “Rain check?”
Ellis smiles knowingly. “I’ll hold you to it.”
Jack doesn’t speak to her. But as you step away, he does look at her over your head, steady, unblinking. Not anger. Warning. Like he’s drawing a line without saying it out loud.
Ellis meets his gaze and lifts one brow, like she understands exactly what she’s just tested.
Chen inhales sharply like he’s watching a car crash.
Lena hides her grin behind her coffee.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
Inside room seven, the door closes.
You reach for gloves out of habit. “What’ve we got?”
Jack doesn’t answer immediately.
He’s looking at you, not clinically, not professionally. Just looking.
“You interested?” he asks.
You blink. “In the patient?”
“In Ellis.”
Your hand pauses mid air. “What?”
“She asked you out.”
You study his face, and the air shifts. Oh.
“It was flirting,” you say softly.
“I know.”
Silence stretches.
“But?” you ask, gentler than you mean to be.
He exhales slowly. “I just need to know if I’ve been misreading this.”
“Misreading what?”
“You,” he says, gaze steady. “Us.”
Your breath stutters.
“You think I’m—” He stops himself, jaw tightening briefly. “If you are, that’s fine. I just need to know.”
It isn’t jealousy the way you expect it to be, loud, possessive, performative. It’s vulnerability. It’s a man who has been openly choosing you for months suddenly realising he might be the only one doing it.
You step closer without thinking. You reach for his wrist, the same way you do in trauma rooms when you need to anchor him.
He stills instantly.
“Jack,” you say quietly.
He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact.
“I flirted because it was easy,” you admit. “Because I didn’t think you cared.”
His eyes sharpen.
“I care.”
Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t think you were an option.”
The room feels smaller.
“You’re the only option,” he says.
No hesitation. No theatrics. Just truth.
Your heart pounds, and you hate how much you feel it. “I’m not with Ellis,” you whisper. “I just didn’t realise we were… something.”
His hand shifts from your wrist to your waist.
Warm. Certain.
“We are,” he says.
And it’s not a question.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
When you walk back into the main pod, something has changed.
It’s subtle, but it’s there like static in the air. Jack’s hand doesn’t leave your back when someone rushes past. His voice stays lower when he speaks to you. It’s not inappropriate, not obvious. It’s just… different. Like he’s speaking to you from a place he doesn’t allow anyone else access to.
Lena watches you both emerge from room seven and doesn’t bother hiding her amusement.
Chen exhales dramatically. “You owe me twenty.”
Ellis shrugs. “Worth it.”
You pause at the station, cheeks warm, trying to recalibrate the world around the fact that Jack Abbot has looked at you and said you’re the only option like it’s the most obvious thing in the universe.
“Abbot,” Lena calls. “Incoming—abdominal pain, hypotensive in triage. Who do you want?”
Jack doesn’t hesitate.
“With me.”
This time, you smile when he says it.
And Lena finally laughs out loud, quiet, delighted, like she’s been waiting for you to catch up to the plot.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
For a while, you run on that new awareness like it’s an IV drip. It makes everything sharper. Every time Jack says your name. Every time his hand briefly finds your back to guide you through a crowded hallway. Every time his voice drops a notch when he speaks to you, like the rest of the world is too loud and you’re the only thing he wants to keep steady.
You start noticing patterns you’ve been blind to.
You notice that he requests you even when it’s inconvenient.
That he’ll pull you from a task mid stream just to have you at his shoulder for a case he could absolutely run without you.
You notice that when you step away, even for a minute, he glances up more often.
Not searching like a lost man. Not frantic.
Just checking.
As if his brain only fully relaxes when it knows you’re still in the same orbit.
And you realise, with a strange twist of heat in your chest, that it isn’t just you who anticipates him.
He anticipates you too.
He’s learned the cadence of your movement, the way you go quiet when you’re tired, the way you rub your thumb over your knuckle when you’re thinking, the exact moment you’re about to step in and hand him something he hasn’t asked for yet.
It isn’t just professional.
It’s personal in all the ways the ER pretends it isn’t.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
Around 03:40, Lena appears at the station with a look that means trouble. She’s holding the staffing board like it’s a weapon.
You glance up, already suspicious.
“No,” you say before she speaks.
Lena’s smile is wicked. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re about to,” you reply.
Chen perks up immediately. Ellis shifts closer like she can’t help it.
Lena taps the board. “We’re down a nurse in psych. Their sitter called out. Security is tied up. I need someone steady over there until day shift gets in.”
You stare at her, horrified. “Lena.”
“You’re steady,” Lena says, unbothered. “You can handle it.”
“I’m on trauma side—”
“I know,” Lena replies. “But I need a body. And you’re the one I trust.”
Chen makes a quiet sound of sympathy. Ellis winces.
Your stomach twists, because the idea of being pulled away from Jack feels suddenly… wrong in a way you can’t explain without sounding insane.
Lena’s gaze flicks, very pointedly, toward Jack.
He’s a few feet away, reading a chart.
He looks up.
Not at the board.
At you.
His eyes sharpen immediately, as if he’s clocked the shift in your expression like it’s a vitals change.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
Lena tilts her head, innocent. “Staffing.”
Jack’s jaw tightens. “She’s with me.”
Lena holds his gaze. “Not for the next hour.”
The air goes still.
You’ve seen Jack in a trauma bay when things are going bad, calm, clinical, decisive. This isn’t that. This is controlled frustration, something more personal he doesn’t let leak out often.
He looks at you again. “You okay?”
It’s not a question about psych.
It’s a question about being away from him.
You swallow. “I can do it.”
Jack’s eyes hold yours for a beat too long.
Then, quietly, “I don’t want you over there alone.”
Your chest tightens. “I won’t be alone. There’s—”
“Yeah,” he says, but his tone says he doesn’t believe it.
Lena clears her throat with theatrical patience. “Hour. Maybe less if things settle.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the board, then to Lena, then to you.
His voice drops. “I’ll come with you.”
Lena laughs. “You will not.”
Jack’s eyes narrow.
“You have four patients waiting for disposition,” Lena continues. “You have a trauma bay on standby. You are not walking into psych for an hour because you don’t like staffing.”
Jack’s jaw works.
You step closer, lowering your voice so only he hears. “It’s okay,” you say, and you try to mean it. “I’ll be fine.”
He looks at you like he’s memorising your face, like he’s trying to decide whether to argue harder.
Finally, he exhales, slow, controlled.
“Okay,” he says, but it isn’t agreement. It’s surrender.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles briefly at your back.
Soft. Grounding. Almost like an apology.
“Radio if you need me,” he says.
“I won’t—” you start.
Jack’s eyes cut into you. “Radio.”
You nod.
And as you walk away, you feel his gaze on you like a physical thing.
Behind you, Chen murmurs to Ellis, “He looks like someone stole his oxygen.”
Ellis smirks faintly. “He’s going to be unbearable.”
Lena sips her coffee, satisfied. “Good.”
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
Psych side is quieter, but it’s the wrong kind of quiet. The kind that holds tension instead of releasing it. The lights feel harsher. The walls feel closer. People talk in softer voices like volume might set something off.
You settle into the routine, checks, reassurances, charting, but you feel off balance in a way you don’t want to admit.
You keep waiting for the moment your radio crackles and Jack’s voice comes through, low, calm, meant for you.
It doesn’t.
A half hour drags by.
Then forty minutes.
Your gaze flicks to the clock too often.
And you tell yourself it’s because you want the hour to end, not because you miss him.
But the truth sits in your throat like a pill you can’t swallow, you don’t like being away from him.
Not because you can’t function alone. You’ve been functioning alone your whole life.
Because now you know what it feels like to be chosen.
And being unchosen, even temporarily, feels like losing something you didn’t realise you needed until you had it.
Your radio stays silent.
By the time Lena finally pages for you to return, your shoulders are tight with a tension you can’t shake.
You walk back through the main pod and the noise hits you like relief.
Jack is at the desk, speaking to a resident, but the second you step into his line of sight, his attention snaps to you.
It’s immediate.
So immediate it makes your chest warm.
The resident keeps talking. Jack doesn’t interrupt.
But you see it, the shift in his posture, the way he relaxes by degrees like his body has been holding itself too rigid for too long.
When the resident finally walks away, Jack steps toward you.
“You’re back,” he says.
Not “okay.”
Not “good.”
Back.
Like that’s what matters.
“I’m back,” you echo, and you don’t know why your voice goes soft.
Jack’s gaze drops briefly, quick assessment, automatic, checking you the way he checks a patient. Not for injuries, for signs of stress. He finds what he’s looking for in your face.
“Did anything happen?” he asks.
“No,” you say. “It was fine.”
Jack’s mouth tightens. He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go.
His hand settles, without thinking, at your back again as someone barrels past with a stretcher. He guides you out of the way with gentle pressure.
And the pressure feels like a claim, yes,
But more than that, it feels like relief.
Like he’s been waiting to put his hand there again.
Like the ER only lines up correctly when you’re in your place beside him.
Chen watches from the med cart, eyebrows raised.
Ellis leans close to him and murmurs, “See? He’s calmer.”
Chen shakes his head. “It’s ridiculous.”
Ellis grins. “It’s cute.”
Lena pretends she doesn’t hear either of them, but her smile is sharp with satisfaction.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
The rest of the shift is busy enough that the conversation you had in room seven doesn’t get revisited in words, but it’s there in everything else.
Jack speaks to everyone in his usual tone, efficient, clipped, professional.
But when he speaks to you, it’s different.
When he needs you, he doesn’t bark your title. He says your name, low and steady, like it’s meant to land softly.
When you hand him something, his fingers brush yours for half a second longer than necessary.
When you make eye contact, he holds it, not long enough for anyone else to call it out, long enough for you to feel it in your ribs.
And when Lena tries, once, to assign you elsewhere again,
Jack doesn’t argue this time.
He just looks at you and says, “Stay.”
Two syllables.
Soft.
Final.
You stay.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
By the time dawn starts bleeding pale through the ambulance bay doors, the ER feels like it’s exhaling.
People move slower. Voices drop. The hardest work is done, and what’s left is paperwork and pain meds and discharge instructions and the dull ache of exhaustion settling into bones.
You’re washing your hands when you realise you’re trembling slightly, not fear, just fatigue. The kind that sneaks up when adrenaline finally steps back.
Jack appears in your peripheral like he’s been tracking you all shift.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
You glance up, trying for casual. “Hey.”
He holds a paper cup out toward you.
Coffee.
Black.
Still warm.
Your chest tightens in a way that’s embarrassingly tender.
“I didn’t ask,” you say automatically, because you don’t know what to do with softness if it isn’t disguised as routine.
“You didn’t have to,” Jack replies.
The exact same line you gave him earlier.
Now in his mouth, it feels different, like he’s telling you he’s been paying attention to you in all the small ways that matter.
You take it.
Your fingers brush his.
He doesn’t let go immediately.
Not dramatic. Not romantic movie.
Just… a beat too long.
A choice.
“Drink,” he says quietly.
You do, because it’s easier to obey than to sit in the feeling spreading through you.
The coffee is bitter and grounding. The warmth seeps into your hands, then your chest.
Jack watches you for a moment like he’s making sure you’re still here, still upright, still okay.
“You were gone too long,” he says.
It’s not a complaint.
It’s not a demand.
It’s the closest he’s come all night to sounding honest in a way that isn’t hidden inside medicine.
You swallow, looking down at the cup so you don’t have to hold his gaze while you answer.
“I didn’t like it either,” you admit.
Silence.
When you glance up, Jack’s expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it, still controlled, still him, but loosened at the edges like he’s letting you see what he keeps locked down.
“Good,” he says quietly.
And that one word feels like a hand at the back of your neck. Like approval. Like relief. Like something possessive in the gentlest way.
The hallway is mostly empty now. Day shift is filtering in, loud with sunlight energy, filling the space with chatter.
Jack shifts slightly closer so the noise doesn’t have to travel between you.
“I’m not good at…” He stops.
You stare at him, waiting.
He exhales, then tries again, voice so low it’s almost only for you. “I’m not good at saying things I can’t chart.”
Your mouth parts, surprised.
Jack’s gaze flicks to your coffee cup like it’s safer than your eyes. “But I meant what I said.”
Your pulse stutters.
“You’re the reason I get through these shifts,” he adds, quiet and steady.
It isn’t grand.
It isn’t dramatic.
It’s just true, offered like a fact he’s been carrying alone.
You don’t know what to do with the heat that rises behind your ribs. You don’t know how to respond without making it too much.
So you do the only thing you know how to do.
You step closer.
Just enough that your shoulder brushes his arm.
The same way you do in trauma.
Grounding.
“I’m here,” you say softly.
Jack looks down at you, and for a second the ER fades around the edges. His hand lifts, hesitates, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away, then settles at your back again.
Gentle.
Certain.
Like it belongs.
“I know,” he murmurs.
And then, even quieter, so quiet you almost miss it,
“Stay.”
Not as an order.
As a request.
As a truth.
You nod once, small, and it feels like choosing him back.
Lena’s voice floats from the station behind you, amused. “Abbot. Try not to scare day shift with whatever… this is.”
Jack doesn’t look away from you when he answers.
“Isnt is such a good morning Lena?”
Chen’s voice follows, smug. “I want it on record I called this.”
Ellis laughs. “You called nothing. You just ran your mouth.”
Chen points. “Pay up.”
Ellis tosses him a bill without looking, eyes bright with satisfaction as she watches you and Jack stand too close in the hallway like neither of you knows how to step back now that you’ve stopped pretending.
Lena, still the queen of her night shift kingdom, sips her coffee and watches it all like she’s been waiting for this ending for weeks.
Jack leans in slightly, voice just for you again. “You ready to go?”
You glance down at your coffee cup, then back up at him.
“Yeah,” you say, softer than you mean to be. “I’m ready.”
Jack’s hand presses once at your back, an almost imperceptible promise.
“Good,” he murmurs.
And as you walk out of the ER together, the sunlight feels like something you can survive now, not because the night didn’t take everything out of you, but because for the first time, you’re not walking out alone.
Ok so I saw this like interview thing with Shawn Hatosy about how he loves playing tennis now, and I was wondering if there was any fics of like Robby and Abbot with the “challengers” universe where like Robby and Abbot are the two guys and reader is Tashi. If there’s no fics is it possible anyone could make one 👀 lmk, please and thank youuuuu!
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