Not all of the people reading your x reader fics have white skin
Just a gentle reminder before you write characteristics that assume whiteness and exclude your black/indigenous/poc supporters-specifically in 'x reader' works.
I love and appreciate writers, but this is a recurring avoidable issue (going on for decades now).
"your dusky pink nipples" "your face turned just as red as his" "he could see the blush on your face" “your cheeks furiously blushed” “your ears burn bright red” “The look in your reddened face” “your knuckles white with effort” “bruised purple against your light skin”
Describing the physical feeling instead of the visual change helps include your readers while also elevating your writing IMO.
Anyone can say "Your cheeks turned red with embarrassment" or "Your face flushed" but wouldn't you rather say "A burning heat rushed across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling right underneath the surface. You look anywhere but him, hoping your newfound interest in the buildings ceiling tiles will ease the fire tightening beneath your skin" And instead of the other character pointing out that the readers face is red, they can point out the obvious flustered facial expression/body language.
If you want your reader insert to have white/fairskin, then just label them white!reader or put the mention in the warnings/summary.
↪I have reached out to writers I favored/supported before and sometimes I have been met with severe hostility and defensiveness. I often wonder if people are doing this purposefully or for some reason think only white people read their fanfics (?)-if that's the case then be upfront and label your reader inserts as white!reader or something PLEASE. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like black women and other POC aren’t wanted or considered in these fandoms because it comes off like that in your writing. If you need a different motivation, just know you're missing out on more interactions, reblogs, and a bigger reader base. I don’t know why white is the default for so many writers in unspecified x reader/reader insert fics-the people on your blog following, reading, and supporting you aren’t all white and fair-skinned.
I am not talking about OC fics or fics where race/skintone is x specified in summary or warnings. This is specifically about unspecified "x reader" where whiteness is assumed as the default
Put in the comments good replacements for writers to use!
thinking about frank's relapse in the context of robby saying "i kicked him out of this department so he could get the appropriate help he needs" because it falls right into what al-hashimi is saying back at him that robby only thinks about himself.
robby thinks he is the catalyst for frank's sobriety, but because we know he relapsed, that's not true. as far as we know, frank didn't have a very strong support system while he was away, so when he relapsed, it was up to him and him alone to get help. robby never reached out to check on him, and he probably also wasn't doing the math with 186 days to know that it was new year's eve when frank got sober again, and if he did, he would probably be devastated not because frank relapsed, but because frank got help without his influence.
divorced soft dom frank langdon x younger inexperienced female reader
cw: age-gap relationship, dryhumping, langdon is a praising machine and reader has a praise kink
frank langdon loves to brag about you, his controversially younger girlfriend. he's had enough of his coworkers teasing him for being a single ken with two kids, so when you two finally dated, he bought hotdogs for everyone in day shift to celebrate his first day of being your boyfriend.
a lot of people wonder why would a sweet little angel like you want to date a guy like frank. he isn't exactly easy to deal with. meanwhile, you couldn't help but wonder, why would abby dump this man? frank is gentle, caring, and he's gorgeous too. he never let you down.
he always asks for your consent in anything he's about to do.
"angel, can i kiss you there? i can feel your pulse. your heart is pumping blood so fast," his warm breath ghosts the side of your neck. you're currently sitting on his lap, both your hands are clutching his shirt. frank smells like sea salt and you love it. his scent always grounds you on moments like this.
when you nod, frank presses his mouth on your neck, right on the pulse. he stays like that for a few seconds before switching between soft nips and licking. you never felt so wanted before.
his hands slip under your shirt, tracing your back, unclasping the lacy bra he bought you a week ago. you flinch a little in surprise and he stops immediately. "easy, bunny. too soon?" you can tell he tried to make his voice sounds softer but failed because you can still hear the hoarseness.
"just surprised..." you mutter.
"yeah? should've talked you through it, hun. i'm sorry, alright?" he peppers apologetic kisses on your neck and chest. "won't happen again, sweetheart. i promise."
right. he also talks you through everything. you're rather... inexperienced, compared to other girls around you. you once told him about this as your insecurity, thinking he'd be upset, but he didn't. he found it adorable."what a good girl you are, darling. keeping yourself pure, baby? for who, i wonder? for me, yeah? i'll take care of you, i promise. ain't nothing to be sad about, baby." that's what he said a month ago when you two started dating officially.
he nuzzles your neck, his stuble making you giggle. he chuckles at that, "tickles?"
you nod.
his hands continue their journey up your back, stroking the soft skin there. "i unclasp it already, honey. can i keep going?"
a soft whimper left your mouth, "yeah..."
"good girl. thank you, baby. i'll take off your shirt now, okay? can i see my pretty baby?"
another nod from you and sighs in relief, "atta girl. my brave little bunny. arms up."
he slides your shirt off your head, then your bra. he takes a moment to admire the view, wetting his lips because the air suddenly feels too hot and humid around you two.
frank's hands move to cup your breasts, giving them a slow squeeze that makes your stomach tingles. his lips meet yours as he does that and you swear you can feel the dampness between your thighs.
"can i use my mouth, angel? just like last time," his voice is gruff from arousal. you can't help but nod. "my beautiful angel..." were his last words before his lips close around your nipple. your fingers find his hair, gripping them as you whimper and moan.
he switches from one breast to the other. your head is dizzy with pleasure and you subconsciously rock your hips forward against his crotch. frank chuckles, "ah-ah, little lady wants more, huh?"
"feels good..." you whimper, hips still rolling slowly.
"then keep going, baby. use me 'till you come."
then his mouth is back on your breast. suckling and nipping as his hands brush your hair. he's not guiding your movement, he wants you to find your own rhythm, setting everything at your pace. he knows that this much of stimulation is enough to make you finish.
you can feel his hardness pressing against your damp panties. frank can feel it too, but his focus is still on you. on making his baby feels good, so he ignored it.
"feeling good, bun?"
you gasp, "frank— ngh!"
he bit down a little harder on your nipple and your eyes roll back, whole body shaking as you come clothed. slick fluid coating your panties, leaving a wet spot on his pants. frank brings your head down to his chest, stroking the back of your head gently.
"ssh, easy..."
you whimper in his chest, catching your breath. frank plants kisses on the top of your head. "you're getting so good at making yourself come. my smart baby," he holds you there tightly.
after a few moments, you lift your head up, looking at him with glassy eyes from the pleasure earlier. he notices that and raises an eyebrow, "what's that look for?"
"wanna help you come, frank."
oh, he was right. his sweet baby is a fast learner, after all.
—
hey so this is my first fic ever i'm lowkey nervous
a medical conference in vegas, four friends, and a drunk saturday night sure wouldn't be the perfect mix for disaster, right?
wc: 8.5k
cw: suggestive commentary but no smut, emery and reader are besties, it goes from 0 to 100, accidental marriage, possible medical inaccuracies, alcohol consumption, accidental marriage life, reader falls and hits her head, mentions of blood, dana is a sweetheart, emery and samira start dating after they get back from vegas, reader and robby are like older brother/little sister, jack's a widow and his old ring is mentioned once, reader kinda sabotages herself (relatable!), john shen is annoying and gets called little shit (affectionately), sorta happy ending. i think that is pretty much it!
you knew the medical conference gloria had made you all attend had been a terrible idea from the moment the sentence left her mouth. robby, emery, jack, and you had been sent out to vegas for a week filled with doctors from all over the country speaking on new medical procedures that could be beneficial for the ptmc
the first sign of something going wrong was the flight over, it had been nothing short of an uncomfortable nightmare. what would’ve normally been a five hour direct flight turned into a five hour waiting time after the flight had been delayed two times. not to mention that the airline had definitely overbooked the flight, so it had been a long fight with the airline to make sure you had tickets for the next one, but at least you guys got a free night at the airport hotel, as well as free meals while you waited for the next day's flight. getting robby to explain to gloria the whole situation had been an even worse experience, the former getting quickly annoyed at anything the latter had to say which made the rest of you annoyed of hearing the huffs coming out from robby’s mouth, so you and emery decided to protect your peace and made your way to the hotel room so you could at least try to rest before the four am flight
by the time you finally landed in vegas, the airline had lost your bags, leaving you with nothing but your toiletries and laptop, so on top of fighting for at least another hour so they could find your luggage, you had to buy a new phone charger–because, yes, your phone was dead–and some presentable clothes for the long day that was awaiting you. the four of you made your way to the hotel, your mood obviously soured past beyond solution as you tried to convince emery to go with you to the mall so you could buy something for the conference you had to attend. unfortunately for you, she refused, saying that she needed to take a long shower after stuffing her face with food and coffee, so you had ended up going alone
by the time you made it back to the hotel, jack, emery, and robby had already made their way down for the start of the conference. jack kindly had left some food in your room next to a note that said almost lost my hand stopping emery from eating this alongside a cup of coffee, so you ate it after the fast shower you took and started getting ready to go down to the room where the conference was being held
“what did i miss?” you asked emery as soon as you sat down next to her
“not much,” she started “dr. lopez talked about some robot-assisted surgery techniques he spent the last year researching. not gonna lie, it was cool, but it has been the most interesting one so far” she shrugged “love the fit, tho” she pointed “i hope you bought some more, the airline called a while ago and said they had trouble locating your bags”
“i’m going to kill someone” you groaned, “well, at least i knocked down three hundred bucks from the clothes i bought thanks to the voucher they gave me”
“never knew doctors could be so stingy with their money” she joked
“oh, you are one to talk” you bit back a chuckle, shaking your head “i should’ve stayed home, i wouldn’t have lost my favorite heels if i had”
she just nodded “i hear you, girl” she leaned into your seat, “those black heels you wear everywhere are to die for” you couldn’t help but hum in agreement at her words and you both sat up straight, turning your heads around to keep paying attention to dr. miller’s presentation
the day was wearing off of you. the mix of the early flight, the last minute shopping adventure, and the barely three hours of sleep you had managed to get during both the hotel stay and the flight over exhausted you to no end, so when robby suggested the four of you go to dinner with some other doctors in the conference you were hesitant to agree. after some convincing from emery–who basically begged to go since she wanted to find someone to hook up with–you agreed, and considering the last presentation had ended around eight thirty, you all went straight from the conference room to the hotel’s restaurant
“so, how come i have never seen any of you here before?” dr. miller–a very brilliant and good looking, 40-year-old woman–asked both emery and you
“we lost a bet this year” you answered sincerely with a small smile on your face “we made a dumb bet and the loser had to come here with the grumpy docs”
jack–who was sitting right in front of you–shook his head, an amused expression on his face “easy, doc. don’t go breaking my heart” he lifted his glass to his mouth, trying (and failing) to hide the smile on his face
dr. miller let out a chuckle, “i would say that i find it hard to believe, but i would be lying” you chuckled in response, lifting your glass and making direct eye contact with jack, who held it for a second before winking at you
the rest of the night went without a hitch, but considering how tired you were you decided to call it a night earlier than the rest. jack kindly offered to walk you up to your room with the excuse that he was also heading to bed, so you had no choice but to accept his offer and make your way to the elevator after saying goodbye to everyone
to say that you didn’t like jack would be a gigantic lie. you had first met him back when you were finishing your resident program, a mix-up had sent you straight into the day shift at ptmc’s er on your last year as a resident. you were walking around with dana–who was so kindly giving you a quick tour before the shift handover–when a figure walked right out of an exam room wheeling a gurney, running into you and sending you into the ground. apologies were exchanged and he offered to buy you coffee to make up for the painful bruise that was sure to appear on your left hip in the hours to come, after that, you both had hit it off. the change to nights had come as a surprise to no one, and obviously no one had batted an eye to the blossoming group friendship between you, emery, parker, and shen. after a couple of months the bond between the night shift crew grew stronger and closer, coffee stops before shifts with shen were mandatory. emery and you found a way to make your schedules align at least once a month to have a night off to get your asses drunk, at this point parker was a mandatory guest in your family’s cookouts, and jack had charmed his way into your niece’s heart. you once off-handedly mentioned you needed to find another person to coach alongside you for your niece’s soccer team and next thing you knew, jack was there helping you coach a team full of twelve year old girls on a saturday morning right after a grueling fifteen hour shift. after that day, your niece couldn’t stop talking about how dreamy coach-doctor abbot was, and you couldn’t blame her because you thought the same
the way up was filled with an easy silence, jack was standing close enough for you to feel the heat coming from his body. he made good on his offer and walked you to your room door, even though his room was on the other side of the hall. “thank you, you didn’t have to do walk me up or anything”
“don’t mention it, angel” he shrugged with his hands in his front pockets, “not a big deal” you smiled and gave him a hug. at first he froze, not knowing where to put his hands, but a second later he snapped out of it and snaked his right arm around your waist. “have a good night, jack” you said still hugging him
“you too, angel”
even after saying goodbye, neither of you made an effort to pull away from the hug. you both were holding on to each other with nothing but love and want, but you knew it was a bad idea to even entertain that though, so you were the first one to try to pull away. jack’s arm was still around your waist, his hold a bit more firm than before. you saw as his gaze swept through your face, stopping on your lips. you were about to lean in and close the space when you heard someone clear their throat
emery was standing there in front of you with a shit eating grin, not even trying to hide it. jack and you pulled away, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head as a nervous reaction, “i would love to say something–” “please, don’t” you cut her off, “i would love to say something but i am dead on my feet so whatever i want to say would have to wait until tomorrow morning” her tired smile said it all “now, move. i want to get in my, temporary, bed” she walked through jack and you to her room and went in after winking at you
you let out a laugh before closing the space and pressing a kiss to jack’s cheek before going inside your own room, “good night, jack. for real”
the rest of the week went on without a hitch, which means you had the weekend to rest and enjoy a barely there vacation before going back to the exciting mess that is the er. so the four of you decided to go out for drinks after dinner
which unknowingly would bring you to the most confusing moment of your life so far. the light coming through the open curtains was shining way too brightly and your head felt like it was about to explode. the last thing you remembered was downing shots with emery and jack while robby recorded a video with the vintage camera you had bought earlier that evening
you raised your hand from under the pillow straight to rub your eyes when you felt it, the cold of a ring you were sure you didn’t have on before leaving the hotel
“oh no, no, no, no, no” you gasped out when you saw that, yes, you had a wedding ring on your finger. you sat up abruptly–which in retrospect was a terrible idea since it made you instantly nauseous–and turned to look to your side to figure out who was sleeping next to you. “oh, god” you whispered-shouted when you realized jack abbot was sleeping next to you, shirtless and face down on the pillow, “this has to be a really bad joke” you put your hand on your mouth to try and calm you down a bit before you ended up hyperventilating. you stood up and looked around the room for your phone, your underwear, and jack’s button up shirt and then made your way out of the room
you walked down to emery’s room and started knocking the door. after a couple of seconds you heard her voice coming from inside the room, telling you to wait a second because she had to get up from bed. “emery, open the fucking door. i’m freaking out” you called as you knocked on the door once again
emery opened the door and couldn’t help but let out a laugh when she saw you there, standing in the hallway with a badly buttoned up shirt and your underwear, “would you believe me if i told you i knew this was gonna happen?” she mocked
“i don’t have time for this, emery” you deadpanned “i need to know why and how i woke up as mrs. abbot”
“no! i don’t– what?” she stammered out as she tried to stop laughing “i have to admit i didn’t see that one coming. oh my god, come in and tell me everything you remember”
you walked inside her room and started talking as she brought you a glass of water and some pills for your headache. “so, you remember up until we were in that shady bar downing shots” she sipped on her coffee
“yes” you nodded “everything is pretty blank after that. and, well, i woke up as a married woman” you lifted your left hand
“you know, robby spent the night filming something with that camera you bought” she pointed out “we can see the video and find out exactly what happened”
‘i cannot believe you just got married’ robby’s slurred voice was coming out of your laptop’s speaker. you had managed to convince robby to let you be the first to see the videos he had recorded last night, so after he agreed, you locked yourself in your hotel room and pressed play. the first twenty minutes were a video of the four of you sharing drinks in a low lighted bar where a bride-to-be took special attention to your friend group after one of her bridesmaids spent fifteen minutes having a more than friendly conversation with robby, after that, they had convinced you to join their bachelorette party, which was a very planned bar hopping through vegas, mixing casinos on the strip and local bars through the night. ‘this tequila tastes really bad’ now it was your slurred voice coming out of the speaker and you understood why you woke up that morning with a raging headache and a very high desire to die
throughout the video you could see how close jack and you would get after each drink. emery made sure to point it out in more than one occasion, saying how relieved she was that finally you both were going to do something about that crazy sexual tension you were constantly drowning on
‘she looks amazing, doesn’t she, abbot?’ emery’s smugly voiced to which jack only nodded while lifting his glass to take a sip ‘okay, go and tell her before that guy over there asks her to go home with him’ the video now showed a very blurry image of you, standing a few feet away from them, talking with a guy. then she turned the camera back to jack, who had an annoyed expression, and downed the rest of his drink before standing up and walking towards you, putting an arm around your waist before pulling you back into him. the camera turned back to her ‘and that, folks, it’s how you do it’
you watched the rest of the three hour video. the camera was being passed between emery and robby every once in a while. at one point, she sat down next to, who she described in the video as, a very very hot girl, bought her a drink, and shamelessly flirted with her for at least ten minutes straight. the next cut was robby filming you practically sitting on jack’s lap, his hand on your thigh, as you were speaking directly into his ear and watched as he nodded, biting his lip to keep a smile from escaping. robby then mumbled ‘these two are the biggest idiots in the world’ before the camera cut. you paused it and checked your phone. emery had texted you, asking if you had finished the video. jack had also texted you, telling you that you needed to talk and that you couldn’t keep ignoring him the whole day. you sighed, putting your phone down and kept watching the video. the next shot was of you, buying some flowers from a 24-hours bodega. ‘this is the next bride to be’ emery said, making you laugh and say back ‘i hope he bought me a nice ring’
the video kept playing, now showing the little ceremony on one of the elvis’ chapels. you cried, even in your very inebriated state, jack and you had said some beautiful words to each other, and it killed you a bit that everything had been a drunk mistake and that he didn’t mean anything he had said. you closed the laptop before the video showed the two of you kissing. you wiped the tears on your face and took a long shower before texting emery that you now knew what had happened
by the time dinner rolled around, you had already cried your eyes out at least twice, had a long nap after a long shower, and had an existential crisis about how to approach the obvious subject at hand. you were sitting in the hotel restaurant, a wine glass in your hand while you waited for your food, “so, what are we having for dinner?” your hand froze halfway to your mouth when you heard jack’s voice from behind you
“whatever you want, it’s on the hospital’s dime” you sipped your wine
“why are you avoiding me, lovely wife?” he asked, the term of endearment rolling easily off his tongue
“don’t” you lifted your left hand to signal him to stop “please, let’s– let’s not do this tonight”
“do what, honey?” he asked with a smirk on his face
“enough, jack” you took a big sip of your wine just as the waitress came to take your orders
“you didn’t take it off” he pointed after the waitress left
“what?” you were confused
“the ring,” an honest smile appeared on his face, “you haven’t taken it off” you licked your lips and lowered your gaze to the ring on your left hand. you slowly lowered the hand until it was on top of your thigh under the table and mumbled whatever before you drank the rest of the wine
“look, i think the only reasonable outcome in this situation is getting an annulment as soon as we get back home,” you got interrupted by the waitress bringing jack’s whiskey and refilling your wine glass, you both thanked her as she left again, “since it’s sunday night and we won't be able to do it before leaving”
he tilted his head, “i know i’m a menace but i didn’t think it would be so horrible to be married to me”
“i– that– that’s not what i meant” you pointed a finger at him
he laughed “i’m not offended, honey” he sipped his whiskey “i just simply suggest we see how this plays out for a month and after that we see if an annulment is the best option”
“what is that supposed to mean?” you asked “you wanna play house for a month and see if it works out?” you added with a laugh
“that is exactly what i mean” he smirked
“you are insane, abbot” you sighed
“oh, back to last names” he put one hand on his chest pretending to be hurt “you wound me, wife”
you chuckled “stop it, abbot” you shook your head “let’s say i agree, how exactly are we going to play this out? are we supposed to tell everyone or not?”
“we play it like nothing happened. it’s an us thing, not everyone has to know” he shrugged
“i think people will have some questions when they see this” you lifted your left hand “i mean, i know people had them before, when you still used yours”
“i know.” he smiled, “princess and perlah didn’t leave me alone for a long time. it was dana who finally got them to back off”
“thank god for dana, then” you took another sip of your wine “okay, what else would we hypothetically do?”
“two dates a week. and we have to stay at the other’s place at least twice” you raised your eyebrows “what?”
“you have this all very well planned. why? an–and how? when did you have time?”
“let’s say this isn’t the first time i imagine spending time with you”
“way to make a girl blush” you licked your lips and sighed “fine. i’m in” you smiled as you extended your hand. he was surprised for a second before shaking it with a smirk on his face
two weeks into your ‘married’ life with jack came the moment you had been avoiding the best you could. you had woken up extremely late which meant you didn’t have time to buy coffee or even eat before you went in. by the time you had arrived, hand-offs had already happened, so you missed them by minutes. shen had a shit eating grin when he saw you practically sprint to the lockers so you could change into your scrubs, saying something about setting the perfect example for the med students and the residents so you flipped him off before you went to change
after that, the shift had been pretty chaotic. multiple patients had you floating from one room to another. you were exhausted and starving, and it was barely 1 am. shen had been annoying you again with stories about the week you were in vegas for the past fifteen minutes; how a group of women had come in so drunk he had to beg them to stop singing mamma mia, a kid who had eaten multiple cat treats and couldn’t stop puking, and a grandma who couldn’t stop flirting with him. it all came to a halt when he actually paid attention to you, more specifically, to the ring on your left hand when you finally pulled your hand out of where it had been hidden by your head while supporting your head
he looked at you confused before grabbing your hand “what is that?”
you looked up from your chart to see what he was gawking at. the ring, you had forgotten to take off the ring before you came to the hospital “uhm, nothing?” you tried
“no, no. that isn’t gonna work” he shook his head, far too entertained with the horrified look on your face by being caught with a wedding ring on your finger
“no, seriously, it’s nothing. i just liked it and i bought it” you tried to play it cool
he shook his head “i don’t buy it, liar” he grinned “you got secretly married, and i plan to find everything out”
“i cannot believe you are so nosey. mind your own business, little shit” you shoved his shoulder and he laughed before making his way to one of his patient’s room to check on them. you went back to your charting and after a couple of minutes you heard jack call you into the break room
when you entered you saw him sitting in one of the chairs, two iced coffees and an italian sub with fries in front of him, “you didn’t have to” you said sitting down on the chair opposite to him
he shrugged, “anything for my wife”
“shut up, the walls in here are thin” you took a sip of the coffee “and the little shit is being more nosey than ever” you rolled your eyes
“why?” he reached for one of the fries
“because i forgot to take this off” you raised your left hand and he smiled “stop smiling, i was running late and i forgot to take it off”
“all i’m hearing is that you wear it outside the hospital”
“i’m gonna take it off and throw it off the roof” you threatened
“don’t do that” he laughed and stood up when lena called his name, “besides, i don't take mine off, either” he leaned down to whisper in your ear before softly pressing his lips on your temple and leaving
you finished your food as fast as you could before quickly washing your hands and walking back to the hub with your coffee in one hand and shen’s in the other. “here you go, little shit” you passed him the coffee
“thank you, you’re a savior” he gave you a sideway hug “just because of this i won’t pry into your mysterious husband–” he stopped to sip the coffee “at least for today”
you glared at him, “don’t make me take that coffee away from you”
the rest of the shift went smoother than the first half had. you were ready to finally say goodbye and run straight to your bed when samira made a beeline to where you were standing, “we need to talk” she grabbed your arm and walked you both into a storage closet
“what’s up, mira?” you asked her
“why is it that i’m hearing that you got secretly married from shen and not from you? i thought we were friends” she complained
“that little shit,” you hissed. “look, i’m not married. well, i am, but it is a very long story. which i am in no way ready to talk about” you scratched the back of your neck “i’m sorry, mira. no one would’ve known if it weren’t for shen, who i’m going to kill when i see him again”
she sighed, “will you tell me?” she must’ve seen your confused expression “ when you’re ready, will you tell me?”
you nodded, “yes, mira. i will” you hugged her, “now, if you excuse me, i need to go kill shen” she laughed pulling away from the hug and letting you walk out of the storage closet, sending shen a lovely,
if there was something doctors and nurses didn’t do, it was minding their own business. by the end of that week practically everyone knew of the wedding ring sitting on your left hand–courtesy of john shen, who ran away from you every chance he got–so you saw no reason as to why you couldn’t keep wearing it, except maybe the shit eating grin in robby’s face every time he saw the ring or every single time emery found a second on her very busy day to torment you with texts about how every time she was called down to the pitt for a patient, she could see how the rings in both your and jack’s hands shone like–in her words–two very bright and annoying stars
you had been saved by dana from princess and perlah on more than one occasion, both nurses trying to get you to say something so they could win the bet they tried and failed to keep secret. still, her oh so selfless saving came with a knowing look every single time, you knew she knew something was going on and she knew you knew she knew, she just needed confirmation
it was one of those weird easy nights (you were too scared to drop the q word) so you stole a moment to meet with emery in the l&d wing to get a snack from their vending machine as well as a couple of the cold teas the nurses kept hidden in their break room. you quietly snuck in and out and then made your way to the er’s break room so you could try to drink your tea and eat your snacks in peace
but, obviously, emery had to ruin it. “so, how’s married life going?”
“i’m not answering that” you said before taking a sip of your tea
“oh, come on. entertain me” she said, mouth full of the chocolate protein bar
“you are like a feral little gremlin, did you know that?” you tried to get more comfortable on your chair, one leg on it, knee against your chin. she just laughed and motioned for you to talk “i don’t know. i mean, it’s been a bit weird”
“have you guys had more sex?” she asked and you choked on your tea “come on, we’re adults. besides i give you all the deets of my sex life”
“yeah, you give me way too much details” you coughed “i haven’t been able to look at samira the same way these past few days” a satisfied smile grew on her face
“there is no such thing as tmi, my friend” she affirmed. “besides, i saw you two making out like horny teenagers for a whole night, there is no way of deleting that from my head,” she shuddered, “and, to be honest, your lack of response is an answer. you are getting laid, love. i know it” you took a deep breath and sipped your tea again to avoid saying anything that could fuel her even more
five am rolled around and with it, a gsw victim you had taken since shen was monitoring a kid with a severe allergic reaction and jack and ellis had a pregnant lady with high blood pressure. after a while, your patient was stable and since emery was around, she personally took him up to the or
“i’ll never understand the variability of nights” lena let out a chuckle as she passed you the ipad you had asked for
“i say it’s what gets a kick out of everyone here. the not knowing what’ll happen”
“amen.” you agreed with a chuckle, “lena, you are so wise. i wanna be you when i grow up”
“what can i say?” she laughed and after a beat she added “how is married life treating you?”
“smooth sailing” you said looking at the ipad in your hands to avoid looking at her
“so, when are we going to meet the husband?”
“nice try, lena” you shook your head with a smile “i don’t see that happening anytime soon”
“whatever makes you happy, kid” you blew her a kiss before making your way to take the patient that was being rolled in by the emt
“fifteen-year-old female with two days of headache, now a nine out of ten with blurred vision. she’s nauseous and dehydrated” you nodded, “bp is 128/90, heart rate 95. we gave her some saline and something for the nausea”
“hey, sweetheart. what’s your name?” you asked her
“sadie” she said barely rasped out and you nodded, wheeling her to trauma two
“hey, sadie. we’re going to help you, okay?” she nodded as best as she could and you quickly called shen, who was standing next to lena, for help after you introduced yourself
“sadie, this is dr. shen, he will be here helping me out, okay?” you asked and she only let out a weak mhm before shutting her eyes
you would’ve never imagined that jack’s bed was more comfortable than yours or that you’d prefer being on it rather than on yours. but here you were, freshly showered, wearing one of jack’s old shirts and your underwear, laying face down on the comforter while jack made breakfast for the two of you
the past weeks of your ‘married life’ had been nothing short of perfect. you had thought of it as a mistake at first, navigating a married life with a man you hadn’t had a romantic relationship before was complicated enough without the fact that the marriage had been a drunken decision as well as something you could only dream would happen in due time–if there was ever a moment when any of you decided to be bold enough to actually address the tension that had been following you ever since you stepped foot in the pitt for the first time–and even though you had been enjoying the benefits of being husband and wife, you had yet to have a conversation to decide if that was something you were going to fully commit to or if you would take the ‘easy’ way out; get an annulment and try to pretend nothing ever happened. you knew that it would break you if it came to that, you had gone down into the rabbit hole of consequences that decision would take you into. you’d have to get a job at another hospital, hell, you’d have to move cities if you had to spend at least a day pretending you didn’t love jack abbot
you heard jack call your name from the kitchen but you made no effort to get up, you were exhausted. the entirety of the shift had been tiring but your last patient drained you. so, you opted for what was better for you; stay face down on the literal cloud that was jack abbot’s bed
jack called you a couple more times before he walked into the room to find you in that same position, “come on, you have to eat something”
“i don’t want to eat, i want to sleep” you groaned
“i know you’re exhausted, but in no good conscience can i let you fall asleep without food in your stomach”
you groaned again, “fuck you, abbot. i’m not getting up, you’ll have to feed me” you just heard him let out a laugh before it was completely silent again. a minute later, you heard him again
“come on, at least sit up a little bit so i can properly feed you”
that made you snap your head to the side “you’re kidding, right?”
“nop” he dragged the p
“i don’t need you to baby me, abbot”
“it looks like it” you glared at him “it’s not a big deal. now, sit up. you have to eat”
you tried–and failed–to bite back a smile as you sat up, your still damp hair cascading down your face. you heard jack suck in a breath, before gently brushing the hair out of your face, “better?” he softly asked and you just nodded, lips pursed to the side to stop the smile “you are so beautiful” he whispered, cupping your cheek with the hand he had used to brush the hair out of your face. you leaned into his touch and felt your face get hot, blood rushing to your cheeks, and you tried to look away, ignoring the feeling in your chest
emery had begged you to go out with her on your night off and you–one, didn’t know how to say no to her, and two, had nothing better to do–had agreed
“i’m surprised you didn’t blow me off tonight now that you’re married” she mocked
“i thought you would’ve spent the night with your girlfriend, you know. the lovely and extremely hot samira mohan” you rolled your eyes, “who, if i’m not mistaken, was free tonight”
she shook her head “nah. she is pulling a double tonight, said she needed to eventually finish her mandatory night rotation. so she may be shifting to nights for a while”
you smirked, “why do i have a feeling you’re going to spend as much time as you can down in hell with us?”
“because that is exactly what i’m gonna do” she chuckled, tipping her beer towards yours “besides, i miss messing with you, love” she sipped her beer “i might have to go down there just to start some shit to get you away from abbot for a while”
you just laughed, taking a big sip of your beer and shaking your head
beers kept coming to your side of the bar and by the time you both decided to call it a night, you were drunk. no, scratch that, you were hammered. you managed to pull your phone out and call samira, telling her in a slurred voice that she needed to come pick up emery because you had no idea how any of you were getting home
after the longest–and thanks to emery, the most annoying–ten minutes of your life, samira had pulled up. emery got into her car, pecking samira’s lip followed by a very slurred hello. samira chuckled and asked if you wanted a ride. you just shook your head, telling her that you’d just order an uber since emery lived on the other side of town. she asked you to call her as soon as you got home, and after promising you would, they left
your uber arrived less than five minutes later and the drive to jack’s house was so quick you would’ve imagined teleportation was real. you opened the door just before the rain started, took your shoes and your jacket off, and walked straight to the kitchen for a glass of water
jack was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, his laptop on top of the counter. “hey” you greeted “how was your night?”
“not as good as yours, it seems” he smiled
“what are you doing?” you walked to stand behind him
“nothing, just reading an article robby sent me” he shrugged “i take it you had fun”
“yeah” you breathed out “why are you still awake, tho?” you asked him, taking a big sip of water
“i wanted to wait for you” he said as if it was nothing and you were taken aback by the softness and truth in his voice
“you know you didn’t have to, right?” you said
“i know, but i wanted to”
“why?” you looked down to the glass in your hands
“because i want to, sweetheart” you physically flinched at the pet name “what is wrong?” he asked you
“i don’t know if i can do this anymore, jack” you swallowed the knot on your throat
“what are you talking about, sweetheart?”
“please stop,” you closed your eyes, hands coming up to your face “stop with the pet names, jack. i’m begging you” he said your name softly “i uhm– i can’t do this anymore” you pointed between the both of you and sighed
“what do you mean?” he asked confused
“i think– this whole thing has been fun” you had a sad smile on your face “but i– i think it’s over”
“and what? you’re suggesting that we get a divorce?” he asked, his voice laced with a hurt tone
“yes” you breathed out, tears forming in your eyes “i think it’s for the best if we go our separate ways” you swallowed
“for fucks sake,” jack was now growing irritated “so what? this was all a mistake?” you couldn’t answer, not with the tighter knot in your throat and the tears that were close to pour down your face “you know what? yes, this was all a fucking mistake” he angrily agreed “i’m going to bed. i don’t want to see you when i wake up” he finished, closing his laptop before making his way into his bedroom
you heard him slam the door and grabbed your phone from where it had been face down all this time. you managed to call one person before the tears came pouring down your face. the phone was ringing and you were ready to leave a voicemail when he picked up, voice laced with sleep ‘hello?’
“hey robby,” you managed out through the tears “i need you to pick me up, please”
you hated working day shift, but it was the best alternative to avoid facing the impending end of the marriage you had gotten yourself into. it had been five days of successfully avoiding jack abbott. robby had kindly given you the option of temporarily changing to days so you could work without running into your soon-to-be ex-husband. so you took it. getting in and out just in time to avoid hand-offs, took all the easy cases so you could finish up your notes as fast as you could, and basically did everything in your power to be busy all shift
you were drained. the change to days had messed with your entire routine, you were sleep deprived and close to having a full-on breakdown. you knew the roof was the best place to be when you needed to be alone and get some air, so after a gruelling case that left you with a head-pounding migraine, you made your way upstairs. robby had found you half an hour later, now sitting down in front of the railing, arms thrown around it as if you were hugging it, “wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked from where he was standing
“not really, but do i have a choice?” you sighed just as he let out a chuckle “no, you don’t”
“it’s over, robby” you said staring straight ahead “i blew it all up and asked for a divorce after picking a fight because i am a fucking coward” he walked until he was standing next to you “and the worst part is that i obviously don’t want to pull away from him because i love him” you felt tears in your eyes
“so why are you blowing it all up?”
“because i’m scared” you turned to look at him “i just–i don’t really want to talk about it, okay?” you stood up, ready to go back down when robby pulled you in to hug you. that’s when the tears finally escaped their safe place and you started fully sobbing, robby’s hand coming up to hold your head as you cried into his chest. you spent a couple of minutes there, being held by the man you felt was a brother to you even though he could be an asshole the majority of the time
you pulled away first, using the sleeve of your undershirt to wipe up the mixture of tears and snot decorating your face, immediately feeling embarrassed for breaking down in the arms of a man you appreciated and respected so much “i’m sorry” you hiccupped
“for what, kid?” he asked
“for soaking your scrub top with my tears” you let out a light chuckle as you pointed it out
“don’t mention it” he shrugged “if you need to go home, you can. we can manage without you”
“are you kicking me out, robinavitch?” you teased before taking a deep breath in and shaking your head “i’m fine. i’ll drink some water and wash my face first, before going back in” he nodded in agreement and went down the stairs first. you took another deep breath before walking right after him
the rest of the shift was as chaotic as it had been before but what you hadn’t been counting on was on abbot arriving two full hours before his shift had to start. you were busy with a patient on room 6–a seven-year-old girl with a twisted wrist after falling on it during her gymnastics practise–so you didn’t notice him walking and discussing a patient with mckay until you turned around and caught a glimpse of his back before you walked back to the hub. robby recognized the anxious look on your face before you saw him, and he called your name. you hummed as a way to say he had you attention so he grabbed you by the arm and made you walk around the ed with him, “sorry, i didn’t know he was coming in early”
“i know, no need to mention it” you pursed your lips “so you need my help? there’s a little girl whose wrist i need to check”
“no, kid. go ahead” he nodded “but if you need a break, just go. okay?”
“yes, boss” you saluted as a way to mock him and walked back to the girl’s room. you stayed there longer than necessary, listening to the girl talk about the gymnastics routine she had been practising for a couple of weeks. you had told her parents you’d be staying with her while they went to pick up louise’s–your patient–little sister. louise spent the following hour talking about her favorite shows, her favorite characters, and why she loved the ocean so much. after a while you realised you hadn’t laughed that much in a while, but it died down the second louise noticed the ring on your finger. “you have a husband? my mommy has one too, he’s my daddy”
you gave her a sad smile, “yes, honey. i have a husband”
“where is he? can i meet him?” her curiosity was definitely sparkled, and you had no idea how to get yourself out of that situation
“he’s not here” you softly smiled “but if he was, i would totally introduce the two of you. i know he would love to talk to you about sharks”
her eyes lit up with excitement before she yawned, obviously tired after the long afternoon she had been having, “wanna take a little nap, sweetheart?” you asked her softly and she nodded, “i’ll get you another blanket, okay? i’ll be right back” you said before dimming the lights and closing the door behind you. “hey, dana” you called her, “where are the extra blankets? my little patient back in six wants to nap and i promised i’d get her another blanket just in case”
“the supply closet close to triage” she answered quickly, clearly busy with a call with possibly new trauma heading your way. you thanked her and walked all the way there, retrieved the blanket and made your way back. you asked dana to pass you an ipad so you could finish up the two charts you had left and sat down in the chair inside the exam room to do so
twenty minutes later, louise’s parents came back in, now with stella–louise’s little sister–by their side. you updated them on the current nap situation and advised them to wait until louise woke up to leave, mainly because you wanted to be selfish and say goodbye to the girl. princess brought them the discharge papers for them to sign so they had nothing else to worry later on. you walked back out, feeling satisfied for how the day had played out when somebody accidentally pushed you, making you lose your footing before hitting your head and falling to the ground. it all went dark for a couple of seconds before you faintly heard dana call your name, you groaned and tried to stand up. “easy, honey. sit up, slowly” she softly held you up “you okay?”
you hummed, “not really” you were confused “what happened?”
“i’m so sorry” donnie was kneeling next to you "i was wheeling a patient and didn’t see you”
“i guess gurneys have a thing for running me over” you joked and grimaced when your head throbbed “my head hurts”
“yeah, honey you hit you head with the cabinet behind you” dana softly explained “let’s get you to a room so robby can check you”
“no, dana. i’m fine” you tried to stand up on your own only to fail. donnie had to catch you before you fell, again. “son of a bitch” you groaned “why does my ankle hurt? did i twist it or something?” donnie had an even more apologetic look and helped you into the empty exam room “stop looking at me like that, donnie. it’s okay, it was an accident” he apologized again and you huffed out “if you apologize one more time i swear i’m going to hit you”
“enough with the threats, trouble” robby said as he started checking you “you took a nasty hit. your ankle looks swollen. but it’s not too bad, put a lot of ice and no weight on it for at least a couple of weeks. i know you won’t want the crutches or the boot so i’ll allow you to use the brace” you nodded as best as you could thanks to the horrible headache. after a quick neuro eval, robby said you weren’t showing signs of a concussion, but still, you were going to have to stay in bed until after he was completely done for the day so he could check you again before he took you home
dana came in to clean the small cut on your temple a couple minutes after robby left. she was being as soft as she always was, trying to lift up the mood by telling you about her daughters’ soccer match and how benny had cried like a baby after the girls had won. you laughed softly and noticed the figure standing in the door, arms crossed against his chest. dana realized she had lost you and turned to look at the door, a knowing smile on her face, “hey, abbot. our girl here was victim of a gurney, again”
he just hummed, “and why exactly did nobody think of telling me anything until now?”
before dana could say something, you did “why would anyone do that, dr. abbot? i’m fine, it was just a small accident”
you could see the hurt in his face at the lack of warmth on your tone, “because, maybe the hit made you forget, but we’re still married, sweetheart”
dana’s eyes went wide with surprise while you sighed in annoyance, “is it really necessary to drop that information bomb in front of our friend when i am laying down on a hospital bed?”
“look, kid. your cut is all patched up and ready, and you both look like you need some privacy” she stood up and walked to the door, softly pushing jack inside the room to fully close the door behind her
“why the hell are you here two hours early?” you broke the silence
“i needed to check on a patient i had last night” he answered and you tilted your head to the side, eyebrows raised “okay. i wanted to talk to you” he sighed “we kind of left things badly the last time we talked”
you huffed, “yeah, tell me about it” you rubbed your temple “look, i am in no condition to talk about anything, right now” you sighed “i think we said everything we needed to say. let’s just get it over with”
he stared at you before shaking his head and walked until he was now sitting down on the hospital chair next to your bed, “is that really what you want?” his voice had a soft tone to it “because i know that’s not really what’s happening here”
“what do you want, jack?” you let out a dry laugh
“i want you to be honest” he put his arms on his knees and leaned over “i want you to stop the crap and be honest. not only with me but also with yourself”
“i have no idea what you mean” you licked your lips and turned to the other side to avoid looking at him
“please, sweetheart” you bit your lip to stop the tears welling in your eyes “i’m just asking you to be honest with me”
you let out a soft, teary breath “i’m sorry, jack” you said and saw him tense “i’m so sorry for saying all those things. i lied. i do want this, i just don’t know how to let myself accept it”
he sat up straight before standing up and motioning you to make him some space on the bed. when you moved, he laid down next to you, an arm thrown around your shoulders to pull you closer to him. he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and murmured “we’ll figure it out”
the pitt isn’t queerbaiting hucklerobby, gerran and noah aren’t queerbaiting hucklerobby, they are making it clear it isn’t going to happen while still finding it cute and fun and cool that fans are exploring the relationship in an different dynamic than what was imagined for them and that is okay!!! non canon ships are great! we are exploring different angles than the show and that is not only okay but very fun! not everything needs to be canon. relax. have fun.
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.
Robby never had a problem taking off his pants before a quick hookup, the only issue comes when it’s time to get rid of his shirt. Luckily, you’re there to show him just how much you love his body.
tags/warnings: smut, minors DNI, belly riding, porn wirhout plot, male masturbation, nipple play, belly worshipping, blowjob, cum eating, casual sex, self image issues and insecurities (from Robby), age gap, f!resident!reader
You were lying there in the dim glow of Robby’s bedroom, your chest still rising and falling in waves with the aftershocks of the orgasm he’d dragged out of you with his mouth. It hadn’t taken long to get here, a few twelve-hour shifts together, a couple of shared looks across the ER, and now here you were: naked, spent, and staring up at the man who’d just eaten you out like it was his sole mission in life.
Robby stayed there, kneeling between your legs, still fully dressed in gray cargo pants and a white t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. His salt-and-pepper hair was mussed after your fingers had been in it not ten minutes ago, and those big brown eyes of his were fixed on you now with a heat that made your thighs press together instinctively. His mouth was still shiny with the remnants of your arousal, his lips slightly swollen from the work he’d put in between your legs.
You swallowed, your voice was a little husky from the moans he’d pulled out of you earlier. “It’s a little unfair, don’t you think?” The words came out teasing as you gestured lazily at yourself, then at him. “I’m laid out here all naked, and you’re still fully dressed.”
A low chuckle rumbled out of him, and Robby dragged his eyes over your body slowly. He took in the sweat still decorating your chest, the way your nipples tightened under his gaze, and the slick shine between your thighs that he’d left behind. “I figured you’d want a minute to catch your breath before we even the score.”
You didn’t want a minute, you wanted him, right fucking now. The power imbalance had always been there, with him being the chief attending and you his newest resident, that was part of the reason you’d find yourself so attracted to him from the beginning. But now, the power had flipped in the best way the second you left the hospital, and you felt like you had all the control right now.
You pushed up onto your elbows, dropping your gaze pointedly to the obvious bulge straining the front of his pants. “I’ll catch my breath later. Right now I want to see what I’ve been feeling pressed against my thigh for the last fifty minutes.”
He didn’t argue, just moved his hands to the waistband of his pants, hooking his thumb under the fabric as he popped the button with a flick. The zipper rasped down, and you sat up fully then, reaching for him without thinking. You brushed his fingers as you tugged at the belt he hadn’t even bothered to undo properly in his haste earlier. You worked it free, sliding the buckle open with a clink.
“Someone’s eager,” he commented, but he let you take over, dropping on his back next to you, lifting his hips off the mattress to help you shove the pants down his legs. They caught briefly on the thick thighs you’d felt flexing earlier when he’d held your legs open, then pooled at his ankles before he kicked them aside, leaving him in just the black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide how hard he was. The outline was obscene, thick and straining against the fabric.
You didn’t hesitate, sliding up your hands over his thighs, feeling the coarse hair there, and hooking your fingers into the waistband of his boxers to drag them down slowly, letting the fabric catch on the head of his cock before it sprang free. And fuck… It was huge. You’d felt it through layers, grinding against you, pressing between your thighs when he’d pinned you to the mattress. But seeing it like this, bare and erect and curving slightly upward toward his stomach, was something else entirely. The thick veins ran along the shaft, and the head was flushed dark and already glistening at the tip, easily the biggest you’d taken or even seen up close.
Robby lay there unapologetic, but the way his breath hitched when your eyes widened told you he knew exactly what he was packing. “Jesus, Robby,” you breathed, half-laughing as you wrapped your hand around the base before you could stop yourself. Your fingers didn’t quite meet, the girth was filling your palm perfectly. You gave it one slow stroke from root to tip, feeling the way it jumped in your grip, the bead of pre-cum that slicked your thumb as you swirled it over the head.
He let out an exhale, lifting one hand to cup the back of your neck. “Careful,” he warned you. “You keep going like that, and we’ll be over before we even start.”
You stroked him again, firmer this time, twisting your wrist just a little at the head the way you hoped he’d like. The weight of him, the heat, the soft grunts that escaped his mouth… it all made your mouth water and your pussy ache all over again. Robby twitched his hips forward once, fully involuntarily, before he caught himself.
The small distance between your bodies closed as you leaned in, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was slow at first, allowing you to taste the faint remnants of yourself on his mouth from earlier. Robby responded immediately, keeping his hand at the back of your neck, threading his fingers through your hair as he angled your head just right, deepening the kiss and brushing his tongue against yours.
You never stopped moving your hand, sliding it over the rigid member, feeling the vein along the underside throbbing with each pass of your thumb over the head. Robby was leaking steadily now, making each stroke smoother and wetter. You tightened your fingers just enough at the base, then loosened on the way up, learning what made him moan the loudest. The kiss grew messier as Robby nipped at your bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue, sliding his free hand down your bare back to pull you closer until your breasts pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt, molding your naked body over his still clothed one.
You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp for air. “God, you feel so fucking good,” you murmured, giving his cock another firm stroke that made his breath hitch. Then you let go for a second, gripping the hem of his shirt instead. You tugged at the fabric, trying to pull it upward. “Let me get this off you.”
Robby’s hand caught your wrist gently but firmly before you could yank the shirt higher. He pulled your palm back down toward his erection, guiding it back around his shaft with intent. His voice came out guarded. “It can stay on.”
You paused, keeping your fingers still, loosely wrapped around him, but not moving them. You searched his face, those sweet eyes, usually so commanding at work, now held a flicker of hesitation you’d never seen before. You tried again anyway, your other hand joining the first at the bottom of his shirt, tugging it playfully. “Come on, Robby. What are you doing? Let me take it off.”
He exhaled through his nose. “What are you doing?”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “Trying to get your shirt off. Seems only fair after you had your head between my thighs for like an hour.”
He shook his head once, trying to offer you one of his smirks, but it fell a little flat. “Why?”
The question threw you off, and you blinked as you sat back slightly on your heels on the bed, your naked body fully on display while he lay there in just the shirt and nothing below the waist, with his huge cock still jutting out proudly, glistening from your strokes, bobbing slightly with his heartbeat.
“What do you mean, why?” you asked, genuinely confused. “You can’t blame a girl for wanting a little skin-to-skin contact. I’m completely naked here, and you’re still half-dressed.”
Robby glanced down at your hand hovering near his cock, then back up to your face. For a second, the confidence that had defined every second since you’d walked through his door, the way he’d pinned you down, the filthy praise he’d growled while licking you through your orgasm, just seemed to drain right out of him. He looked… human.
“It’s just…” He rubbed a hand over his face, the same gesture you’d seen him do at work more times than you could count. “I don’t have much time to hit the gym anymore. Between the shifts and everything…”
You’d never guessed Robby could be self-conscious about what was under his shirt. This was the same man who never doubted himself when there were lives on the line in his ED, who’d answered your shameless flirting with such confidence, like crossing the line with a coworker was nothing new to him. The same man who had just let you see everything he kept hidden between his thighs without a flicker of hesitation.
Yet now, as your fingers hovered at the hem of his shirt, he looked almost… shy. Self-aware, and mbarrassed of showing you his fully naked body. And you wondered, quietly, if he always kept his shirt on when he fucked
You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “Do you think I care? Robby, I’m not here because I think you look like some bodybuilder under your shirt.”
He let out a breath that was half-laugh and half-sigh, running his hand through his hair. “It’s just… the years don’t come alone. I’ve forgotten to look after myself and… Fuck, look at you.” He dragged his eyes over your body again, the curve of your breasts, the way your thighs still glistened faintly from his mouth, and your release. “You’re… to die for. Fcking perfect. And I’m laying here like this.”
You weren’t blind, you’d noticed the slight softness around his middle that the oversized scrubs usually hid, the way his shoulders were still broad and strong but no longer sharply cut like they probably once were. None of it bothered you, quite the opposite, it turned you on. Ripped, gym-perfect guys had never done much for you. What drove you absolutely insane was the natural, masculine reality of Robby’s body, the solid weight of him.
You shook your head. “Shut up,” you told him affectionately. “Just shut up and let me see. I promise I’m gonna love it.”
For a long moment, he just looked at you, those intense eyes searching your face and looking for any sign you were bullshitting him. You held his gaze, resting your hand lightly on his thigh, stroking the coarse hair there in slow circles. Finally, Robby exhaled slowly, and he moved his hands to the hem of the shirt. He gripped the fabric, hesitating only a heartbeat longer, then pulled it upward in one motion, dragging it over his head and off his arms.
His chest was broad and strong, but it had a soft layer of fat to it now, the kind that came from too many fast and crappy meals and not enough time for anything resembling a consistent workout. His belly was round and soft, curving gently outward. There was a light dusting of dark hair across his chest that trailed down in a thicker line toward his navel and beyond, disappearing into the thatch at the base of his still-hard cock.
Robby’s face tightened the moment the shirt hit the floor. He opened his mouth, already starting to apologize again. “Look, I know it’s not—”
You didn’t let him finish, just surged forward on your knees, cupping his face in both hands and crashing your mouth against his in a hard kiss. It wasn’t gentle this time, it was hungry, almost fierce. Robby made a surprised sound in his throat, but he kissed you back just as fiercely. You began to move your hands everywhere at once, exploring his body greedily. One slid down from his jaw to his neck, then lower to his shoulders, squeezing the solid breadth of them. The other roamed across his chest, pressing into the soft give of his pectorals, spreading your fingers to feel the warmth, the slight weight, the way his skin heated under your touch.
You squeezed, kneading the softness there, brushing your thumbs over his nipples, which tightened instantly. Then your hands drifted lower, over the round curve of his belly, grabbing handfuls of the soft flesh, digging your fingers in with appreciation. It felt good, warm, and real, but you could feel the faint tremor of self-consciousness still lingering.
You broke the kiss just enough to speak against his mouth. “Your body is so fucking sexy, Robby,” you punctuated the words with another hard kiss, then another. “I’m so turned on right now. You have no idea. This—” You squeezed his belly again, then slid up to cup his chest, circling his nipples. “—all of this. God, you’re driving me crazy.”
He tried to pull back slightly, still caught in that loop of doubt, muttering something about “not exactly a prize,” but you silenced him with your mouth again, kissing him even harder, leaving no room for arguments.
Moving down slowly, you pressed your lips to the center of his chest first, right between his soft pecs. Then you let your tongue out, dragging a stripe across one of his nipples, making the nub tighten under the flat of your tongue. You circled it lazily before closing your lips around it and giving a gentle suck.
“Fuck…” he muttered and you smiled against his skin as you moved to the other nipple, licking strokes over it before flicking the tip with your tongue. You alternated between them, licking, sucking and grazing with your teeth just enough to make his chest twitch beneath your mouth. His nipples were sensitive, pebbled and flushed by the time you pulled back, leaving them shiny with your saliva.
Then you started moving even lower, you kissed your way down the warm, rounded swell of his belly, taking your time. Open-mouthed kisses, and licking from below his sternum all the way down to his navel. Robby’s stomach tensed as if he was trying to suck in his stomach, but he eventually relaxed as you nuzzled into it, rubbing your cheek against the curve like you couldn’t get enough.
“You have no idea how much I love this,” you said against him, kissing the softest part of his lower belly, nuzzling and pressing your face into him, inhaling his scent while you squeezed the sides of it with your hands possessively.
Robby let out a shaky exhale above you, his cock throbbed visibly against his stomach, inches from where you were resting your cheek, but you stayed focused on worshipping the belly he’d been so self-conscious about only minutes earlier.
Finally, you pulled back, moving up his body one again, resting your forehead against his. You kept your hands on his body, one still kneading his belly possessively, the other tracing patterns through the hair on his chest.
“Wanna see how turned on you got me?” you whispered.
Before he could respond with more than an exhale, you shifted on the bed, swinging one leg over his hips to straddle him. The position put you directly above his lap, but you didn’t lower yourself onto his cock, instead, you settled your weight so that your slick, still-sensitive pussy hovered just above the round curve of his belly.
The heat of your core radiated against his skin, close enough that he could undoubtedly feel the wetness. Your thighs bracketed his sides until your knees were pressing into the mattress on either side of him. You rocked your hips once, very lightly, parting and brushing the slick folds of your pussy teasingly against the soft warmth of his tummy, just enough contact to let him feel how drenched you still were, how your body had responded to him, to all of him.
Robby’s hands came up to your thighs instinctively, gripping them. You looked down at him, resting your hands on his shoulders for balance. “See? This is what you do to me. Just looking at you… touching you… It’s got me soaked all over again. Fuck, Robby, I want all of you.”
The sensation was nothing like anything you’d felt before, his stomach was so soft, so warm, so wonderfully plush that it cradled every inch of your cunt like it had been made for this. Your juices, still plentiful from the earlier orgasm and the fresh wave of arousal that seeing him shirtless had triggered, immediately began to coat him. With each forward rock of your hips, you smeared more of your wetness across the swell, painting glistening trails over the trail of hair that led down from his navel.
The friction was perfect, it got your clit dragging deliciously against the flesh, the slight give allowing you to press down harder without discomfort, every movement sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.
You kept moving your hips in rolling waves, forward and back, then in small circles that made your shiny pearl catch just right against the warm curve. You could feel your arousal building rapidly, how your inner walls clenched around nothing as you used his soft belly like the most perfect toy.
“Fuck… Robby,” you gasped, tipping your head back as another wave of pleasure rolled through you. “Your body feels so good… so soft and warm.”
Robby looked completely gone beneath you. His eyes were wide with disbelief and lust. He couldn’t seem to decide where to look, flicking hiz gaze frantically from your face, flushed and lost in pleasure, to your bouncing breasts, to the mesmerizing sight of your beautiful, glistening pussy rubbing all over his soft stomach. His mouth hung slightly open, like a man utterly wrecked by the sight of a beautiful woman using his imperfect, lived-in body to chase her own pleasure so shamelessly.
He watched every roll of your hips like it was the most hypnotic thing he’d ever seen. Your slick folds spreading and dragging over him, the way your clit peeked out with each backward slide, swollen from ll the friction. Robby’s hands twitched at his sides at first, then he finally moved one, wrapping it around the thick base of his cock. He started stroking himself slowly, almost absentmindedly at first, but he tightened his grip as he watched you grind faster.
You noticed the rhythmic movement of his right arm, and you let out a breathless laugh that turned into a moan when your clit caught particularly well against a spot on his belly.
“You’re touching yourself?” you managed to say as you pressed down harder, smearing more of your juices across his skin in a wide arc. “Robby… you really can’t wait, huh? Do I make you that desperate?”
He nodded jerkily, moving his hand faster along his massive shaft now, getting his fingers wet with pre-cum as he pumped them up and down the veined length. “Fuck yes. Look at you… riding my stomach like that… so fucking hot. You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”
His words only spurred you on, so you leaned forward slightly, changing the angle so your clit got even more direct pressure with every grind. Your pussy was absolutely drenched now, with yourr juices flowing freely and coating his entire lower belly in a slippery mess.
Robby’s stroking grew erratic as he watched you chase your orgasm on his body, the contrast was dizzying, your youthful form moving so fluidly against his older and softer one. His free hand eventually came up to grip your thigh, fingers digging into the muscle as if to ground himself while you used him.
You kept going, riding him harder. “Oh god… I’m so close,” you whimpered. “It feels so fucking good… I’m gonna cum just like this…”
The orgasm hit you all of a sudden, and its intensity was overwhelming. You arched your back sharply at the same time a loud moan tore from your throat. Your pussy clenched and pulsed against his skin, fresh waves of your release flooded out, soaking his tummy even more thoroughly. Your hips stuttered through the climax, grinding erratically as you rode it out fully, prolonging the sensation by pressing down hard and rolling until the last tremors finally subsided. Only then did you lift yourself off him, shifting to kneel beside his hip on the bed.
You looked down between his legs, expecting to see his cock still hard and ready. Instead, it was soft now, resting against his thigh, still impressive in size even when flaccid. Robby’s hand and shaft were covered in thick ropes of his own creamy cum.
His chest rose and fell rapidly with a mix of embarrassment and satisfaction.“Sorry,” he muttered, “I couldn’t stop… watching you like that… fuck, you were too much.”
You let out a soft chuckle, one that was was warm and loving, without a trace of mockery. “You really came, didn’t you?” you reached out to brush a stray lock of his salt-and-pepper hair back from his forehead. “Just from watching me grind on your belly like that. God, Robby… that’s kind of hot.”
He let out a self-deprecating groan, rubbing his free hand over his face as if he could wipe away the flush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah… fuck. Couldn’t help it. You looked… Jesus, the way you were riding me.. You were all wet, getting off on me like that.”
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I wanted to be the one who got you off like that,” you said quietly, the words carrying a playful edge of disappointment that wasn’t really disappointment at all. “Wanted to feel you cumming inside me, or at least have my hands or mouth on you when it happened. Not that you stroking yourself while I came all over your stomach wasn’t insanely sexy… but still.”
Robby’s brown eyes darkened again at your words, and you tilted your head, letting your gaze drop deliberately to his spent cock. You licked your lips slowly, feeling a throb of arousal in your belly at the sight. “Think you can get it up again?”
He let out a short, breathless laugh that turned into a groan. “Fuck… I can try.” Without hesitation, he moved his hand back to his cock, fisting it slowly, squeezing it from root to tip in long strokes. The flesh began to twitch under his touch, thickening slightly as the blood flowed back in.
He watched you the whole time, but you didn’t let him do it alone for long. “Let me help you,” you whispered, moving down his body, settling between his spread thighs on the bed. You leaned in, tracing a broad stripe from the base of his cock upward with your tongue, collecting the salty and bitter taste of his cum in one pass.
You moaned softly at the flavor, and licked again, this time focusing on the underside of the shaft, dragging the flat of your tongue along the prominent vein there, cleaning every streak of pearly white that had dripped down. When you reached the head, you swirled your tongue around it in circles, lapping up the thicker globs that clung to the slit.
His cock jumped, hardening noticeably now, the entire length was shiny with your saliva instead of his release. You took the head into your mouth briefly, sucking with pressure, hollowing your cheeks as you worked to clean him completely.
You pulled off for a moment and looked up at him from between his thighs with a wicked little smile. “Told you I’d help.”
Robby’s chest rose and fell faster, the soft roundness of it moving with each breath. “Fuck me.” He cursed into the room.
You leaned back in, extending your tongue for another slow lick along the full length of his now fully erect cock. “In a second.”
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A/N: I’m sorry this is all I’ve had time to write, my life is extra busy with work and college. I really want to write stories with more than just smut, but I can’t seem to find the time right now. I hope you still enjoy this in the meantime.
summary: you assume jack likes you until the pitt starts betting on how long it'll take him and samira to get together; jack assumes you like him until you get called into work while on a date with your coworker. turns out, all it takes is a bad bet and an even worse date for you and jack to realize how in love the two of you are. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity santos, samira mohan, nick barker, mcvadi crumbs
contents: friends to lovers, idiots in love, implied age gap, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, jealousy, humor, so much flirting, cw for medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, and probably several hr violations
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make it halfway through your shift with a lighter wallet and a heavier heart than when you started it.
You can hear Princess shuffling through her stack of cash from the other side of the workstation, flaunting her winnings from a well-placed bet. You try and fail not to let it distract you as you scribble at the clipboard before you, with your heavy head propped on your clenched fist.
Charting was hard enough back when the computers were still running, back when it was easy — let alone when you have to make every single note by hand, and flit physically through a hundred different files just to cross-reference all the information.
“Is this what it was like back when you were a resident?” you’d asked Jack, when he dropped off an order slip by the filing cabinet, beside the bulky fax machine you were standing in front of and trying to tame.
He slid in beside you with a wide hand on your lower back, smelling like a dizzying mixture of sweat and musky cologne. He adjusted your labs in the tray without another word, turning it around and flipping it right-side up for you.
“Yeah, actually,” he’d nodded, dialing the proper number on the machine with his pointer finger, including the area code that you had forgotten to add. The corner of his lip flickered upward in a faint half-smirk as he joked with squinted eyes, “Back in the 1900s— when charting was done by candlelight.”
You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”
“Extremely,” he deadpanned.
“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”
Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”
Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”
You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot.
You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.
“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.
Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”
“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.”
You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again.
“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”
“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”
“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath.
Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick.
You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”
“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’”
She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.
“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”
You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.
“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”
“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”
“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”
She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”
You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken.
You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.
You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”
Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.
“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms.
Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black.
He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.
“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.
“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”
He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting.
“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”
“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.
Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”
“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”
“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”
“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.
“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.
“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”
You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.
“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose.
A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:
“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan.
You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips.
Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)
“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”
“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”
“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.
“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”
“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.
“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”
Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.
“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly.
Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow.
“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”
Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again.
“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”
“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”
You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do.
Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels.
“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”
Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”
“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”
Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”
You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient.
You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.
“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”
His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R.
Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.”
Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy.
You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.
Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room.
You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.
“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.
“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.
“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”
The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name.
“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”
You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.
“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”
He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.
You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”
“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”
“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”
His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”
You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is.
You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness.
You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile.
“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”
“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”
“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”
“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.
“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”
You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.
“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.
“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.
“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”
Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.
“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.
“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”
“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”
“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”
“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”
“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”
“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”
Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.
You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once.
The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.
You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.
You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him.
Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.
You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.
“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”
“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth.
He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.
“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”
You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.
“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.
“…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.
“Dr. Abbot.”
Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”
His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”
“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”
Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.
“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”
It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.
“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”
Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call.
You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better.
The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.
“You can get that if you need to—”
“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”
The call ends before you can answer it.
Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”
“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”
Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.
“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.
“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”
“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”
You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.
“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”
“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”
The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach.
The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts.
You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.
Jack smells you before he sees you.
He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder.
By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.
“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.
“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.
“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.
“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.
“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”
Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger.
“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”
Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.
Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s.
“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor.
“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.
He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.
“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.
Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”
“How was the, uh… The date?”
“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”
“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”
His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.
“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”
“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”
You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.
Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.
“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.
Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.
It clicks shut behind you.
“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”
“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.
“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”
Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.
“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”
“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”
Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.
“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”
The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”
“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”
“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.
Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.
“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.
“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”
“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”
You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.
Jack follows your every move.
“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”
You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach.
“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”
Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”
Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”
You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin.
You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.
Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.
“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”
You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again.
“Crystal,” you quip drily.
You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later.
Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.
The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.
“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.
You push the man away from you on instinct.
“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.
Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.
Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile.
“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.”
The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach.
“Which means I just lost all of my money…”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”
It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.
“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”
“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”
You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.
“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”
“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”
He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.
“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug.
“No?” Jack hums.
“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”
thank you for the request I hope this is everything you dreamed of an more
frank langdon x reader
synopsis: you and santos are best friends for life. just a year ahead of her, you knew langdon well. what happens when her strong sense of justice puts you at odds? when she catches you fucking her mortal enemy on your couch in your shared apartment.
wc: 3.0k
tags: whitaker does not live in the apartment, this is like a living nightmare for trinity, angst, unhappy ending, drama, a little fluff, smut, p in v, talk about everyone here is morally gray, unrealistic medical world stuff
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
Santos told you everything that happened the day of pittfest. She told you in confidence about Langdon's theft and addiction. You were compassionate, comforting her telling her what she did was right.
You and Santos grew close during your rotations and joined the ED at PTMC together as residents. Her focus was on surgery whereas you had a primary interest in emergency medicine. You liked to help people. She found that annoying when you tried to see the good in all people. However, it did gain you praise from the attendings so whatever got you ahead.
When you met Langdon on your first day, that fateful day, your heart skipped a beat. You were not one to get kiddish and develop a crush but he was so confident and focused. It was only when he berated Santos that you felt unsettled. You knew something was wrong though. You've seen this behavior before when working in an urgent care clinic.
At the end of the night, Langdon is alone, you come out of the ambulance entrance doors. "Langdon! Hey, I-I heard about what happened and I wanted to let you know that you're not alone." You hand him a note with your phone number. "Recovery is not a straight and narrow path. Don't be afraid to reach out." His brows furrow in confusion. You were Santos' friend and you were… offering to help him? He looks down at your dainty handwriting and puts it in his pocket. "Thanks." He mutters than walks away into the night.
You felt guilty as you sat in your apartment as Trinity continues to complain about Langdon. You purse your lips as you listen. Both of you had such different beliefs when it came to addicts. You understood the stigma of addiction. The gene was in your DNA. At any point you could end up just like Langdon based on family history alone. You listen to her without saying a word. When she finishes you speak, "I think you need to unwind now. Langdon won't be a problem for you anymore, a lot has happened and I think we should decompress." You get up from the couch and walk to your room, "Get some sleep Trinity, we have work tomorrow."
Late at night you get a text notification. With bleary eyes, you read the message; its from Langdon, "Hey, it's Langdon. Thank you for giving me an ear. It's all really scary right now." You can't help but smile at the message before sending one back, "It can be a lot I know. I am happy to lend an ear whenever you need."
After that, you didn't hear from Langdon for a month. You're at work talking to Trinity when your phone buzzes. You glance down to see Langdon's name appear. Your eyes widen and you immediately hide it away from Trinity to see it. "Can we meet to talk tonight? After your shift, we can meet somewhere."
"Sure, text me when and where." You quickly type to be inconspicuous.
"Hey, are you listening? Who are you texting right now, that is clearly not me." Trinity folds her arms.
"Someone I met. What are you asking me, right now?" You cock an eyebrow, "Something about Garcia?"
"She's coming over so I kinda need you out for the night."
"Where the hell am I supposed to go?" You frown. Luckily, Langdon planned to meet you tonight.
"It'll just be for a bit. I'll text you when the coast is clear to come back."
"Why though?"
"I don't want her getting the wrong idea."
"Oh honey." You pat her shoulder, "She's older than you and established in her career. I think you're getting the wrong idea here." You breeze past her.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Hey!" She accepts the defeat and leaves in the other direction.
Langdon send you the location of restaurant a few minutes from the hospital. After work, you head there and see Langdon in a booth facing away from the door. You sit down across from him and smile, "Hi, I'm glad you texted. Everything okay?"
He smiles at your concern but shakes his head, "I don't reach out for months and you're worried?"
"Of course. I mean, it's nice of you to reach out to anybody at anytime." You place your hand on his on the table. "Is everything okay?"
"The hospital put me in a program. I have to do 5 years of meetings, clean drug tests, and they have already audited the ED." He sighs, "I told my wife and, uh, she couldn't handle it. She threw me out and I've been staying in a dingy apartment across town."
"That's a lot." You say. You lean back against the booth seat.
"I'm a wreck. I haven't seen my kids in about a month." He sniffles, "Fuck I have no one to talk about this to outside of the meetings. Everyone's life seems more miserable than mine. How could I be so stupid?"
"You're not stupid. It's an illness. It lowered your inhibitions and made you get bolder. Your brain had no idea how bad it was getting because of the high. It wanted ease the pain no matter the cost." You explain.
"You know a lot about this." He wipes his face.
"I studied about addiction in med school. I wanted to go into psychiatry but during trials I grew to love emergency medicine. I hope to get a fellowship in emergency psychiatry. When addicts are in the ER, they are seen has just drug-seeking ghouls taking a bed instead of humans suffering. I am always willing to extend the olive branch. You're not betraying me and my trust." You give him a reassuring smile, "I'm in your corner."
He turns his hand over letting yours fall into his palm. It was clammy from nerves. You give it a squeeze, "Have you eaten yet?" You open the menu.
"Uh, no not yet. I, uh, I don't have much money." He chews on his bottom lip.
"It's on me." You hand him your menu and take his. "I said I'd be there for you and I meant it. Everyone needs a friend like that."
"Does Santos know that you're here?" He looks up from the menu.
"She doesn't. And she doesn't have to either." You shrug, "Look, what you did was fucked up. A behavior set on by your needs. She is still pretty sensitive about it. You hurt her."
He nods, "I know I have a lot to atone for. She won't have to worry about me."
"Good. I see redemption in you." You say, "I hope one day she'll be able to see that too."
You order food and eat in silence. You tell him a little about your day. He looks envious as he listens. His eyes scan over your face as you speak. He's studying every feature to keep his attention. You notice that he doesn't touch his food. He only got a side of fries and has only eaten a few. Most likely a symptom.
You ask for a to go box, "For later, just because you aren't hungry doesn't mean you should punish yourself later." He nods. You pay the check and leave the restaurant together. "Like I said, Frank, I'm always hear to lend an ear." You hug him gently, "Anytime." You both go your separate ways but from now on your visits become more frequent and less time between.
Months go by and the guilt has risen in you. You would see Langdon after shift and come home to your best friend waiting for you. She didn't catch wind of your whereabouts. She thought you had a new boyfriend. Which was basically the truth.
You and Langdon had gotten closer the more you spent time together. The restaurant became a regular thing then he invited you to his new apartment. You brought house warming gifts. He would talk about divorce court and you would complain about work. Then you started to stay later.
It all came to a head when you were leaving and had subconsciously kissed Langdon's cheek. You pull away surprised at your own actions. "I am sorry." You take a step back.
"No it was fine… I liked it." He licks his lips. You both step forward and kiss each other. It's intense and vulgar. No more restraints, your tongues tangle with each other. You moan into the kiss and grip the back of his shirt to hold him tightly. His hands grab your waist and pull you back into his apartment. The first night you slept over.
The sleeping over becomes more frequent. The spending mornings together and the dinner dates. You enjoy his company and he enjoys yours. Santos' notices how much more chipper you were. "Hey," She looks at you over her computer.
"What's up?" You type on your computer.
"I'm going over Garcia's tonight." She bounces her eyebrows.
"Okay?" You cock an eyebrow, "Why are you telling me about the sex you're going to have?"
"You'll have the house all to yourself. You could have your boyfriend over if you wanted." She sighs, "Which is so cool that I haven't met him yet."
You cringe, "Yeah, we're still testing the waters but thank you for the permission to have my boyfriend in our apartment."
"Of course. It's only what a responsible, kind, and very generous roommate would do."
You roll your eyes and laugh as she walks away. As soon as she is out of sight you pull up your phone and shoot Langdon a message: "Do you want to come over to my place tonight? Trinity is out for the night."
Langdon responds, "Is that okay? What if she comes home?" He had a valid point but she was swoon with Garcia you doubt she would leave in the middle of the night.
"It's fine she won't."
After Santos leaves for Garcia's house, Langdon arrives and comes inside. "Welcome to my humble abode." He is cautious entering the space. It was not only your space but Trinity's. Someone who made him face the mirror and seek treatment. There is framed art in the living room and a bunch of trinkets on every surface. He knows they're yours as you have given him a fair share of ones for his own apartment.
"Have a seat, I'll get dinner started." You say.
"How about we order-in?" He suggests.
"Oh and do you have order-in money?" You cock an eyebrow.
"I do." He grabs his phone out of his pocket.
"Fine." You sit on the couch beside him to order.
After dinner, you are laying on the couch together and you're rubbing circles on his chest. He hums at the feeling. "Are you okay being here tonight?" You ask.
"Yeah, it's fine. You invited me so it doesn't feel as invasive." He mumbles. You rest your chin on his chest.
"We can't keep this up much longer." You whisper, "I want you to not be a secret anymore."
"We'll have to wait and see." He rubs your back. You sit up and straddle his lap with a pout.
"No more waiting. I want to shout it from the rooftops that you're my boyfriend."
He smiles up at you, "You are getting greedy, I see."
"Greedy and needy." You lean down and capture his lips in a kiss.
He moans into the kiss and follows your motion. His tongue swipes against your lips before you allow it in your mouth. You grind into his lap and feel he is already hard. He sits up and takes off his shirt than yours. He kisses your neck down to your collarbone and sucks on your skin gently. You moan and push your hips for more friction.
His hands move down your waist and under your waistband. His fingers press against your clothed pussy, "You're wet." He pants. His fingers reach your clit and he rubs circles over it.
You grind against them and moan, "Please Frank~" You lick and kiss his neck up to his jaw and down to his shoulder. You then stand up and remove your pants and underwear. Frank rests his back against the back of the couch and slides off his own pants. His cock rests on his stomach pulsing and leaking precum. You get your hand wet with your spit and rub it all over his cock. "Is this okay? Right here?" He pants and bites back a moan.
"Yeah, it's fine." You whisper before getting back in his lap and lining up his cock with your entrance. He helps holding his cock steady, he whispers, "Go ahead, baby."
You lower yourself on his cock and moan out with every inch that goes in. "Oh shit~ Mmph~!" You can't help but move. Frank's hands press against your thighs as he moans into your chest. His hips meet with your as he grinds back against you. Your moans bounce off the walls along with the sounds of your skin slapping against each other.
You're both close when all of a sudden the front door opens, "Hey, Garcia and I got into a fight and I need— WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!" Trinity comes in and drops her bag on the floor. Quickly, you cover up yourself and Langdon with some throw blankets. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! YOU'RE JOKING RIGHT?! THIS IS JUST A SICK FUCKING JOKE, RIGHT?!" Trinity is damn near red in the face with anger.
"Trinity I can explain—" You stand up.
"How long has this been going on?! Is this the boyfriend you hid away?! Because of course it. Of course you hide this shit from me." She shakes her head, "After what he did to me?!" Her attention turns to Langdon, "You're a sick fuck you know that. Taking advantage of her kindness to get your dick wet. You are despicable."
"Trinity it's not like that. Please if you would just let me explain—"
"Save it. I can't even look at you right now, I am so disgusted." She rushes to her bedroom, "AND GET HIM THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" The door slams shut.
Your lip quivers as tears stream down your face. Frank starts to get dressed then grabs you pulling you into a hug, "Hey, it's okay. It's okay, don't cry. We know it's not like that okay. She's upset. Just give her a minute. I'm gonna go but call me later, okay." He kisses your forehead. "It'll be okay. She's your best friend." Langdon leaves and you are by yourself naked in your living room.
You pick up your clothes and go to your own bedroom. When you're dressed you knock on Trinity's door. "Trin, please. Will you let me explain?"
"No. Fuck off." Is all she says.
"Okay." You whisper back.
The next morning as you get ready for work, Trinity looks at you with disdain. You feel her eyes shooting daggers at you when you turn your back. "will you please let me explain, now?"
"Explain what? You're fucking the guy that verbally abused me on my first day and was stealing drugs from the hospital?"
"Trinity, please, he's in the program and he's taking the steps. He's recovering as he should."
"Recovering? That's what fucking you is? Recovering?" She scoffs.
"Sorry, is it so wrong to have sex?"
"With him? Yes. He is unstable."
"Oh and you're one to fucking talk." You laugh, "You've been on and off with Garcia for months super paranoid you're fucking it all up because you can't choose between casual and committed. If I remember correctly you came home early yesterday because you guys just fought. Safe to assume it's about the same thing again."
"You know what, go fuck yourself." She stomps past you.
"Fuck you too." You shout back. You sigh waiting a few moments before leaving yourself.
The ED is icy, you and Santos avoid each other like the plague. Others notice but with your icy glares they don't dare to say a word about it. You try your best to focus on your patients giving the best care you can, but when Trinity walks by you smile seems to falter.
While you are charting, Robby approaches you, "Can I speak with you privately?" You purse your lips then nod. You follow him to a private room. "Yes, Dr. Robby."
"Santos tells me you've been visiting Langdon?" He raises his eyebrows, "Care to explain?"
"I was just extending an olive branch." You lip quivers, "Is it so wrong to be a friend to someone in need."
"Nobody said it was a bad thing. But Langdon needs to focus on recovery and—"
"I'm a big fucking distraction." You shake your head, "It's not fair. I finally feel like I'm doing something right and I get criticized for it." You wipe your face, "This is bullshit. I can't believe she has such a vendetta against him. Did she tell you she cussed me out and blew up on me too? Or did she just gracefully leave that out? I am an adult and I can make my own decisions. Don't ask me about Langdon again." You storm out of the room and rush towards Santos.
"Are you fucking happy now involving our boss? We could have handled this if you would just fucking talk to me." You have gained the attention of the most of the staff.
"I don't think this is the time for this kind of conversation." She says plainly.
"You're right. It's not but if you continue this behavior then I am done." You back away. "Done with it all."
"Then let's both be done." She slams her hands on the keyboard and stomps away from you again.
You don't care about the rest of the day. Your priorities were patients so Robby had nothing to complain about. 7:00pm sharp you are out of the doors and heading home without a moments delay. You text Langdon about your shit day and he asks if you want to come over. You don't answer and instead wait at home for Trinity to come home. She doesn't.
You are angry but you understand. This isn't going to work. Not with the way she is icing you out and you staying with Langdon. You make the decision. You text Langdon to come over and ask him for help gather your things. It's for the best to give her, her space. You collect all the things that were yours and pack it all in your car. You decide to look into transferring your residency.
"Are you sure you want to do all that? I'm sure Trinity will cool off and want to talk again." Langdon tries to reassure you back at his apartment. Your new apartment.
"Yeah, I do. You're going to return soon and I don't think she needs the added pressure of both of us there." You sigh, "And this is something I've been wanting to do anyway." On your screen was an opening for psychiatry at a different hospital in Pittsburgh. "I can always come back for my emergency psych fellowship anyways."
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
a/n: nobody said it had to be a happy ending >:) thank you for reading.
summary: you have a sex dream about your attending that leaves you hot, flustered, late for work, and completely off your game. then things go from bad to worse when gossip spreads and the entire emergency department finds out—including dr. robby.
notes: i honestly haven't been this excited or motivated to write in forever, and i just really hope it doesn't suck. this one feels a little different, kind of like... it just flowed? my writing feels less mechanical, i think? i don't know, i feel like i've been stuck in a rut and even though this isn't perfect, it feels like i finally enjoy writing again. i put so much love into this and tried so hard to get the characters right, i just really hope you guys enjoy! please, please let me know what you think!
warnings: more sitcom than drama (just let them have a good day, i beg you), swearing, italics, reader can drive, medical descriptions, blood, medical procedure descriptions (it's not super graphic though), most definitely incorrect medical information (my friend is a doctor, i am not), implied age gap but never specified, very likely incorrect tagalog (i'm sorry in advance), reader doesn't know tagalog, implied smut but nothing explicit, reader gets injured (and stitches), and making out (on shift, lol, nothing graphic but still, mdni please).
word count: 12763
You wake all at once.
Not slowly, not gently, but with one sharp inhale like you’ve surfaced from deep water.
For a second you don’t know where you are. Your room is too warm, the air too heavy, every inch of your skin flushed and slick with sweat. Heat clings to you, your heart pounding wildly in your ears, sheets twisted tight around your legs, and for one disorienting moment you swear you can still feel him—warm hands, breath close, the dizzying pull of something forbidden and overwhelming.
The echo of his voice follows you up from sleep, low and wrecked and impossibly real.
Dr. Robby.
Your stomach flips.
“Fuck,” you mumble into your pillow, already mortified, already knowing your brain has crossed a line it absolutely shouldn’t have this time.
Because it didn’t feel like a dream. It still doesn’t. Fragments flash behind your eyelids—the way he touched you, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, the teasing burn of stubble where he shouldn’t have been close enough to touch.
You roll onto your back and drag both hands over your face, groaning quietly as awareness settles in piece by piece. Your pulse refuses to slow, every nerve still humming like your body missed the memo that none of it actually happened.
You stare at the ceiling.
“…You have got to be kidding me.”
This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.
It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.
A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.
This is a problem.
A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.
And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.
You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.
“Fuck!”
You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.
“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.
A second you don’t have.
With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.
You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.
So vivid.
Stop thinking about his hands.
Stop thinking about his voice.
Stop—
You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.
It doesn’t help.
By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.
“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”
You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.
“You’re late,” Dana says.
You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”
“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”
You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.
“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”
You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.
“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.
Only to turn right into something solid.
Warm. Tall. Unmoving.
“Shit, I—”
You look up.
And your entire nervous system shuts down.
Dr. Robby.
“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”
His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.
His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”
“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”
You are not fine.
Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.
His head tilts slightly.
“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.
“I know.”
Neither of you move for a moment.
You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.
“I—I’m gonna—”
You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.
“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”
You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”
She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”
You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.
She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.
“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”
God. You could have chosen better words.
“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”
She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.
He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.
“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.
“Stop what?”
You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.
“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”
He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”
You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.
“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.
“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”
You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”
Abbot snorts. “Dana?”
You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”
Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”
“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”
Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”
Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.
You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.
You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.
“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”
You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”
She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.
On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.
When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.
After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.
Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.
“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitizer into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”
The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”
You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”
As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.
You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.
Fuck.
Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.
God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.
“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.
When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.
“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.
Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”
Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”
They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.
“Malinaw,” Princess says.
You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.
You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.
“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”
Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.
He points at you as he walks. “With me.”
“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.
“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”
“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”
Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.
His arm brushes yours.
Your stomach flips.
Focus.
“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.
You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.
“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”
“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”
You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.
“Trachea midline.”
Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”
“BP holding?” Robby asks.
The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.
“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”
Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”
“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.
“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.
“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”
Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”
“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.
You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.
“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”
You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.
You swallow. “Okay.”
Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”
You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.
The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.
“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.
Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.
You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.
“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”
You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.
“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.
Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.
“Good,” Robby murmurs.
Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.
“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.
Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.
You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.
Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”
His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.
“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.
“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.
You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.
Until it stops.
Too much resistance.
“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”
He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.
You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.
He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.
His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.
Fuck. Now is not the time.
You tighten your grip on the tube and push.
Then—
A rush of air.
“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”
Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.
“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.
“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”
You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.
“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.
Abbot nods.
From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.
“Nice work, Doctor.”
You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.
As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.
You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.
“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.
“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”
“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”
Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”
You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.
“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”
You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.
“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”
You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”
“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”
As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.
And Santos notices—because of course she does.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”
“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”
You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.
Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.
“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She stares at you for a second.
“A sex dream?”
You nod miserably.
Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.
Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.
“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”
“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.
She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”
“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”
“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”
Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”
She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”
“Because he’s my boss!”
“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”
You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.
“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”
She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”
You nod. “Good.”
Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.
“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.
You sigh. “What?”
She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”
Your pulse jumps.
“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.
“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.
You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.
“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”
The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”
You glance up, and he nods.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”
“Will do.”
You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.
The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.
About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.
Except the way it made your spine arch.
Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—
“Doctor.”
You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.
“Sorry—what?”
Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”
You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”
He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”
Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”
“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.
You stare at him. “And?”
He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”
You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.
“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”
Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.
Fuck.
You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?
So much for being a vault.
“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.
You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.
“Lucky us,” you mutter.
She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.
“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”
You shrug. “Just a little off today.”
She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.
She hums quietly.
“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”
You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”
She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”
You nod. “North Four, on it.”
You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.
“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.
“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.
“Oh.”
“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”
“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”
You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.
“Everything’s fine!”
You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.
On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.
So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.
Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.
You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.
You’re just… nervous.
Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.
You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—
“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”
You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.
Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.
The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.
And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.
“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.
She winces. “Not so good.”
“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”
She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”
You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”
She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.
“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”
“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”
You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.
“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”
She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”
“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”
“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”
“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”
She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”
You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.
“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”
You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.
“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”
Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”
Ms. Park sighs.
“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”
She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.
Not that you can blame her.
Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.
But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.
He’s looking at you.
You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”
Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.
You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.
“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.
Heat floods your face.
“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”
He glances at you over the top of his glasses.
“You had it handled.”
You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”
Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.
“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”
“I supervise,” Robby mutters.
Dana hums.
“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”
Hovering?
You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.
Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?
He hovers around every resident and med student.
It’s not like he was—
You shake your head.
No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.
You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.
Nowhere else to go.
“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.
You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”
You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.
“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”
You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”
Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”
She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.
“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”
She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”
You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”
“Caring?” she offers.
You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”
She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.
“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.
She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.
“Good girl,” she murmurs.
Your entire spine locks.
“What was that?”
McKay straightens, already grinning.
“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”
“But—you just—”
She laughs under her breath, already backing away.
“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”
Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.
You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.
“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.
“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.
Your eyes snap up. “You.”
Her brows lift. “Me?”
“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”
She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.
“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”
“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”
You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.
She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”
“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.
You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”
Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”
Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.
You glare at Santos. “Neither.”
“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”
Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.
“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”
“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”
You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.
“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.
Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”
Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.
“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”
Hovering?
Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”
“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”
Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.
Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.
Your pulse stutters.
“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.
“I threw it,” you blurt.
He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.
“I know.”
You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.
“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”
You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.
Right.
Charting.
You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.
With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.
After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.
The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.
“Back to charting?” Princess asks.
You nod. “The never-ending task.”
She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.
“You seem off today,” she says.
“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”
“And red,” she adds before turning away.
You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.
With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.
Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.
Abbot.
You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.
Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.
Your stomach drops.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.
Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.
“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”
You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”
Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”
Then she shakes her head and walks away.
You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.
And today is not a day you want to stay back.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.
The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—
“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”
Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.
“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”
Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.
“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”
“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”
You tilt your head. “Oh.”
“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”
Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”
Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.
Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.
Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.
There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.
“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.
Your stomach does a strange little flip.
It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.
He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.
Still, your eyes follow it.
They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.
“Deep breath for me.”
Your pulse stutters.
Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.
The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.
His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.
Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.
“Look at me.”
Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.
Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.
Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.
It wasn’t subtle.
Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.
His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.
You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
The word brushed over your lips.
You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.
God.
The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.
Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.
His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.
And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.
Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.
“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”
You blink at her. “Already?”
She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”
You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.
“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.
You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”
She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”
You glare at her. “I’m charting.”
“You’re drooling.”
You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.
Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”
“Santos,” you warn.
She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”
“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”
Your stomach drops.
You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.
“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”
She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”
“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.
“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.
Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”
Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”
“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”
Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”
You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”
“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”
Santos smirks. “Yep.”
“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”
Perlah snorts.
Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.
“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”
Silence.
Perlah is staring at you.
Princess is staring at you.
Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.
And Santos—
Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.
“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”
No one answers.
Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.
Whitaker clears his throat.
Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.
“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.
And there he is.
Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.
Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.
He clears his throat.
Once.
“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”
That’s all it takes.
Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.
Whitaker rushes off toward triage.
Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.
And then it’s just you.
And him.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.
And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.
But that would be ridiculous, right?
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.
How to function.
You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.
God.
This has to be some kind of HR violation.
Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.
Or worse—night shift.
You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.
Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.
Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.
Not when you’ve let it affect your work.
Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.
You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.
All you can do now is your job.
All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.
You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.
The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.
Whispered about, probably.
But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?
By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.
None of it requires you to look up very much.
Which is ideal.
You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.
And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.
Not that you’re avoiding him.
Obviously.
You’re just… busy.
You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.
Like nothing happened.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.
“Hey, you busy?”
You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”
“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”
“Of course. What size?”
“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”
You nod. “On it.”
“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.
You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.
You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.
You’re just being helpful.
But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.
You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.
“Oh—shit.”
It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.
Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.
“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.
McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”
She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.
“Scalpel slipped.”
McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”
Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.
“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”
“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”
Your stomach drops.
“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”
Fuck.
You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.
He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hold your arm out obediently.
His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.
“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”
Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.
“Come with me.”
The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.
“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”
Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.
“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.
Robby nods once. “Thanks.”
Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.
You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.
“Lay back,” he says.
Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.
He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.
His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.
You try not to think too hard about his fingers.
“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.
You nod. “Sharp blade.”
Like he didn’t already know that.
He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.
“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.
You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.
He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.
The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.
“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”
“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”
“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”
You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.
He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.
Completely calm.
Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.
The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.
“Breathe,” he says automatically.
God.
If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.
You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.
“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”
His hands pause for the briefest moment.
Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.
“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”
You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”
“Mhm.”
The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.
Your stomach tightens.
“Busy department.”
He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.
“Not exactly what I meant.”
You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.
“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”
He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.
You feel like you’re about to throw up.
“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”
Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.
“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”
You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.
“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”
His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.
“Fired?”
You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”
He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.
“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”
Your face burns.
He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.
“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”
You stare at him.
“Concerned?”
“Mhm.”
He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.
“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”
Your stomach drops.
“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.
Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.
Hovering?
Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.
Why was he even there to begin with?
Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.
I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.
I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.
And suddenly the entire day looks… different.
Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.
Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.
Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.
“Keep that dry for the next—”
And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.
Then you kiss him.
It’s not graceful.
It’s barely even planned.
Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.
For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.
“Oh—fuck. I—”
You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.
“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”
The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.
He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.
Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.
Your pulse is hammering.
“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.
His hand lifts.
The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.
Your breath catches.
He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.
Then he leans in.
The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.
For a second it’s almost restrained.
Then it isn’t.
His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.
The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.
He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.
Not stopping.
If anything, the opposite.
His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.
Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.
But definitely knows how to do.
And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.
You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—
The curtain whips open.
“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”
Abbot stops dead.
For half a second no one moves.
You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.
Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.
His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.
“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”
Robby straightens immediately.
Not panicked. Not flustered.
Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.
“Jack,” he says evenly.
Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.
“Michael.”
The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.
Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.
“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”
The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.
“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.
Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.
Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.
“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”
Your stomach drops.
“What?”
His brows lift.
“Your text.”
Your eyes widen.
Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.
“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”
“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.
Abbot’s mouth twitches.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”
You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.
“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”
Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.
Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Your girl, huh?”
Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.
“Shut up.”
You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.
The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.
“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”
“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”
“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”
You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”
“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”
You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”
She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.
“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.
You frown. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”
She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.
“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”
Your entire face goes hot.
You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.
Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.
⁺ . summary ! – out of curiosity, you see if you can classically condition your cute co-worker using snaps and swedish fish–spoiler: you definitely can.
⁺ . paring ! – coworker!dennis whitaker x fem!reader
⁺ . warning ! – intern!reader, fluffy, mild suggestiveness, non consensual training, use of pavlov’s dog, dennis is clueless and in love, trinity featured, big pet play undertones PROOFREAD/EDITED BY @str4wbsstuff
⁺ . della's note ! – wrote this bc i really really wanna classically condition a man without him knowing and yes a sexy horny version is coming eventually
✦ SMUT UNDER THE CUT | 18+ MINORS DNI </3 ! ⁺
It all started on a very normal day at PTMC. Nothing crazy or too terribly exciting happening beyond the run of the mill, normal horrifying situations of the ED. Blood, guts, vomit, piss, broken bones, you name it they got it. Just normal. Normal enough for you to conduct a harmless little experiment on your cute co-worker, Dennis Whitaker. Now, was conducting a non-consensual experiment on your co-worker during your shift wrong? Yes. But you’re positive Dennis would be totally fine with it since he’d never find out.
Out of every single one of your colleagues, Dennis would be the easiest subject. He was sweet, kind, had a little crush on you, and submissive. This personal quality of his could’ve only been present in the workplace—which was perfect because this is exactly where you’d be doing your tests. It wouldn’t be weird for you to start handing out candy to your co-worker, that was normal. Everyone knew that you had always had a bag of candy tucked in your locker when your sweet tooth was begging for something to soothe cravings. You tried to keep it a secret but after Langdon caught you shoveling Skittles into your mouth when you were supposed to be going outside to take a breather. Now you were known as the doctor who would hand you a piece of candy if asked nicely. So obviously at the conception of your idea you knew you going to have so much fun with this.
At the end of your shift, it was you and Dennis alone in the locker room. Changing out of your scrubs and grabbing your filled backpacks out of your lockers like usual. But you did something different this time.
Snapping twice, you get his attention. Saying his name so he knows it’s directed towards him, and naturally he looks up with curious eyes. “Yeah?” he asked, slinging the bag over his broad shoulder and shutting the door before walking up to you—this was going to be just as easy as you expected. “Wanna piece of candy?” you offered, opening your hand you used to snap and displaying a single piece of Swedish Fish in the palm of your hand, his favorite. If only you could’ve taped the way his eyes lit up at the light. He looked as cute as a button, blue eyes warming up instantly. “Oh, yea sure! Thanks,” he said sweetly with a soft smile curling at the corner of his lips as he grabbed the piece of candy, fingers brushing your palms as he did so.
“Don’t mention it. I know they’re your favorite,” you replied, closing your locker, sending a short wave his way as you walk away knowing that this experiment would be more than successful. Poor Dennis was none the wiser, heart thumping from the interaction and the brief moment of “skin on skin” contact utterly hung up on the fact that you remembered his favorite candy.
You had spent the next week training Dennis with the snap of your fingers and it was working faster than you expected. Keeping a small bag in your pocket and occasionally triggering his new Swedish Fish stimulus outside of the locker room. Sometimes when you’re at the nurses station, walking into work at the same time, when he’s charting .etc. All you need to do is snap twice and Dennis is right beside with a cute smile bending at his lips. You don’t even have to say his name or look at him. Just snap twice and he’s there. Summoning him like he’s an eager, bright-eyed puppy. He didn’t even realize he was doing it.
It was probable that Dennis was expecting a little treat every single day thanks to you, waiting for that snap every time he was around you. The guy didn’t even know how well he’s been behaving. Obedient everyday of the many weeks you’ve spent fucking around with his brain. At some moments you felt bad. Quite literally dog training Dennis, but he was getting Swedish Fish everyday—so it wasn’t all that bad.
But it was time to switch something up to see how big the effects were on him. To see how he’d react when there was nothing. No snapping. No candy. Nothing at all. You could even see that familiar glimmer in Dennis’ when he thought he was about to receive a piece. This whole thing got to him a little more than you had expected.
Your fingers clicked and clacked against the keyboard as you typed up the chart for your most recent patient but got kindly interrupted by yours truly. He didn’t say hi or hello or even say your name, but with the sorrow twisted throughout his 3 words as he said “Is everything alright?” You knew he had noticed. Suppressing a grin you looked up, his short sentence matched his face. Eyes somehow sadder his usually pink lips, chapped— no doubt driven from him nervously chewing at it. Pulled into a frown like he had just been kicked off his bike.
“Yea..why do you ask?”
Gulping, he looked down at his hands as he began tapping his nails on the counter anxiously, like he was afraid to look you in the or the response you would produce. “I..I was wondering if I did anything wrong? Did I make you mad?”
To make sure he didn’t think you were a sadist, you once again conceal your grin, swapping it out for an empathetic smile as your brow furrows in pity. “No, Dennis…what makes you think I’m mad?” Voice soft, tone neutral. He laughed through his nose like he realized how pathetic he was about to sound. “It’s just…you usually give me candy everyday but, you didn’t do it?” he said quietly, almost seeming embarrassed to speak as he finally looked you in the eyes. You wondered for half a second if he was gonna shed a tear.
Absolutely perfect.
Fortunately you were lucky enough to get a view into how Dennis’ mind was wrapped around what he thought was a completely normal situation. Both Trinity and Dennis were hunched over the counter as their eyes scanned the board, but when you heard your name being brought up in the conversation you couldn't help but do a little eavesdropping.
“Mhm and she gives me candy every single day,” he says with an obvious smile in his voice. The chirpiness gave away how happy he truly was and it was the most endearing thing ever. Little did he know. Trinity scoffs, shaking her head as his pure hopelessness. “She gives everyone candy, Huckleberry. You’re not special,” she sighed, which was partly true except for the fact you were always a willing participant to the candy “giving.” But Dennis pipes up because he was well aware of that. “Well…no. She lets you have candy, She gives me candy. There's a difference.”
“Like it's a treat?”
“Yeah but–”
“Dogs get tricks. You’re like her dog, man. Not a fuckable option.”
Of course she almost immediately caught on. And you could tell that it dawned upon Dennis as he left silence as Trinity wisped away to whatever patient that was likely to make her day a little harder. Not unexpectedly, he goes looking for you. Using the rare free time he had on his hands to ask you a pressing–and what he thought was a stupid–question. And it doesn’t take him long to do so. You were at max 5 feet away.
“Hey–Uh..Can I ask you a question? Promise not to laugh,”
“I won't laugh at you, Dennis. What's up?”
“Me and Santos were talking and…she–she s-said I was like your pet. She actually said dog. I just..wanted to know if you really think that?”
“Kinda. But you’re a cute dog.” Reaching your hand up, you pet him. A simple stroke against the messy curls atop his head. Leaving the poor boy speechless but with an oddly familiar warmth growing through him.
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