manipulative pope cody + ‘just the tip?’ + breeding kink drabble :3
this is for my moots who inspired me to blurb! i luv you~ @valleyanimalz @dirtygir1 @bbuuunnyyy @groovyangelkisses
*nasty smut below the cut teehee* ! mdni !
pope cody hates that you make him wear a condom, that you have been making him wrap it up for the entire two month relationship. he feels it’s an unnecessary barrier keeping him from feeling all of you and filling you up properly. but, he agreed the first time because he was so desperate to be inside you. always has been. always will be.
now, even after you’ve fucked more times than he can count while protected. he’s fed up. he knows that you’ll like it bare. that you’ll need it. that you’ll never make him wear a stupid condom again when you learn how good it feels when he sinks into you raw. you just need his help. need your strong, heroic boyfriend to take that step that you cant take yourself. god, he’s so good to you. that’s what he tells himself when he formulates his plan.
he made sure you came on his face at least three times. until your legs were jelly, brain mush, voice hoarse from begging him to stop. ‘i-i can’t’ you had whined, ‘ ‘s too much andy!’. he did it to get you into that floaty head space where you’re babbling mindlessly and lax for him.
and you’re exactly that as pope crawls up your body and settles where he belongs, above you and inbetween your legs. still, you breathlessly slur the question that he despises. “condom?”
he feigns frustration even though this is exactly what he planned. “shit— i left my wallet in craig’s car… i don’t have one.”
your response is a needy whine that morphs into a gasp when he rests his cock against your drenched folds and slowly slides back and forth. “can i just have you like this sweetheart?” pope rubs his thick length upwards, angry pink tip catching your clit with every pressing glide. you whimper through your desperate nods, nails clawing at his shoulders, fusing your knees to his ribs to stay spread for him. such a good girl, he thinks to himself.
he keeps his ruttings short. almost playfully light in order to not get you anywhere besides out of your mind from teasing. just how he wants it. when you start to wriggle beneath him, whimpering a few mindless “please please please”s, he looks down at your aching pussy to see her clench around nothing. poor baby, she needs me so bad, he tells himself.
his dick is so coated in your slick releases that pope ‘accidentally’ notches at your opening. staying in motion, he pushes in ever so slightly. your eyes shoot open in surprise “ohh- andy!” you squeal. frustration bubbles in his chest, but he doesn’t give up. because your panic simmers to pleasure and your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you moan at just his bare tip breaching your wet heat.
he buries his face into your neck to hide his satisfied grin, licking and suckling the skin how he knows you like. “jus the tip sweetheart? please?” he emphasizes his wimpy whines with an inching forward of his hips. your nails tear at the flesh on his back as you shudder. “p-promise?” you croak out in hazy compliance. his reply is strained. “ ‘course honey.”
popes promise — to him at least— goes up in flames when he slips a tiny bit further inside and is met with warm, silky tightness. fuckkk. he groans, muscles tensing and you cry out, eyes rolling back. his thrusts are shallow and unsatisfactory. after a only a few, he’s twitching in need, pathetically trying to inch deeper.
you notice, starting to whine and pant. “you cant andy! i’m not on the pill!” the words almost make pope start to piston in and out of you. the thought of coming in you until you’re swollen with his baby infiltrating his mind. that you’ll be tied to him forever and— oh yeah. that’s happening, he decides.
pope leans down to kiss you languidly. trying to tongue fuck you into submission. your pussy is rapidly fluttering around the first inch of his cock, telling him that you want this just as bad as he does. he uses his words. “you just feel so good sweetheart. need you so bad. need all of you.” a breathy moan slips from you at his praise as you return his kiss greedily.
you pull back and blink up at him with your glossy eyes and kiss bitten lips. when your legs start to wrap around him, crossing tightly at his back, he knows he’s almost home free. “okay... i- i need you too andy.”
you barely get the words out before he hastily pushes all the way inside of you. guttural noises of pleasure are ripped from you both as you clench around him so prettily and he stretches you out so perfectly. it’s searing, intimate and raw. so fucking raw.
as pope starts to thrust in and out of you eagerly, obscene slapping sounds echo throughout the room. he whimpers loudly at the warm, wet feeling of you and the noises your body makes for him.
when you shakily tell him between moans “you h-have to pull out.. okay?”
it takes all of his dwindling restraint to not laugh in your face.
Description: You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control.
Tags/warnings: Established rlsp, Drinking, r is drunk, lots of flirting, highly suggesting themes, lots of mentions of sex, huge age-gap (reader in 20's, abbott is 50), size difference, horniness lol, slight allusions to dom!jack, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey (would u guys like "kid" lol?) (sorry, i have issues. i think.)
Note: This is my first fic, and i wrote it in one go. While I tried to make the reader very neutral in terms of characteristics — the fic is highly self-indulgent (i, too, am horny for abbott), and you may see some mentions of reading having hair, reader being in heels.
“I kind of want to get shitfaced.”
Jack did not turn to look at you. He just huffed into his cup of black coffee, held closely to his lips. The kind of black coffee that made you wrinkle your nose. You proudly liked yours with a bit of milk in it. Okay, a lot of milk. To the point, Jack called it a milkshake.
His eyes remained fixated at the screen of his phone, straining even with his reading glasses, to read the daily news on a bulletin app you downloaded on his phone.
“What about your policy against having fun, and letting yourself go for more than two minutes in a row?” Jack asks in his low voice, scratchy from the coffee. His eyes finally find yours, as he takes a slow sip from his cup. His eyebrows raise at you questioningly, holding your gaze.
Damn him and his gaze. Even after 6 weeks of dating — and pining for a lot longer than that — he sure could still make you feel like a puddle.
You're only able to speak once he turns to his phone again. “Uh, excuse you, I'm a very fun person, thank you very much. Yesterday, I put a fake ‘your computer is down’ screen on Shen's laptop,” you tell proudly.
“Dear god. He did not go into a cardiac arrest from your…prank?” Jack's voice caught on the word “prank” as if it deeply amused him.
You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend (still hard to say that), shifting close enough to him on his couch that your knee knocked against his thigh. Your entire body faced him, while his faced the front — a tiny whine left your lips.
Jack turned his attention back to you as you spoke again. “You know it's the loss of control I hate. Don't you think I also feel like getting all loose-lipped and dancing on top of tables and flirting with strangers?”
His eyes softened a fraction when he saw the small frown on your lips. He sets his phone face-down on the arm of the couch, before shifting so his upper half faced you too. “Okay, what brings this on? You know I just like teasing, I don't think there's anything wrong with being an alcohol virgin.”
You rolled your eyes at his choice of words. “I want to know what it's like. It makes everyone so…” your hands do a weird dance in front of your chest, trying to find a proper word. Your attending swiftly moves his cup a bit to the left, so your hands wouldn't knock it all over yourself.
“Joyful,” you finished.
“Okay, but let's not dance on table tops and flirt with strangers,” he takes off his reading glasses and perches them next to his phone. When his eyes find you again, they're equal parts amused, and that softness that only seems to show up when you're in the room.
“I would never, I'd feel bad for giving you stress at your age.”
He lightly smacks your hip that's not smushed against the couch, “Brat.”
You grin widely, “You'll be there, right?”
“With a camera and a mic. My beautiful, sensible, nurse, looking like an absolute fool,” he tugged at a loose strand of your hair, his eyes shining with endearment.
Your little baby blue sling looks absolutely ridiculous hung over his shoulder. “What did I tell you before leaving?” His voice strains with the effort of all the workout he got in today. He's struggling with unlocking the door, because your purse keeps slipping down his arms.
You were a disaster. While your favourite doctor made sure you only stuck to fruity drinks that gave you a pleasant buzz and not regrets — you still managed to outdo yourself in terms of being a mess.
You challenged a man twice your size in an arm wrestle. You advised 3 different women to break up with their boyfriends, “Mine's handsome and kind. You guys stay safe, though.” And, finally, broke the heel of your left boot making you even more unbalanced than you already were.
“That Dr. Robby is a little shit with no self-preservation inst-”
“The other one, honey.”
You went silent for a moment, searching your hazy brain as the door opened in front of you. Jack gently guided you in, before locking the door with a sharp click. His rough hands sneak up your arms, tugging the jacket at your shoulders, and shrug it off you to safely hang it on his coat rack.
“That I shouldn't carry my bag if I couldn't keep it safe?” you say, looking down at him, as he sets his knee on the floor. His hands that cut and heal skin with such precision, are deftly working the zipper of your boots. He gently helps your feet out of the pair, patting your calf, before rising to his full height again with a groan.
Without your size boosters, your head was once again leveled with his chest. Jack nodded, leaning his head down so you didn't have to crane your neck as much.
“But I had my ID and pepper spray in there,” you justified, your lower lip jutting out in a pout.
Jack's hand pats the right-side pocket of his hands, “ID,” his voice rumbling as if coming straight from his chest. “And you don't need pepper spray. You have me.”
But you're not registering a word he says, not when he looks like this. His salt and pepper curls are all ruffled from your bar visit. His simple black tee is pulled taut across his biceps, making them look just as delicious as they do in his SWAT uniform.
His fingers snap in front of you, “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” You look in his honeyed eyes again. God, why haven't you guys had sex already? You seriously can't remember why.
“Why haven't we fucked?” You blurt out. Oh, the alcohol doesn’t make you Joyful. It makes you blunt.
Your boyfriend freezes for a second, before letting out a deep, throaty laugh. His hands settle on your shoulders. With a slight bend of his knees, he manages to stare completely and directly into your eyes. “Wow, thought we went to the bar, not to a seminar for clear communication.”
You capture both his hands and slide them down, so they're firmly on your hips. After humming in satisfaction, you take a step closer to him, your chest brushing his. “Answer me.”
As if suddenly realizing you both are still standing in the entryway, Jack starts walking you backwards, swiftly maneuvering you so you don't hit the kitchen counter. “I'm your attending, honey, I don't answer to you,”
You furrow your brows, staring up at him with irritation. You press yourself even closer to him, your palms settling on his hard stomach. “Like hell you don't. I want to know why me and my gorgeous boyfriend haven't made good use of every room in this too-big-for-you house.”
Jack sighs deeply, his fingers unconsciously tightening around your hips. He takes a seat on one of the low kitchen counter stools, so he doesn't have to keep looking down at you. His arms completely wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you're standing between the hard muscle of his thighs.
“Because we work at a hospital, we're either busy or tired. And…it's hard to find a footing with sex. You tense up whenever my hand slips under your shirt, you've talked about how insecure you get. And me…well, I'm not what I used to be.”
Your eyes soften, “But do you want me?” Your lips graze his jaw, your hands palming the hard plane of his chest.
Jack shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath, “What do you think, baby?” his right hand moves an inch lower with exaggerated slowness, settling on the top curve of your ass, his thumb stroking the curve.
You let out an entirely pathetic whimper at his breathy voice, his lips brushing your temple. You move back your face, so you can watch him again. His eyes look darker than they actually are.
“I see this as a good opportunity that we should seize, doctor.” His throat catches at the ‘doctor’. Oh, you are not a fair player.
“Well, I don't like my medical staff being inhibited. Perhaps, sometimes when you're horny and sober, we can continue the procedure.” His breaths are coming in shallow, his hard thighs squeezing around you to completely lock you in. His hands have not stopped moving, the one on your waist has moved north to tangle in your hair at the nape of your neck.
A petulant whine leaves your lips as you bury your mouth in the crook of his neck. “But-”
“No buts. I have no intention of being between your legs in a state you won't even remember anything in.” The rasp in his voice so close to your ear directly travels to the your belly, already coiling tight with tension.
The imagery makes you groan: His mouth working between your legs, his jaw shining under the dim lights, stopping for a moment to say, “Louder, baby. Your doctor can't hear you.”
Your lips slip from his neck, replaced by your forehead. His lips brush against your hair, the gentleness so different from what his body is suggesting.
“Kids and their hormones,” he teasingly says. That makes you pull yourself back. Because that's rich coming from a man whose pants are getting visibly tighter.
“Is that so, grandpa?” Your eyes are entirely fixated on his lips. Your own bottom lip has caught between your teeth.
His thumb comes up to free your lip so you don't hurt it, “Careful, brat.” His hand stays on your face, and you lean heavily into his palm, blinking at him. The strap of your top has conveniently fallen off from its place, and Jack is staring like a man who's just discovered shoulders, tracking the soft curve of it, following the slope of your neck, where your pulse thrums rapidly.
Leave it to him to have a gaze that weights at least a 300 pounds.
Your palms drop from his chest to his waist, brushing your fingers against the waistband of his pants. A soft “uh-uh” leaves his mouth as he slowly shakes his head, though he makes no move with his hands to push you away.
“You're palming at me like you're a little girl, and I'm your favorite barbie doll.”
“You are my favorite barbie doll, Dr. Abbott,” it leaves your mouth in a soft, needy, whine.
His shoulder shake slightly from laughter, the comforting rumble filling the room, subsequently reaching every tensed part of your body, and taking its place there too, perfectly fitting every crook and corner.
“I am a 50-year old man with a military background, who spends his nights managing an entire floor of medical staff. My day hobbies include being a buddy to SWAT and getting shot at.”
You look at him, as if to say “so?” and hearing the adoration — despite the choice of words — in your voice completely decentres him. “Glad to be your favourite barbie doll, honey.”
He finally freezes when your wandering palm brushes against the hard ridge in his pants, practically begging to be freed. You let out a little gasp as you feel his size, even with a barrier of rough fabric.
A low groan leaves him, his hand sharply capturing your bold wrist against his own chest, heaving up and down. For someone just talking about being 50, the man's heart is sure beating with a fast thump-thump-thump, like a teenage boy catching his crush in a 2-feet vicinity. Your name leaves his mouth, dirty and like a prayer at the same time.
“Let me help you, doctor. Please” you say sweetly, voice coated in silk and need and whatever poison this man mixed in your drinks.
A pause.
He gets off the stool in a sudden motion, his hands grip your forearms, and starts walking you backwards in the general direction of the bathroom.
“You are a pain in my ass. And, frankly, a horny mess.”
“Speaking of horny and my ass-”
He doesn't let you complete the sentence before turning you around, his broad chest hovering over your form from the back. “Nope. You have lost the privilege of looking at me before you've taken a cold shower.”
You tilt your head back to look at him, excitement glinting in your eyes, “together?”
“No, you pervert.” Your boyfriend opens the door to the bathroom and lets you both in. Before you can even complain, his rough palms are gripping the back of your thighs, swiftly lifting you up on the counter. You let out a little squeal, squeezing your thighs at the display of his strength.
Show-off.
So fucking hot, though. It's like he was made by Lana Del Rey's mind.
Jack doesn’t stop, though. He finds his way behind the glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom. His practiced hands mess with the settings until he's satisfied, and comes back.
He stands in front of you again, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles strain at the motion, trying to escape their way from the tight shirt. You pout at his slut-ishness. A walking, talking, thirst trap. If he was an actor, he would surely have his fare share of editors.
“How am I supposed to not get wet when you manhandle me?”
“Jesus,” he mumbles, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to lull some of his composure back into him. He silently thanks his military discipline, or you would currently be spread on the soft sheets of his bed, waking up his neighbours.
He takes a deep breath, eyes scanning you again. His fingers come up to pinch your chin in a soft embrace, “Shower. Clean. Mind and body both. And then, we will sleep. Got it?”
Heat pools low in your belly at his authoritative voice. God, how did you land this man?
“Sir, yes, sir.” You watch his gaze get heavy at the word. He leaves his hold on your chin, pats your hip, and exits the bathroom.
Guess you know what you'll be calling him, when he finally lets you do what your body is begging you to do.
You find him on his bed, wearing only a pair of low hung worn-out sweatpants. His back is slumped against the pillows, fingers locked behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.
He finally looks at you, crawling on his king-sized bed, trying to make your way over to him. It seems the shower un-possessed you. You look soft, sleepy, tired, and utterly his.
He holds out his arm and you immediately curl up into him, your icy-cold nose finding the hollow of his neck. “Hold me,” you murmur.
“One second, honey.” Before he can properly embrace you, he pulls up the thick duvet and arranges it to cover both of you. His left arm is trapped under your body, fingers pressing against the small of your back to pull you closer. His other hand brushes the hair back from your face, watching your heavy eyelids.
“There you are,” he softly rumbles before pressing the softest, most lingering kiss on your temple. A low sigh of satisfaction leaves you. You're still inhibited, but the tiredness has caught up.
“You didn't like the freaky me?” You ask, your jaw cracking with a yawn right after.
“I like every-you, unfortunately. It's a weakness in the ED.” His fingers are still moving in your hair, scratching your scalp in a way that turns your brain to mush. You push your face even deeper in his neck. Hell, you would live inside his ribcage if he ever allowed it.
You let out a soft giggle, hiking your thigh over his hip so no part of you is separate from him. “Can we have a proper conversation about sex tomorrow?”
Your boyfriend murmurs a “yes, baby,” against your forehead.
“Okay, goodnight. Gonna have some good wet dreams.”
“Shut up, and go to sleep, sweetheart.”
If anybody even reads this, and ends up liking it - pls feel free to glaze me in comments, asks, or dms. likes and reblogs appreciated as well <3 also, do yall think im funny?
Y/N has been struggling to find the moment to have the big 'what are we' talk with Jack Abbot. The pair have been dating for a good while and things feel like they are growing into something real. An overheard conversation with Dr. Al Hashimi leads to a massive misunderstanding for an insecure Y/N. Y/N begins to question if Abbot was just passing his time with her until a catch like Al Hashimi came along.
Part One of Two
angst, idiots in love, men being clueless, Al Hashimi is innocent, insecurity from Reader. Just angst and two losers sucking at talking about their relationship like reasonable adults. Mentions of past suicide ideation. Discussion of losing a spouse.
The words seem like they should be so simple to say. They dance around in the back of her throat sliding forward to the tip of her tongue not getting caught up on her tonsils or her teeth as she stares up at him.
The words have been rehearsed a dozen times in her head like a recording that she just can’t skip.
She’s thought so much about the words she needs to say to express exactly what she feels for him.
I really like you. I have the best time with you. You make my days and nights seem brighter. You’re all I think about in my quiet moments. You’re the one I want to reach out to when everything feels awful, but you’re also my person when something wonderful happens. I am not seeing anyone else, so I really hope you aren’t either. I know we’ve not discussed labels, but I really would like to. We’ve been out on several dates and have toothbrushes at each other’s places. You’ve seen sides of me that I rarely show another soul. You make me cum harder than anyone has managed to and you make me laugh so hard my ribs hurt. So, I’d like to make things official.
The words should be so easy to say, but life keeps getting in the way.
She’d laid in bed by his side soaking up the afterglow of making love and felt the words form on her lips before dying on her tongue. She’d sat by his side sharing coffee and bagels wanting so dearly to say the words but chickening out worried that breakfast time isn’t entirely a romantic atmosphere. She’d sat across from him at romantic dinners parting her lips to say the words until a waiter interrupted them.
Working in different departments and lately on entirely different shifts makes it all the more difficult to find the time to say what she has been dying to say. They pass by one another in between opposing shifts with zero moment to exchange more than a rushed kiss and a ‘have a good shift. Be safe’
She’s fallen in love with Dr. Jack Samuel Abbot and every single time she attempts to tell him that she wants whatever has built between them to be serious, life rams its head in and stops her.
She doesn’t think anyone could blame her for falling for Jack Abbot.
When she accepted the offer of an attending physician position in the pediatric ward at PTMC she felt so blessed. She was finally done with her residency, finally done putting in a few years at a tiny little town in Minnesota at a little hospital that hired her and paid her enough to get her student loans down to a reasonable livable amount.
The offer to move to a highly regarded teaching hospital and take an attendant position in her thirties had felt like a dream come true. Even if she’d been shoved on alternating shifts , working both day and night shifts, it still felt like an incredible opportunity.
She’d never anticipated that a trip down to do a consult in the emergency department for a boy with a severe asthma attack would lead her to meeting the man of her dreams.
Abbot had been a flirt right off the bat and though it had felt flattering she’d not paid too much mind to it. She had seen the type before a doctor with an ego and a flirty attitude.
Sure, she’d found him cute and a charmer, but she told herself she was well past the age of schoolgirl crushes on older guys.
A night out with friends from work had changed her initial opinion about Abbot. Some of the staff from the ED had been at the same bar she’d gone to and Abbot and she had chatted over beers and rum and cokes. He’d taught her to play darts. They’d flirted over crappy alcohol, bar nuts, and darts.
He’d taken her to get a greasy breakfast at a 24 hr dinner when the bar had got too hectic and bar nuts and fried pub food seemed less than filling.
He’d asked to see her again and she’d accepted.
A kiss had been shared…more than one kiss and their relationship had led to the bedroom. They each had a drawer and a toothbrush at one another’s places. Their lives felt intertwined.
It felt real.
Jack Abbot was a prince among men; intelligent, funny, compassionate, strong willed, and incredibly patient.
Y/N knew he was a complicated man though…he was resilient.
The resilience had been born out of trauma and loss.
The trauma of war from his time in the army. The loss of his leg from the knee down from an IED. The trauma of that loss and the end of his military career. The trauma of all the horrific things he’d seen during his time as an Army medic. The traumas he’d seen working in the medical field as a civilian. The sudden loss of his wife and the grief he’d endured from her death.
Jack Abbot was a multifaceted man. His kindness joined hands with a sense of loss and pain no human should endure. His compassion was born from suffering. His intelligence bred from sacrifice. His humor learned from coping with grief.
Perhaps due to his complexity Y/N had also been inspired to keep her lips sealed when it came to spilling her heart to him?
He was a sensitive soul who had lived through a lot. She almost feared he’d turn her love away, too afraid to risk exposing her to his traumas.
She was growing sick of holding back though. She’d decided that once she got herself back on her usual schedule and their schedules became more aligned she’d grow a pair and say the words.
Well…she’d been so brave until now.
She’d not anticipated seeing Jack Abbot in full SWAT gear when she came down to the ED for a consult.
He’d of course reassured her he was fine just coming in with a guy from his SWAT crew who’d been shot. The guy would be fine and everything was okay.
Despite the worry she’d felt knowing he’d literally been shot at, she felt a warm sense of adoration wash over her at how reassuring he’d been when he spotted her worry.
He’d taken her aside and so sweetly spoken to her promising her that he was a-okay. He’d reassured her he was planning on cutting back on the SWAT shifts as he knew they worried her. He’d sworn to her that he was just fine.
Even when he’d admitted a bullet had lightly grazed him, prompting her to react accordingly, he’d insisted that she had nothing to worry about.
It was something she adored about him…the man had literally been shot at and he was more worried about her concern over him than his own injury.
That warm sense of adoration felt bitter and sour in her chest as she stood by the nurses station going over some lab orders she’d requested from the ten year old girl she’d been called down to do a consult on.
She listened to Jack Abbot chat with the attending physician who’d be replacing Robby while he took a sabbatical.
Dr. Baran Al Hashimi had seemed kind enough; clearly enthusiastic about the work she’d be doing filling in for Robby.
Y/N had been introduced to the doctor as they might cross paths during Robby’s planned time away.
Al Hashimi seemed polite and perfectly lovely if not a bit too enthusiastic about the promise of AI in the medical field when it came to charting.
Y/N could actually see herself enjoying working alongside the woman if Y/N were to find herself called down to the ED, despite Y/N’s less than favorable feelings about artificial intelligence.
Any sense that Al Hashimi seemed like someone Y/N would enjoy working with faded so quickly as she stood aside clearly able to hear Jack Abbot chatting with Al Hashimi.
Y/N felt bile rise in the back of her throat as she heard Abbot speak his voice far too flirtatious. “We should grab a drink sometime. Swap war stories.”
Although Y/N could not see Baran Al Hashimi’s face a nasty voice in the back of her head snarled that the doctor was probably sending Abbot a flirty smile awestruck by his charm.
How could she not? Abbot was practically the Prince Charming of the Pitt.
Y/N felt her heart sink as Al Hashimi replied with a friendly “Sure sounds great.”
The words taunted Y/N ‘grab a drink, swap war stories.’
Of course…
Her heart felt like it was cracking as it sunk all the further.
Y/N stared down at the iPad in her hand swallowing down her heartache.
She had been so hopeful that all those dates, all those kisses, all the lovemaking, the toothbrushes at one another’s places had meant something.
It had meant something to her…but the flirty tone and drink offer that had spilled from Abbot’s lips directed to a woman who was not Y/N was a clear sign as any that all of those little things that she’d cherished and allowed herself to believe meant something meant nothing to Jack Abbot.
The horrible thing was that Y/N wasn’t even sure she could truly blame him.
Dr. Baran Al Hashimi was in her forties and a bit closer in age to Jack Abbot’s near fifty than Y/N’s thirties.
She was a stunning woman. Intelligent and excited to work in the emergency department.
Her experience in the ED probably meant she would have more in common to discuss career wise with Abbot than Y/N with her pediatric experience.
Al Hashimi had worked in active war zones meaning she could relate to Abbot in that regard given his past as an Army medic.
The horror of war was something Y/N would never fully understand no matter how much she attempted to empathize and relate to Abbot with his trauma.
Al Hashimi more than likely had a deep enough understanding of the hell of war and could truly fully understand what Abbot had lived through.
Y/N felt her heart twist and ache telling herself that of course Abbot would pounce at the opportunity to woo someone like Al Hashimi.
A cruel voice in the back of her head told Y/N that it was only a matter of time until Abbot found a better option than her.
She had simply just been something to entertain him until something better had come along.
Y/N had been too anxious to broach the ‘what are we’ dilemma, but Abbot had not taken the initiative either.
Perhaps he’d not broached the subject because he was just waiting for the chance to let her down gently? Perhaps he’d not asked her for something real because this was nothing to him but some casual fun.
She placed the iPad on the nurses station, turning on her heel wanting to get far from the man who had just destroyed her heart and the woman who was so obviously the better option.
She felt the tears flood her vision as she entered the elevator frantically pushing the close door button so relieved she was all alone.
She rested her head back against the cool metal wall of the elevator, her tears falling rapidly.
She reached up wiping at her face roughly the words spilling out to empty air saying what she so desperately wanted to say to Jack Abbot. “I hate you Jack…I love you and I hate you so much right now.”
She felt her throat grow tight as her cell rang the name flashing across the screen. She picked it up trying to even out her breathing and sound anything less than miserable.
“Robby, sorry. I didn’t get a chance to catch you before I got called back up to peds…but your patient should be good. Her blood sugar is back in range. We can monitor her for a few more hours to make sure it doesn’t plummet again, but I don't think she’ll need to be admitted to my floor.”
She was not shocked by the response she received. “Are you okay? I know Abbot’s an idiot.”
She felt her throat grow tight wondering if he too had witnessed Abbot practically tripping over himself to charm Al Hashimi.
Has everyone noticed? Was this all some kind of big joke on her? Poor Y/N in love with a man and unable to see he doesn’t feel the same, so pathetic.
Her paranoia tampered down as Robby spoke again. “I told him he needs to back off the SWAT hobby, but he’s an adrenaline junkie to his core. I’m sure he’s gonna be fine though. The man survived too much for a grazed gunshot wound to take him out.”
She felt her throat grow tight, almost wishing the source of her pain was that simple…just simple concern over the man she adored…not her heart getting stomped on by realizing that the man she loved clearly did not feel the same.
She spoke knowing her voice was sharp anger easier to grasp on to than sorrow. “I need to let you go. I have to get back to peds”
She ignored Robby’s well meaning reassurances and goodbyes, hanging up her cell and shoving it in her pocket, her stomach turning as she tried to ready herself to return to her own department.
She would make it though the rest of her day and then she’d go home and cry it out with a bottle of wine and some ice cream. She was a grown woman and she could survive this.
She put on a brave face as the elevator doors opening she returning to her own department ready to push back her heartbreak and endure.
She sighed as her cell phone chimed indicating a fresh text message.
She yanked it from her scrub pocket glaring down at the name on the screen, the sight offending her.
Jackie ❤️: You hitting my place after your shift? I’ve got that leftover pizza in the fridge. You’re welcome to it.”
She resisted the urge to toss her phone across the hallway in rage. He was seriously texting her like everything was peachy and as though he hadn’t just asked someone else out on a date?
She gritted her jaw keeping her response short and to the point: Have a headache. Going back to my place. Sleeping it off.
She gritted her jaw all the more at the reply she received.
Jackie ❤️: I could swing by your place.
She typed out her reply angrily: Probably not a good idea. Might be sick.
She felt her heart twist and her anger bloom at the flirty reply she received.
Jackie ❤️: Alright, Sweetheart. Just do me a favor and get plenty of rest. Need my girl to feel better, doctors orders.
She resisted the urge to text by her ideal response ‘Enjoy your drinks with Baran you two timing piece of shit. I hope you get alcohol poisoning.’
She instead shoved her phone back in her scrub pocket practically stomping her way towards the pediatric department.
She took a deep breath reminding herself; survive this shift. Go home, get drunk, eat ice cream, google how to place hexes on shitty almost-boyfriends.
She would survive this hurt. She just had to cry first.
——————
Y/N was avoiding him, that much was clear. The problem was Jack Abbot had zero clue what he’d done to be subjected to the coldness?
He had spent three miserable days and nights rolling through every single interaction he’s had with Y/N over the past week searching for clues on what he could have done to get such chilly indifference from her.
He struggled to place what he may have done to upset her…because clearly she seemed upset.
She was not transparent about her annoyance but instead she seemed dismissive of his attempts to reach out and connect.
He’d assumed that she was in fact just getting sick so he’d done the loving act of ubering soup, juice, Gatorade, and some Tylenol to her apartment.
He’d not received the response he had anticipated. He had almost feared the little care package he’d put together for her had failed to arrive.
So, he’d of course reached out to her, sending a text to check in and see if she got the package.
The only response he’d gotten was a short clipped ‘Yep, thanks.’
Any attempts to prolong the interaction had been met with a simple. ‘I’m exhausted. Going to turn in.’
His adoring ‘Sweet dreams, Hon’ had not received a reply.
Any further attempts to reach out were given the same reaction; short emotionless responses and claims of being tired.
He’d tried to ask if he could drop in on her but was met with insistence it would be a bad idea, she didn’t feel well.
Jack Abbot would be lying if he claimed he did not consider dropping in on her without warning, but had resisted too sure that showing up unannounced would be pushing at her boundaries.
He felt despondent over it all. It was frustrating being so uncertain of what he’d done to be iced out by the girl he’d worked so hard to charm.
He’d not anticipated finding love again, not after losing his wife.
When Anna Abbot had died in a car accident on the way to visit her family out west, it had felt like a cruel joke on Jack Abbot.
He’d lived through so much already, and Anna had been there through it all to hold his hand and offer gentle reassurance.
The world had ripped her away from Jack Abbot without warning. She’d been halfway across the country dying alone on a dark desolate highway because some damn semi driver had fallen asleep at the wheel so determined to meet his destination that he’d driven longer than he was supposed to.
Jack Abbot had wanted to die right there with Anna. He’d watched his beloved wife be lowered into the ground in a closed casket in the family plot her mother had insisted on, the one with no spot for Jack Abbot to rest at his wife’s side.His mother in law had never liked him and had seemed to choose her daughter’s final resting spot to spite him. Anna was catholic and had been buried in a catholic cemetery where her husband who had never converted could be buried.
Looking back Abbot wished he had insisted on choosing his wife’s final resting place, picking somewhere he could be laid to rest at her side. He’d not had it in him to fight her mother on it though. He’d known he’d lost a wife but her mother had lost a child.
The funeral had been awful; he felt numb barely able to even comprehend people’s expressions of sympathy.
He’d stood at her gravesite feeling as though his heart was being lowered into that grave.
Jack Abbot had wanted to throw himself in the ground with his wife. He’d wanted to be buried alive there on top of her casket. Life without her was not worth living.
He’d spent restless nights wishing he’d not gotten rid of his guns after the worst of his PTSD when his therapist and he’d agreed that he should not have access to weapons in his home.
He’d envisioned going out and buying a gun and blowing his brains out. He’d thought of throwing himself off the roof of PTMC.
His sister had been the one who had dragged him out of his thoughts of ending his life. She’d practically moved in with him, she’d taken care of him and slowly but surely he’d been able to see through the fog of depression and grief long enough to reach out to his therapist and seek help.
Jack Abbot had assumed that what he’d shared with his late wife was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He could never replicate the sense of love he’d felt for her. Anna had been an amazing woman. No one could compare to her.
Then Dr. Y/L/N had been hired up in pediatrics and he’d eaten every word he’d ever uttered about thinking loving again was not in the cards for him.
Y/N had walked into his life like a ray of sunshine and he’d wanted to soak up the warmth he felt around her.
Somehow he’d managed to charm her into a date which had turned into several dates and a sense of intimacy Jack Abbot had thought he’d never experience with another soul ever again.
He’d felt more at peace these past months of romancing her than he’d felt in years.
He’d clearly done something to ruin that sense of peace though.
He’d once again found himself locked in an attempt to figure out just what he’d done to wreck everything as he stood at the nurses station in the Pitt.
He did not even notice Robby as he approached him chattering about shift change.
Abbot was finally pulled out of his own thoughts as Robby spoke, giving his shoulder a nudge. “Hey, Space Cadet, you listening to me?”
Abbot raised a brow staring up from the spot he’d been glaring at on the nurse’s station finally meeting his old friend’s eyes. “Sorry, just thinking.”
Robby raised a brow in return, Jack letting out a heavy sigh reluctant to spill his guts right here in the middle of the Pitt so close to the nurses station. He knew Pearla and Princess were notorious gossips and would yap if they overheard his personal business.
He threw caution to the wind deciding his misery was too heavy to carry on his own. “I think I screwed up.”
Robby continued to stare at him one brow raised not replying with any smart responses he was tempted to blurt out.
Abbot spoke again shifting in place the sock he’d put over his residual limb a bit too stretched out that it kept sliding downwards. He knew it would be a pain in the ass later especially if it slid far down enough to allow his prosthetic to rub against the limb and make the sensitive skin and scarring raw.
“I did something to piss Y/N off, the only problem is I have zero clue what I did.”
Robby scoffed at the comment thinking back to the abrupt way Y/N had ended the call. It was a bit out of character for the woman. She was almost as chatty as Abbot. Robby didn’t mind it. He’d grown a little fond of her in her time in Abbot’s life, and not just because she seemed to make the night attendant clearly happy.
Robby dared to say the words knowing it would earn him a glare from Abbot. “It might be that you keep throwing yourself into the SWAT shit. Your hobby involves getting shot at, can’t leave much room for comfort for your girlfriend.”
Abbot shot him the glare Robby was predicting the man quick to defend himself. “I talked to her about it. I’m gonna cut down on the SWAT shifts.”
Robby rolled his eyes ever so slightly fast to point it out. “Pretty sure she’d prefer you to stop it all together instead of just cutting back. You need to pick up a boring hobby, golf or tennis or something that doesn’t involve a bullet grazing you. Shit, pick up paint ball if you like getting shot at so much.”
“I don’t like getting shot at. It was just a graze, just took some patching up. It was nothing serious. Y/N knows that. I talked her down.” Abbot defended himself once again.
Robby shook his head fast to say it. “Just saying, brother. If I was Y/N I’d be pissed that the guy I’m dating thinks a good activity involves picking up SWAT medic shifts. She clearly wasn’t talked down too much if she’s pissed at you. She thought it was serious.”
Abbot let out a deep sigh running his hand along his face, exhaustion painting his features. He’d not slept well by himself. He’d gotten accustomed to Reader being there, or at least knowing she’d be there in his bed even if it happened to be a day where they worked opposite shifts. “Shit, I’ve got to fix it.”
“Buy her some flowers, grovel…I know I’m not the best at giving advice on making a relationship last given my track record, but flowers and apologies are a good place to start.” Robby offered Jack nodding his head his jaw tightening.
He spoke, shaking his head. “I sent her a care package…Ubered it to her place. Thought it would show her I care since she told me she felt ill. She barely replied to me. Pretty sure if I send her flowers I’m gonna get the same response.”
Robby let out a sigh shaking his own head. “Flowers are just a starting point, man. You grovel too. You don’t have to do it right this second. Listen, you got the night off tomorrow, hit the bar with me and a few of the ED crew. We figured we’d take Al Hashimi out and have a get to know me session with a few of the day shift. Take a breath and we’ll brainstorm a way for you to grovel appropriately. You can pick Dana and Al Hashimi’s brains. They can give a woman’s insight, tell you where you might have messed up if it wasn’t the SWAT thing. They might see something you didn’t. The bar is a bit more of an upscale joint, no rowdy drunks. It’s one of those tapa and wine places, Dana suggested it.”
Jack rolled the offer through his head wanting to decline it. He didn’t want to turn his personal romantic life into a team building activity among his coworkers.
He let Robby’s suggestion roll through his head; get a woman’s insight. It wasn’t the worst idea Robby ever had.
Abbot was tempted to say no and storm his way over to Y/N’s place, grovel at her feet and beg for her to tell him what idiotic thing he’d done so he could fix it.
He pushed back the desire though certain with how cold she’d been lately that it would only make things worse.
Besides, wouldn’t admitting he had zero clue what exactly he’d done to upset her just make things ten times worse?
He should probably try to figure out what wrong move he’d made before he tried to grovel.
So, he pushed back his desire to figure this out himself and decided to swallow his pride and accept the offer of someone else giving his relationship woes a shot at figuring it out.
Y/N did not want to be out right now. In fact she wanted to hide away in her apartment like she’d done every single moment she was not at work, ignoring Jack Abbot’s texts and drowning her sorrow in wine and take out.
She was out of wine though.
She decided to forgo her car knowing that there was a decent liquor store in walking distance from her brownstone.
She told herself some fresh air would do her a world of good. She just wished she’d considered the rainy weather before deciding a brisk walk in fresh air would ease her sour mood.
The rain was pouring just enough to make her feel a chill and like the rocket scientist she was, she forgot her umbrella.
She sighed barely managing to dodge a passing car as it splashed dirty water up on the sidewalk almost soaking her.
She moved a little closer to the buildings she was walking alongside the busy area filled with bars and a few small bistros.
The area she’d moved to had plenty of dining options and a few nightlife options, not that she was a big barhopper, not since college. She appreciated the availability though in case she did decide to grab a drink and let off some steam.
She stopped in front of a bar, the rain heavy enough that she decided to seek shelter under an awning near a large window gazing into a more upscale little bar.
She didn’t mean to gawk through the window at the patrons and almost considered stepping into the bar to get a bit dry, but she was sure her sweat pants, a hoodie she’d had since undergrad, and uggs weren’t entirely fit for such a nice little wine bar.
She felt her stomach drop bile rise in her throat as she spotted them.
It was like life was kicking her while she was down and out.
Right there in the center of the bar sitting facing one another each with a glass of wine sat Dr. Baran Al Hashimi and the very man who had put Y/N into such a state of sorrow, Dr. Jack Abbot.
She felt the bile rise so far she almost vomited at the sight. The drink offer, her mind taunted her, Al Hashimi had taken it.
Of course he’d brought her to a romantic little wine bar. The place was so the kind of joint you’d take a woman you wanted to impress.
Jack Abbot had taken Y/N to a 24 hour diner with greasy hashbrowns and a waitress that sounded like she smoked a pack a day, on their first date.
It was clear where on the scale of attempts to impress Al Hashimi and herself sat.
This was just another sign that Jack Abbot was only biding his time with her, Y/N realized.
Why else would he take Dr. Al Hashimi to such a fancy first date?
Y/N had gotten the little diner with sticky tables and runny eggs and Al Hashimi got the fancy bar with expensive wine and pricy tapas.
It was a clear sign as any that Jack Abbot could not take anything he had going on with Y/N seriously, but Al Hashimi was someone he wanted to put effort into.
A more reasonable voice in the back of her head insisted that Jack had taken her to nice places too.
He’d taken her to eat sushi and to have dinner at a nice steakhouse…but a cruel voice told her that of course he’d done that…he had to throw her a bone to string her along.
He was getting his dick wet with her…so he’d probably been trying to keep a good thing going while he could until something better came along.
She clenched her fists tempted to storm into the bar and give him a piece of her mind.
How could he do this to her? He’d laid in bed with Y/N holding her in his arms talking until they were both delirious with sleep, sharing their deepest secrets. He’d told her he felt connected to her, a feeling he’d not had since his late wife.
Was that all bullshit? Was he just feeding her lines she wanted to hear to keep stringing her along and hanging on until she lost her novelty?
If that was the case why was he acting so needy and concerned about her lately? Was this some kind of sick game? Was he just keeping her on the backburner in case Al Hashimi didn’t pan out?
She stepped away from the window despite her desire to march into the bar and scream and yell and demand answers.
She refused to behave like the pissed off crazy girlfriend.
She was certain if she pulled that stunt he’d turn it against her. Wasn’t that what guys who cheated did? They made their partners into the bad guys to justify why they had to seek out affection someplace else?
Was this cheating a voice questioned in the back of her head?
They hadn’t placed a label on it after all.
She bit back the thought telling herself that though they’d not said the words his actions had hinted at it.
She felt her eyes begin to water angry tears clouding her vision.
She spoke, spitting the words towards him though she knew he could not hear her. He had zero clue she’d caught him right in the act. “Fuck you, Dr. Abbot.”
She turned wiping her eyes ignoring the cold chill of the rain, the anger coursing through her too intense for her to focus on any minor discomfort.
If Jack Abbot was going to treat her like this then she was done with him.
He could seek out a better option and so could Y/N.
She was worth more than this.
She would show him that he’d lost the best thing that he could have had, she told herself.
Jack Abbot would learn that there was no fury like a woman scorned.
summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader
warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint
notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂↕️
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
“Ew.”
The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.
You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.
“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.
McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.
“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.
You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.
After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.
“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.
“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.
“They’re raspberry flavoured.”
“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”
You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.
He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.
You: Are you coming in early today?
JA ❤️: Always.
You quickly typed out another message.
You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible
The reply came almost instantly.
JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.
You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.
JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.
You: are you psychic?
JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.
Your smile widened as his reply came through.
You: thank u 🩷
JA ❤️: 👍
“What are you smiling at?”
You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.
“What?”
“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”
“Nothing.”
Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.
Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”
“What?”
“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.
“That?” Whitaker supplied.
“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”
You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.
“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”
Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”
You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”
Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”
Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."
You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.
“Never give your triggers away Santos.”
“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.
You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.
You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.
“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.
“You all good?”
“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”
“Not for a little while.”
“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”
“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”
You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”
Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”
You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”
“Apparently so.”
You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.
Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.
“Hey.”
You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.
“What?” You asked warily.
Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”
“The what?”
Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.
“Absolute smoke show.”
Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”
Your brows knitted together.
“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.
“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.
You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.
At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.
And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.
“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.
You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.
Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.
Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.
“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”
By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.
“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”
Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.
“Well I’ll be.”
That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.
“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”
Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.
“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”
“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”
“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.
He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.
"Someone has to."
Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.
“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.
"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.
“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.
“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.
Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"
Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.
"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"
"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"
"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."
McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.
Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”
You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.
“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”
You snorted. “Please.”
“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”
You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”
He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."
He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”
You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”
“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."
"No."
"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”
"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.
“Wait let me guess.”
Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.
His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”
He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”
From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”
Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.
Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.
For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.
Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”
Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.
“I’m right."
You didn't answer.
"I am."
“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”
“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”
“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”
Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."
"He also has excellent aim."
"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."
And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.
"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.
“You’re happy?”
You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.
“I am.”
“He good to you?"
You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”
Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”
For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.
You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”
“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.
"So the usual then?"
“The usual.”
He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”
“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."
Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”
“Sloan.”
The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.
Mark's grin returned instantly.
“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.
"A lot less hair since I last saw you."
Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”
Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.
Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.
“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”
“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”
“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”
Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.
“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”
Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”
McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”
“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.
Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”
The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."
Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.
“You two know eachother?”
“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.
“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.
Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”
You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.
“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“
“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."
Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."
“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”
Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.
You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.
He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.
"Ex?"
You sighed. "...Ex."
Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”
“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”
Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.
You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.
“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.
Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.
You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.
When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.
“Don’t you dare say a word.”
She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”
You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.
For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.
By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.
“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”
You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.
“The old lady with the chest pain?”
“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.
You frowned. "That sucks."
“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.
“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."
Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”
Your eyes narrowed.
"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.
"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."
"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.
"I hate all of you."
Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"
Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.
You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.
You waited a couple minutes before moving.
The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.
A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So… that’s your ex.”
“That’s my ex.”
He nodded. "You left out a few details."
"Such as?"
His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.
“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”
Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"
Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."
Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”
“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”
“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”
“You’re not.” You insisted.
Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.
You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”
“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.
Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.
"Jack."
"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”
You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.
“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.
“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.
“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”
You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”
Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.
“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”
His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”
“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”
The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”
“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”
His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”
Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.
“Well, lucky for him it worked.”
The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.
He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.
“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”
You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”
“Yes.” He answered plainly.
You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”
Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.
“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”
You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”
Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”
Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.
“Did you eat?”
You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”
Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”
“I will.”
“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”
Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”
“Of course.”
You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”
His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.
“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”
You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.
You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”
You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.
“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”
Jack raised a brow.
“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”
“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.
“I know I am.”
“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.
You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.
Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
Kinda new here, just wondering if you have a list of Jack and Sleepy? Ik a lot of them are just blurbs but I’d love to be able to read them in “order” chronologically idk. My brain gets confused easy LOL. Love the way you write especially with Jack!!
CRASH: A JACK ABBOT X READER AU
Dr. Jack Abbot's attraction to you, the young, bubbly night nurse who's all too flirtatious and full of light, hurtles towards a filthy obsession. He only hurts trying to keep himself moral as he falls in love with you and your cunt and your unknowing soul.
And he might ruin you when there's nothing moral about him left.
❤︎ // THE CRASH!AU // ❤︎
DISCLAIMER AND TAGS
This is a DARKish JACK ABBOT x READER "series". The word series is in quotations because it's more of a chronological collection of content from an AU that only has two official chapters (ONE: "CRASH" // TWO: "AND BURN" linked below). So, keep that in mind if you decide to take a peek. This is my best attempt to put the content specific to the CRASH!AU (sleepy!reader) in order at the request of readers!
And since this is an attempt to collect all of the content of the CRASH!AU to put in order, each "chapter" (grain of salt) doesn't really continue into the next. Assume there are time jumps between each fic, in true Pitt gimmick fashion lol.
To the readers who requested I do this, hope this works! <3
To new readers who would rather read general content, you can always check out my FIC DIRECTORY. It includes all non-CRASH!AU content as well as everything featured here, where you'll be able to read everything featured here as one-shots instead. You can also search up "jack abbot x reader" or "crash!au" on my profile, as I suck at updating masterlists lol.
・。TAGS: Obssessive!Jack, filthy!Jack, twenty-seven year age gap. AFAB!Reader. The reader is a night nurse, Jack calls her Sleepy (and is occasionally called Sunshine by others), very inaccurate depictions of the healthcare system and medical terminology. Smut is laced throughout the collection, but each NSFW piece of writing has different warnings (p in v sex, rough, unprotected, piss!kink, daddy!kink, breeding!kink, degradation, dubcon, etc...you get the point), manipulation, unhealthy power and co-dependency dynamics, mentally unwell!Jack goes to therapy in this AU, but it just doesn't work. Jack is mean to Robby. Very mean. One-sided Dr. Robby x reader, unreliable narrator!Jack, Jack is also mean to reader, he is VERY hot and cold with her. But promise, he loves her in a way neither of them can understand.・。
"CHAPTER" LIST
PART ONE: THE LENGTHS // Jack meets the new nurse Robby's been fawning over, only to then take the next couple of nights to pathetically cope with what he's feeling for the peppy, sunny young woman he's just met.
・。Santos attempts to compliment you. Jack misinterprets it. It’s okay, he makes a fucking fool out of himself to make up for it.
・。Jack tries to insinuate Robby's attraction towards you
・。Jack’s conflicted when you’re referenced as his work wife.
・。Jack brings up the work-wife thing... for some reason.
・。You slip up in admitting Jack's biceps are biteable.
PART TWO: NO GENITALS WERE MENTIONED! // Robby's having bladder issues because he’s holding in his pee 24/7, and somehow ends up talking about this with you. Jack doesn’t like this because he has it in his head that you’re basically talking about Robby’s penis with Robby himself. Don’t ask how he got there.
・。Jack stops you from returning to the day shift.
・。PART THREE: TAKING HIM INTO CONSIDERATION // Jack “suggests” you don’t spend a night out. You listen. Struggle ensues.
・。PART FOUR: THE VOICES // Jack gets mad when you take a double shift without telling him, and Dana remembers that power dynamics exist.
・。PART FIVE: WORRY // Jack makes a joke about killing himself, and ironically, only wants to actually kill himself when you react with hurt and concern, like you actually care for him. Or something.
・。Jack develops high blood pressure cause of you
・。You and Jack play baseball!
・。67!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
・。Texts between you and Jack
・ PART SIX: CRUSHABLE // Two times Jack Abbot experiences cuteness aggression at the sight of you, and the one time he defends himself for it.
・。Jack takes off his shirt in front of you during a shift. Needed for his wounds, obviously.
・。Jack's search history.
・。PART SEVEN: FREE SCRUB FRIDAY // ER's admin announces that staff will be allowed to wear whatever scrub color or design they want on Fridays, much to your immense, all-too-bubbly pleasure. Jack takes this as a moment to tease you, but it's too obvious he feels a certain way about your glittery, colorful new fits.
・。Jack, even before he had you, had problems with your personal bubble.
・。...Robby doesn't mean to get hard over your My Melody scrubs
・。PART EIGHT : DON'T TRY THIS WITH JACK // You attempt a TikTok prank with Dr. Shen that you think will humor Jack, given his protective nature. Instead, he nearly ends a friendship.
・。PART NINE: SLIGHT CRISIS || Jack's insecurities bubble with aggression, embarrassment, and slight fantasized slips up when you ask him to send you a selfie.
・。Jack's cute in his selfie struggle.
・。Non-exclusive muffins
・。PART TEN: MOURNING HIS CURLS || Jack gets a haircut, and because his curls are gone, you tease him for it. He reacts the way you think he is.
・。Jack Instagram stalks you.
・。Robby's texts with you.
・。He'll eat you out if you're wrong.
・。PART ELEVEN: NO GIFTS //Jack feels a certain way about you careening towards Robby with absolute joy when he presents you with a birthday gift...even though you specifically told Jack himself not to get you anything.
You ask Jack to help you with your workout
・。PART TWELVE : MIRROR IMAGE // You dress up as Jack for Halloween. It goes as one would expect.
・。Ur accidental (?) nipple selfie
・。Jack accidentally sends your "nude" selfie to Robby.
・。When Jack realizes his dumb ass sent Robby your semi-nude, he suffers. When he confronts Robby about it? They suffer.
・。PART THIRTEEN: RIFFING // You try to cheer Jack up by riffing with him, just a few teases here and there about his age. You didn't realize how bad his mood was.
・。PART FOURTEEN: ONE CALL FROM DISASTER // Jack jerks off to the semi-nude you sent him after a deepening late-night call he hung up on.
・。Jack doesn't like your sonny angels
・。PART FIFTEEN: JACK ABBOT'S HUNT FOR UR ULTRA RARE LABUBU // Jack finds out that you, ever the trinket lover, adore labubus. Putting it lightly…he doesn’t see the appeal. But for the burning sake of wanting to please you desperately, he ends up on a hunt to find the one you want most--but not before hurting your feelings and becoming jealous of a labubu collector, of course.
・。Jack Labubu Delusional Fuel
・。You're leaving the Pitt prank.
PART SIXTEEN: WEIGHTED // After Jack becomes insanely jealous and insecure when you compliment Robby's weight gain, he makes it a point to act abruptly and meanly to you throughout the shift. Does he know how much his behavior's gonna hurt you? Fuck no. If he did, he'd kill himself for ever having the idea to play cruel in the first place.
・。PART SEVENTEEN: RIDICULOUS // Despite Jack's possessive dismay about you checking in on a sickly Robby, you and the day shift attending enjoy each other's company with a tension neither of you clocks. Well. One of you, really. Don’t ask Robby.
・。PART EIGHTEEN: CAREGIVER // Jack makes it his responsibility to take care of you after you're infected with Robby's germs. Feelings, struggles, and massages ensue.
・。PART NINETEEN: FIRECRACKER // During a chaotic Fourth of July double shift in the Pitt, you watch Jack grapple with a flood of trauma patients whose injuries trigger memories that you both can name, but won't dare say out loud. You try to become the one person who steadies him, even as he tries to deny how much he needs you.
・。Robby's seeing a lady named Mara...
・。PART TWENTY: BIRTHDAY BLUES // You can barely handle your excitement to give Jack his birthday cake...until you overhear him complaining about your all too peppy behavior to Robby.
・。Jack rants to Robby about your...personable behavior
・。PART TWENTY-ONE: MAMA Y PAPA // Jack gets jealous when you find a dad with a baby that's cute as hell, but you knowingly make up for your "wrongdoing" by teaching him how to hold her. The baby, you mean.
。PART TWENTY-TWO: SPARK // What did Dana mean when she told Jack the Pitt knows that you two are becoming? Well, there are a few instances of him spiraling for you to explain that. They should've called HR down to the ER a long time ago
・。 Jack and Robby buying you the same thing for XMAS
・。You tell Jack you worked as a barista through nursing school
・。...He doesn't know you read to kid patients.
・。The Pitt does Secret Santa.
・。PART TWENTY-THREE: IN THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT // Jack berates you for your Christmas decorations. He tries making it up to you afterward.
・。Jack steals your files.
・。PART TWENTY-FOUR: CHRISTMAS FANTASY // Even when it's Christmas morning with his dream girl naked against him as she harasses him with her cold feet, Jack can't help but let the holiday surface his possessive, deepening thoughts about her...her being you, and you, and you. 🎄❤️
・。New Year's Eve with Jack!
・。A patient attacks you.
・。Taking care of Jack after the attack.
・。PART TWENTY-FIVE: CARRY MY PAIN // When everyone flakes on a night out at the bar, Jack is left to ache with restraint at the fact that you're too drunk to let him finally have you, but when all it takes is a thoughtless comment about his leg while he's carrying you to ruin the night, you and Jack have to have a heavy heart-to-heart to make up for it.
・。PART TWENTY-SIX: CRASH //・When Jack catches you out walking to work in 30-degree weather alone in the fucking dark, he has no choice but to realize his feelings for you are far past romantics and hurdling towards obsession. It has been for a while. That only becomes more apparent when he catches you on Robby's motorcycle.
・。PART TWENTY-SEVEN: AND BURN //・As you fight for your life after the graphic accident on Robby's bike, the Pitt has to deal with Jack's innate, desperate need to never let you go again.
WHEN HE FINALLY HAS SLEEPY (THE BEGINNING OF THE END)
Jack, when he finally has you, sometimes wakes up in the night.
・。If you end up not dying horrifically
・。He wants you all to himself
・。Jack, she loves you :(
・。A meme lol
・。AFTER JACK FILLS YOU UP...
・。SCRIMSHAW // You find out Jack has a random interest that allows you to tease him and love him even more than you already do, even when a shift goes bad.
・。A moment of peace.
・。Jack controlling you with gifts.
・。You don't accept Jack's apology.
TWO TIMES JACK TRIES TO STOP YOU FROM LEAVING.
・。TEARS GALORE // Jack deals with you crying over Happy Feet.
・。Jack thinks he's out of the woods concerning his obsessive issues towards Sleepy once they're finally together, but little does he know...
・。The first time you cockwarm Jack.
・。JACK DEVELOPS A PISS KINK FOR YOU || description in title
・。Atta Girl
・。Piss Kink!Jack totally ends up licking the seat after you failed to hold it in.
・。Jack’s not exactly sure why he’s almost fucked you in the kitchen as much as he’s fucked you in bed.
・。PROMISES YOU MADE TO ME // Jack reveals too much about his obsessive tendencies for you at an inopportune time.
・。Jack's once again making a habit out of watching his sex tapes of him and you at work.
・。Jack fucks you hard after an argument.
・。WORRY(ING) || Jack thinks it's a good idea to joke about killing himself after a fight
・。 GUNPOINT, HEADLOCK || Jack leaves the party…and you much too early.
CREDITS and TAGLIST
border used is the creation of @enchanthings, synopsis is from the lovely person who made the CRASH!AU playlist I've linked! I don't have their tumblr profile, but the playlist is making me go crazy. Title poster made by me, featuring a screenshot of Jack from The Pitt and a part of Edwin Austin Abbey's "King Lear, Act I, Scene I." @droopycoquette, @honk4emoboyz for the taglist.
Let him say it out loud instead of letting it rot in his head. If you’re afraid. That’s okay. That’s better, because if you indulge, kiddo, he’ll never let you go.
PITT FIC DIRECTORY // AUTHOR MASTERLIST AND RULES // JACK ABBOT x READER tag // CRASH!AU tag // THANK YOU!
Summary: when you start packing lunches for jack, the ED takes notice. not just of the notes you leave, but of the changes in jack too.
Warnings: none really; TONS of fluff, age-gap, established relationship, mentions of the ED, soft jack, mutual affection, & medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 3k+
Author’s Note: ahhh !! i finally finished this & have ‘just fluff june’ fic out for you guys !! i hope you all enjoy this one !! <3
Jack Abbot was never really the type to feed himself the way a person should eat. He lived off of vending machine food and granola bars. He could cook—he’s actually a very good cook—but didn’t see the point after a twelve hour shift that left him dead on his feet.
But for you? He’d cook a three course meal if you asked. He made sure you had dinner when he was off, waited on you hand and foot.
You did the same for him. But more so; you kept him fed.
You started meal prepping lunches for him to take to work; sometimes just leftovers from the previous night or something you made new entirely the day before while he was at work. Then you started adding desserts and snacks; a donut or pastry from the corner bakery you both loved, homemade cookies or brownies.
You left yogurt and homemade granola, veggie sticks with dip, beef jerky. But the dinners you packed? God, Jack could die on that hill.
He couldn’t explain how happy and domestic it made him feel to open up his lunchbox and find you’d packed him leftovers from the lasagna you’d made. Or chili, or a sandwich that looked like it came straight from a deli. Wraps that were filled to the brim with turkey and lettuce and everything he liked in them. He’d groan every time he took that first bite, leaning back in his chair with a content sigh. Something dangerous playing in his heart.
You—his sweet girlfriend of a few months who lived in his t-shirts and padded around his apartment with a giddy step and had more kindness in your pinky than most people had in their entire body—packed him lunch like it was nothing. Taking care of him like it was second nature. For you, it was.
People noticed, because Jack Abbot didn’t eat on shift unless it was a handful of nuts or whatever stale thing fell out of the vending machine when he kicked it after it ate his money.
But along with Jack eating good, came the changes in his body. Not anything drastic or bad but…he got thicker. At first it was just a little more pull at his scrubs, nothing he couldn’t handle by adjusting his arms a little.
He didn’t get fat or out of shape just; broader, healthy fat lining his muscles. His pecs and biceps always strained against his shirts, but now they looked like they were seconds away from busting the seams open. His ass got rounder, cheeks slightly more plush that you grabbed every time he kissed you; making him yelp a noise of protest. Every. Single. Time.
Don’t even get started on his torso. Layered with a slight pudge at the bottom when he wore his belt, abs and back muscles visible and flexing underneath his movements. He looked divine. He was stronger, more solid and filled out. His scrub top looked more than two sizes too small, hanging on for dear life.
Even if people noticed, they didn’t say anything; not at first. But of course Robby would be the one to put a stop to that; coming to a halt as he walked by with an ipad in hand, looking at his best friend like he’d just committed a felony in front of him.
“Jesus brother”, Robby says; “Let that shirt breathe.”
Jack turned to look at him, pushing his elbows off the counter of the hub; “What?”
“You look like your shirt’s two seconds away from ripping”, Robby points out, like it’s common knowledge.
“I don’t-“
Dana appears out of thin air next to them; “He’s right. You’ve been eating actual food too.”
Jack’s mouth stays open for a second, before a smirk takes its place; “So what? People eat.”
“You”, Robby says, pointing at him with a look over his glasses; “Don’t eat.”
“This feels like a personal attack”, Jack scoffs, still slightly amused; “You don’t eat either.”
“Correct. But i’m not suddenly showing up two months later looking like an honorary Avenger about to bust out of his scrub top.”
Jack’s jaw ticks, eyes flicking between the two; “You’re unbelievable.”
Jack grabs his own tablet, throwing a mock glare at the two in front of him; “I have patients to see, you know, like a real doctor?”
Then he walks away, throwing a half-hearted wave and a middle finger at whatever Dana and Robby are calling out after him.
Robby shifts on his feet, scoff leaving his mouth; “Damn.”
Dana gives him a look; “Whatever you’re thinking Robinavitch; don’t.”
Robby shakes his head; “No…Abbot’s got a better ass than me.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
A week later Jack finds himself standing in the break room, pulling out the lunch box you packed for him—leftovers from dinner the night before. Pasta and bread that he happily reheated in the microwave and toaster oven.
A small yellow sticky note was stuck to the top of the container, his lips already twitching at the corners.
‘Baby! I can’t wait to see you today. Go kick ass & save lives, sexy doctor man !! I love you sooooo much !! PS: I left you a surprise from your fav place !!’ with a little smiley face and heart drawn below it.
Jack’s heart skipped a beat, feeling the heat climbing up his neck and ears; settling on his cheeks as he slipped the note into his pocket to hang in his locker later with all the other notes of yours he kept.
He settled at the round table in the break room, looking further into the lunch box where sure enough—he found a pastry from his favorite bakery around the corner from his apartment.
He took a bite of it, sighing and letting his eyes close as the sweet taste hit his tongue. Shoulders dropping a bit as he relaxed a little into the chair.
He didn’t even open his eyes when the break room door swung open, whoever was stepping inside slipped to the back of his mind.
“Woah, is that homemade pasta?”, Shen’s voice broke through his thoughts.
Jack grunted quietly in response, nodding as he leant forward to take a bite; “Maybe.”
“You got a professional chef at home we don’t know about?”
Jack smirked a little; “Something like that.”
He took another bite, knowing more questions were coming and secretly hoping Shen would just do whatever he came in to do and let him eat in peace—but this was the ED, the night shift nonetheless; and Jack knew that was wishful thinking.
The door swung open behind them, Ellis sliding up next to Shen—stopping in her tracks.
Ellis leans over to inspect; “Now I know you didn’t cook that yourself.”
Jack raises his brows; “I can cook.”
“Not like that”, Ellis defends; “You burnt the noodles at last year’s potluck.”
“Robby was distracting me.”
“Excuses.”
Jack huffed and took another bite of his food.
“A pastry too? Who’s packing you this stuff?”
Jack takes the last bite of his pasta, pushing himself out of his chair and packing up the empty container; “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He can feel the eyes on him as he puts the lunchbox back into the fridge, pulls out a water and slips past them with a smirk; “Enjoy your break, crawlers.”
Ellis scoffs, turning to Shen; “Fifty bucks says he’s got a woman at home. He’s not cooking like that.”
“Sixty-five”, Shen says, holding out his hand.
Ellis shakes it; “Done.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
The buzz of Jack Abbot’s sudden new eating habits—that actually benefited his body more than a vending machine dinner—quickly reached every corner of the ED. Various bets and hushed whispers of different theories floated around med students and residents alike. Hell, even Robby’s name had made it up on the betting board.
Jack himself couldn’t care less, the hushed whispers of the bet made him smirk to himself; knowing it was driving his coworkers crazy.
He wasn’t keeping you a secret exactly; it had just never directly or seriously come up.
He didn’t pay too much mind to all the whispers about his new size, either—mostly brushing it off as teasing or Robby and Dana just trying to get him all riled up.
But now, as he stood in the bathroom of his apartment—tugging a soft grey t-shirt over his head after a much needed shower; he was starting to think what Robby had said may have some truth to it.
You can hear him huff to himself in the bathroom, words you can’t quite pick up on as you flip through TV channels. A soft groan of frustration or disbelief echoes through Jack’s room, making you sit up more.
“Baby?”, You call, “Everything ok?”
There’s another quiet murmur of something before Jack comes out of the bathroom; hair still damp, greying curls lightening up as they dry. Boxers clinging low on his hips, the grey shirt he has on doing almost nothing to cover the contour and outline of his muscles—clinging to him so close he might as well not even bother wearing it.
Your mouth goes dry, watching as he sets his crutches against the bedside table and slumps down onto the end of the bed—every muscle in his back moving and pulling the shirt fabric even tighter.
“M’fine”, He says, messaging his residual limb; “Just starting to think maybe Robby’s right.”
“Ok…?”, You breathe; “Don’t ever say those words again…but about what?”
Jack huffs a laugh; “I’m serious!”
You shimmy out from underneath the covers, walking on your knees to the end of the bed and letting your hands roam over Jack’s shoulders. He instantly leans into it—like he didn’t even have to think about it anymore.
“He said my scrub top looked too small”, Jack sighs.
“Really?”
“Well actually his exact words were ‘let that shirt breathe, you’re about to rip it’ but I was phrasing it nicer.”
You laugh; “What makes you think he’s right?”
Jack shrugs; “Didn’t notice anything until I tried to put this shirt on and it barely fits. It used to be loose on me…”
He trails off, something in his mind making him think extra hard.
You hum softly, continuing to rub at his shoulders and a little down his arms; playing with the damp curls at the nape of his neck.
It’s quiet in the room as Jack continues to massage the tension out of his leg, eyes flicking over whatever TV channel you’d landed on before he came out. You press a soft kiss to his nape.
“Am I bigger?”, He asks suddenly.
Your eyes widen, a surprised laugh escaping your lips; “W-What?”
“Am I bigger?”, He repeats; “Have I put on weight?”
You soften immediately, realizing by the scrunch in his brow; he’s insecure about this.
“Baby, no”, You coo, slipping around to settle into his lap.
His hands come up to your waist, immediately steadying you.
“You’re just eating good”, You assure him.
His brow stays furrowed, a slight pout on his face and lips; eyes not looking at you.
“I mean maybe you’ve put on a few pounds, but with your job and SWAT; it’s all muscle, my love”, You say, letting your fingers comb through his hair.
He doesn’t answer yet, but his brow softens, eyes flicking towards yours now as you move your face in front of his.
“You’re so broad”, You whisper, hands roaming his shoulders again; “So strong.”
“Yeah?”, He asks, eyebrows raising a bit.
You nod, bottom lip between your teeth; “Yeah.”
You giggle softly when you feel his fingers flex at your waist, the way he shivers when you let your hands drift under his shirt—palms pressing flat against his torso. You let them settle there for a moment, fingers tapping against skin before you pull them back—tugging upwards at the hem.
His ears are pink now, but he doesn’t hesitate; pulling the shirt up and over his head with one pull at the back of the collar. It lands somewhere on the floor, but your attention remains on him.
Pale skin with a slight farmers tan disappearing by his elbows; laid out bare in front of you. His eyes flicking around the room, hands back at your waist.
With a soft hand on his jaw, you force him to look at you.
“You’re so thick”, You murmur, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder.
His grip of your waist tightens, a breath leaving his nose.
Your kisses travel over his skin, trailing over his shoulders and torso; leaving no spot unmarked.
“So full and filled out.”
Kiss.
“So muscular.”
Kiss.
“So handsome.”
Your compliments start drifting elsewhere as you let your kisses trail over him.
“So kind.”
Kiss.
“So caring.”
Another kiss.
“So good to me.”
A kiss to his neck.
Your hands stop at the bottom of his torso, just below his belly button where the slightest bit of softer skin sits just above his waistband. You smooth your hands over it, feeling the muscle below it tense.
You look up, finding Jack’s cheeks the same color as his ears—his eyes wide and waiting. You pinch his skin once, before letting your hands roam back up his freckled arms to his shoulders; cupping his nape in your hands.
“You’re so beautiful, Jack”, You murmur.
A shaky breath leaves him, your lips against his cheeks and nose. He pulls back, eyes searching yours.
“God, I love you”, He huffs, pulling you in for a kiss.
His lips press firm against yours, hands traveling up your back and settling on your ribs. Jack’s forehead stays against yours when he pulls back, eyes still closed.
“It’s your fault, ya know”, He smirks.
You shrug; “I know, and I’m gonna keep feeding my man good.”
He lets out a noise between a groan and something of disbelief when you move off his lap, finding your way back to your spot on the bed. He follows you, rolling over to lay on his stomach; arms framed around his head and tucked under his pillow.
“Besides”, You say, mischievous smile growing; “Your ass looks ridiculously good.”
He yelps when your hand comes in contact with his ass, eyes wide as pink practically runs up his neck.
“Baby!”
“M’not even sorry”, You say, leaning in to capture his lips before he can protest any further.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Something in Jack settles after that, most of the insecurity gone. He takes all the comments from Robby and Dana in stride. He still eats what you pack him, still keeps your notes.
He frowns when he goes to get his lunchbox out, finding it missing with a note in its place.
‘No lunch today, baby. Got a surprise for you!’
He can’t help the way his lips turn up at the corner, curiosity taking over when the door behind him swings open.
“Abbot! We got a MVA coming in”, Dana’s voice cuts him out of his thoughts.
“How long?”
“About two minutes.”
Jack sighs once, putting his bag away and following Dana out the door; the part of him trying to figure out what you were up to slipping to the back of his mind.
About two hours later, the bay doors open around you; boxes stacked in your hands as you wander towards the hub.
“You need help there, hon?”, Dana’s voice comes.
She’s standing at the hub, brows quirked in amusement and confusion.
“Oh hi!”, You chirp; “I just brought some lunch for my boyfriend and his co-workers. Not really sure where to put it though.”
Dana’s smile grows; “Well why didn’t you say so? Follow me, we’ll put those in here.”
She shows you to the break room, holding the door open as you slip in.
“So boyfriend huh? Which one of our lucky med students gets all this food?”, She asks, leading you back to the hub.
“Oh! He’s not a med student, he’s a doctor! Uh, Jack?”, You say.
Dana’s smile widens even further; “So you’re the one who’s feeding our grumpy guy?”
Robby’s head whips up from the other side of the hub, Ellis and Shen slowing to a stop behind him.
You can’t help the laugh the slips out; “He looks grumpy sometimes, but he’s actually not. It’s all a ruse.”
It’s Dana’s turn to laugh; “Huh.”
“He thinks he’s got everyone fooled, but he’s just a big—“
“Sweetheart?”, Jack’s voice breaks through.
Your eyes light up immediately, rushing to meet him halfway; “Jack!”
You meet his chest with a soft thud, arms wrapping around him as you lean up and press a kiss to his lips. He’s frozen for a moment, but immediately melts into the kiss once your lips meet his. His strong hands find your waist, smoothing over them; keeping you both grounded.
Nothing else around him matters in that moment—not whatever trauma he’d just stepped out of, not the fact that his leg was a little sore, not the fact that the ED had fallen almost silent around you; and not Robby or his coworkers bewildered gazes.
He’s melted into you as you wrapped your arms around his torso, tucking yourself under his arm; hand rubbing softly over his ribs.
“Baby!”, You hum; “I missed you.”
Jack’s eyes wander over you; “I missed you too, sweetheart.”
There’s a moment where his brain catches up, and he’s suddenly tilting your head up to look at him; worried eyes checking over your features.
“What’re you doing here? Are you ok? Are you hurt?”, His questions come rambling out.
You giggle, squeezing his side; “I’m fine! I brought you and your friends some lunch. It’s in the break room.”
Jack softens, a small graze of his lips against your head; “Sweetheart, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know”, You shrug; “But I wanted to.”
The gazes around you narrow, mouths agape at this Jack.
Jack Abbot was a lot of things in the ED; assertive, leading, confident, level-headed, kind, always looking out for everyone in his own quiet way; but he wasn’t soft.
But with you? Jack crumbled under your gaze, the strong-willed and grumpy looking attending was a smiling and sweet puddle in your arms.
“I got that coffee that you like”, You hum.
Jack dips his head down closer to hear you; “From the deli?”
“Mhm, it’s at home on the counter. Where do you think I got the sandwiches from?”
Something sparkles in his eyes; “That’s what you brought us for lunch? Baby, that’s too much.”
But the glint of excitement stays in his eyes.
You tsk and wave him off; “Not for you.”
His face goes unbearably fond, eyes and smile soft. His lips brush against your ear.
“You’re gonna spoil us”, He says, voice low and raspy.
“Let me”, You smirk.
Behind you, Robby finally clears his throat; “Jack you gonna introduce us or do we all just not exist now?”
“You don’t”, Jack rolls his eyes, smirking as Robby feigns hurt.
Jack introduces you, pointing to each of his colleagues that have gathered around; “That’s Robby, he’s annoying.”
You smack his chest; “Be nice!”
Jack doesn’t falter; “That’s Dana, she makes this place run smoothly. Behind her are Ellis and Shen.”
“Oh! You’re Dana!”, You smile; “I’ve heard so much about all of you.”
“Oh really—“, Robby starts before Dana stops him with a flick to the back of his neck; “Ow!”
Jack takes that as an opportunity to steer you away from the crowd and into the break room; Whitaker slipping out the door with a mouthful of sandwich from one of the boxes.
“Well it seems like they like the sandwiches”, You say, watching as Jack himself digs into the boxes you’d left on the counter.
“I labeled yours”, You add.
Jack finds his as the words leave your mouth, unwrapping it as he lowers himself onto the small couch—patting his lap; “‘Cmere.”
You drift towards him with a magnetic pull you’ll never be able to explain, finding your spot on his good leg. Hands drifting up to play with the curls on his head; a little sweaty now from working.
He hums around another bite of sandwich, his free arm resting at your back; “Thank you for this, really sweetheart.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Jack. I like taking care of you”, You tell him.
The smile on your face matches his as he presses a kiss to your temple, offering you a bite that you gladly accept.
“Your friends seem nice”, You add; “Kinda quiet though.”
Jack scoffs, smirk crooked; “Give them a chance.”
“We should have them over sometime, for a barbecue or something.”
Jack hums, palm circling your lower back; “Whatever you want, baby.”
You reach out and grab his chin, catching him off guard; his mouth still half open as he went in for another bite—brows in his hairline.
“I love you”, You coo, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
He chases after your lips; “I love you too, sweetheart.”
You let his lips take over yours, warm and present. You jump when you pull back, checking your watch; “Oh! I gotta get going, I’m gonna be late.”
Jack pats your bum as you press another kiss to his lips, slipping out of his lap and heading towards the break room door. You turn back when you get there, smiling at Jack whose eyes have never left you.
“See you at home?”, He asks, not really wanting you to leave.
You nod, bottom lip between your teeth; “With dinner and a hot bath ready.”
Jack groans, already aching to be cuddled up with you and unwind from his shift. You blow him a kiss with a soft wave, that he happily returns before you slip out the door; leaving him alone in the break room.
He can still feel your weight on his lap, your fingers in his hair and your lips against his—a blush and smile creeping up on him as he leans forward for another bite of his sandwich;
“So ‘baby’, huh?”, Robby’s voice comes.
“Shut up, Robinavitch”, Jack juts.
The sound of a clipboard hitting the floor and Robby yelping as he jumps out of the way are all that Jack hears as the door swings shut; humming softly to himself—more than ready to come home to you.
synopsisyou and Trinity decide you've had enough of being the casual booty call, agreeing to play hard to get to prove to your partners you can go without them. easier said then done
warningsmut. oral (f! receiving) fingering, language, pinv, unprotected sex, MDNI. slight praise kink. no use of y/n
authornotethe way in which i need to be driven mad by this man using me is concerning to feminism
main masterlist. other Robby fic
“I don't get it!” said Santos for... well, you had no idea how many times she'd repeated herself but you were considering making it a drinking game. Every time she said she 'didn't understand' you resolved to take a shot. “I thought we were fine, doing great and casual- what- what is casual?”
Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”
“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”
You nodded along, humming.
She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”
You took a long gulp of your wine.
“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.
“Me?”
“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”
“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.
The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.
When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.
“It's um?” Trinity asked.
“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.
Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.
Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.
You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.
Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”
You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”
“Different how?” asked Dennis.
“Is it still casual?”
You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”
“You want to be more?”
You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"
“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”
With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.
“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”
She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.
“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”
“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.
On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.
She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.
You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G
“You're gonna leave them,” he said.
You and Trinity sat up. “What?”
“No!”
There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Their medicine?” you asked.
Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”
You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.
“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”
The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.
“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.
“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”
You thought we was giving them too much credit.
Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”
He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”
That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.
Easier in practise when you work with them.
The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.
“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”
“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.
“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”
Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”
“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.
“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”
“Which one was Mark?” you asked.
“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”
Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.
You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”
“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”
“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.
Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.
“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”
Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”
“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”
Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.
“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.
“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.
Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”
“On a Wednesday? Nop.”
“Wanna come over?”
There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.
You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.
Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”
He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”
The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.
“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.
Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.
You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”
He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.
“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”
“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.
Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”
Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.
He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”
“Films,” you confirm.
“And talk.”
“We talk.”
Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”
“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”
“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.
You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.
Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”
You answered truthfully. “No.”
That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.
Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.
You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.
Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.
The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.
The next day passed like another dry spell.
It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.
It felt something like punishment.
Or a test.
By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.
“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.
“What? No.”
“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.
Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”
You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”
It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.
“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.
Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.
You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”
Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.
“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”
It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.
Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”
“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”
He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”
“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.
He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”
By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.
“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”
“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.
“No other choice.”
You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”
“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”
Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.
“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.
“Blood loss is slowing down.”
“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.
“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.
“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.
Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”
“Trin-” you snap.
“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”
You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.
It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!
But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.
“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.
“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.
“You think you could show me?”
You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.
“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”
You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.
“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”
You nodded with an absent mind.
Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”
You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.
He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”
Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?
With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.
You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.
“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.
You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-
Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.
“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.
If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.
“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.
You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.
“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”
Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.
“Good girl.”
When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.
“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.
Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”
“Where's Huckleberry?”
“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”
You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”
“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”
You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”
“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.
“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”
“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”
She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.
You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.
You'd never do that again.
Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.
Your phone was heavy in your pocket.
Call him.
But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.
You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.
Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.
You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-
That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.
You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.
Robby stood on the other side of the door.
You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”
His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”
You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.
Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.
“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”
“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.
“Oh?”
He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”
“Oh.”
His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”
You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”
“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.
“What-what-what do you mean?”
Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”
“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.
“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”
It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.
“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.
They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”
If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.
“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”
Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”
“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”
Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?
“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”
Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-
You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”
Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.
“Robby-”
“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”
“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.
He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”
Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?
“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”
His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”
Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”
Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.
His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.
Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”
“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.
You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”
“Good girl.”
You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.
He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.
You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.
“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.
His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”
His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.
“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.
Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.
“I should hope so.”
You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.
You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.
“Michael-”
He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.
Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.
He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.
“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.
Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.
All the while you wet down his scrubs.
“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.
You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.
Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”
His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.
“Mmph-”
“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”
Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.
His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.
His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.
You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”
He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.
“Michael-”
His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”
With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.
“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”
You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.
“All mine, huh?”
“Yes,” you said, breathless.
Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”
“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.
You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.
Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”
Slowly, he sank to his knees.
“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.
Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”
The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.
Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.
“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.
He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”
You shook your head.
Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.
His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.
“Want your cock, Robby-”
He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.
“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.
You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.
“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”
You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.
The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.
“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.
“Michael.”
He nodded.
“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.
Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-
Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”
When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-
Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.
His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”
Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.
“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.
The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.
Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.
“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.
“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”
Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.
His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”
“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”
“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.
Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.
“Oh god,” he uttered.
You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.
The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.
Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.
“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”
In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.
If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.
He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.
You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.
He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.
Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.
If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.
Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-
A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.
Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.
Robby stirred next to you. Last night.
He stayed.
“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.
You hummed, nodding and readying to move-
His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”
You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”
Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”
Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.
You hadn't closed the door.
“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.
“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”
The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.
You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.
Robby beside you didn't even stir.
“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.
He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.
You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.
harry stumbles home drunk late one night to find you asleep in bed, blankets haphazardly flung off your overheated body, totally on display for him and prettier than ever… a perfect midnight snack.
it’s a stiflingly hot summer night. only june and it already feels like august. your clothes cling to you relentlessly, your skin feels perpetually sticky, and your hair stays tied up in the highest bun you can manage to keep as little of it as possible from touching the back of your neck.
harry was out for the night to celebrate ethan’s 30th birthday. (you’d been invited, of course, but neither drinking alcohol outside in this miserable heat nor being the only sober one present sounded particularly appealing to you, so you’d let harry go on and have fun with his mates. you could usually trust him to not get into too much trouble, and come home to you in one piece.)
knowing you likely wouldn’t see harry until morning, you didn’t plan to wait up.
11:47 PM
you: just off to sleep now love, hope ur having a great time 🥰 dont forget to smooch the bday boy for me, i want proof! 💓
you: and plssss pls pls drink some water so i dont have to scrape u off the floor tomorrow xx love you baby
—
a few minutes later, your phone lights up with a photo from harry.
11:54 PM
sweet dinho 🩵: (a blurry shot of harry and ethan, standing with their arms wrapped around each other, and harry planting a massive, wet kiss on ethan's cheek — both boys shiny with sweat and definitely less-than-sober, ethan sporting a huge grin)
sweet dinho 🩵: pls nevr grow a beard i lik kissin ur face wayyy more hehe xx
sweet dinho 🩵: gn gorgeous ily ssssooooo much xxxxx
—
you giggle to yourself, your heart flooding with warmth at the image of harry and his best friend looking so happy and carefree together, paired with his silly typo-ridden messages. you immediately decide it's the kind of photo that deserves framing, and save it to your favorites.
with that, you place your phone on the bedside table and hit the lights, letting yourself drift off to sleep, dreaming of harry's lips on your skin.
—
2:37 AM
harry fumbles with the keys to your flat as he arrives home, his mind hazy after a night of drinking with his mates but beyond ready to crawl into bed with you.
you’re quite a heavy sleeper, but he still tries his best to be quiet once he’s locked the door behind him, as he kicks his shoes off and makes his way to the kitchen. he pulls the largest glass he can find from the cupboard and fills it with the coldest water the tap can manage, immediately chugging it in one go and feeling his overheated body relax instantly.
peeling the sweaty clothes from his skin, he makes his way to you, ready to collapse at your side and pass out.
crossing the threshold into your bedroom, his eyes adjust to the darkness, and he’s met with a sight that stops him in his tracks. you’re in the middle of the bed, completely uncovered — no doubt having kicked the blanket off of you in your sleep due to the heat, wearing only underwear and your skimpiest tanktop, your tits spilling out of it like an old victorian painting.
you’re asleep on your back, legs parted slightly, with one hand resting up by your head and the other on your lower stomach, the tips of your fingers just dipping into your waistband. harry couldn’t help but wonder if you’d been touching yourself in your sleep.
harry thought you looked like an angel. a perfect, beautiful mess. what little blood was left in his head for the evening rapidly flowed south, awakening a sudden hunger for his girl that needed to be sated before he could even consider sleeping now.
carefully, he climbed onto the bed, his big palms gliding up your thick thighs as he planted soft kisses to your hips and tummy. you shift slightly but don't wake, and he wastes no time hooking his fingers into your waistband and sliding your panties down, tossing them to the floor.
he spreads your legs gently, draping one over his shoulder as he settles himself between them. his lips graze the sensitive skin of your inner thighs while his hands wrap around them to hold you open, before dragging his thumb through your dampening folds.
you twitch at the sensation, still asleep but your body as responsive to harry as ever, as he presses a featherlight kiss to your clit. he slowly unfurls his tongue, letting a string of spit fall onto you, flattening the strong muscle against your core — his eyes fluttering closed as his drool mixes with your addictively sweet arousal. his heart pounds as he buries his face in you, obsessively licking and sucking your aching bundle of nerves, soft little whimpers starting to spill from your sleeping lips, so intoxicated by the sensation of him lapping at you even in your wet dreams.
harry's tongue fucks into your weeping hole, ripping a moan from your throat as your hands instinctively find him, tangling fingers in his hair and wrapping around the back of his neck, desperate to keep him on you. he groans, drunkenly making out with your pussy, his face soaked in your pleasure, subconsciously grinding his hips into the bed just to relieve some of the pressure building up in his ever-tightening briefs.
unable to control his need, harry bittersweetly tears himself away from your core, his dick aching to feel the dripping heaven before him.
“c’mere, pretty girl,” he slurs, crawling up towards you as he wipes his face on the back of his hand. “m’not done with you yet.”
shakily, harry pushes into you, his eyes immediately rolling into his head as he’s enveloped by the tight wet heat of your pussy. “oh ff-fuuuck—baaaby,” he sighs blissfully, his mind turning to mush as he feels your grip around him. “y'feel s-soooo goooood, ughh.”
your unconscious whines grow louder as harry drags his thick cock in and out of you, his face slotting cozily into your neck, but he finally rouses you awake, pulling a gasp from your throat as he fully sheaths himself, lifting your leg over his shoulder to reach the spot in your gut that he knows will reduce you to euphoric tears if he hits it hard enough.
as quickly as your eyes flutter open, they roll back, accompanied by a panting moan falling from your lips — your arms and legs desperately wrapping around your boyfriend’s broad frame. “oh—oh hh-harry oh my g—ff-fuck,” you whimper with a crackly sleep-filled voice, your mind finally catching up to the reality that you hadn’t just been having a wet dream.
a drowsy, crooked smirk stretches across harry’s face as he lifts his head from your neck to greet you with heavy-lidded eyes. “good morning, princess,” he rumbles, his voice low and gravely and delicious, grinding his hips deep into you and locking his lips with yours, alerting you to the taste of yourself lingering on his tongue.
you hum against him, your fingers burying into his messy blond hair, spiked up and damp with sweat. "guess I wasn't dreaming then," you manage, a soft laugh melting into a whine as his thrusts quicken, his greedy mouth claiming yours ravenously, tongue and teeth trailing down your neck and marking your skin possessively.
"you jus' looked so fuckin' pretty when I got in, baby, sleepin' like a lil angel, couldn't keep my hands off you," he groans into your neck, his rhythm quickening as he pounds into you harder. you could tell harry wasn't sober — the filthy praise he showered you with a clear indication that he was well drunk, his filter gone with the wind, and it drove you crazy. your insides burn with need from his hungry words and the pressure beating your cervix, the knot in your core tightening as you start climbing towards your peak.
"tastes like you couldn't keep your tongue off either," you can’t help but tease despite your heavy breathing, licking into his mouth with a tug of his hair. harry growls, pulling away from you momentarily to flip you onto your front, tucking the bunched-up duvet under your hips and pressing back into you forcefully. his strong digits dig into your side, his other hand pulling your head back by your hair just so the pillow can't muffle your whines.
"couldn't resist, baby, comin' home to you spread out on a fuckin' silver platter for me,” he mumbles salaciously in your ear, his breath hot on your neck and his bodyweight pressing on your back only heightening your senses, his length buried inside you, causing you to cry out with each slap of his skin on yours. "had to get my mouth on you, had t-to taste you," he stutters, sounding almost desperate as his movements start to grow sloppy, both of your climaxes drawing nearer. "so s-sweet, s'perfect," he moans, forehead pressed to the side of your neck as he pants, your hand flying behind you to grab his hair as you arch your back, his cock beating against that spot in your gut that initially woke you — the spot that makes you scream, that leaves tears streaming down your face.
"ff—fuck, haz'm so c-close, baby," you whimper, your legs shaking as you squeeze around harry, feeling like you’re about to explode, the string of a bomb alight with flame in your stomach burning up rapidly before it bursts.
“me too, princess, c’mon, cum with me, wanna feel you,” he groans, and with one final deep thrust, you both break, his hot cum filling you as you coat him in yours, your hips instinctively grinding back into his as you noisily ride your orgasms out in sync. “ohh fuck, yeah that’s my fuckin’ baby, ughh.. s’my girl..“
his hands reach up to intertwine his fingers with yours, sleepily kissing your neck as you both breath heavily, coming down together.
—
after a minute or two of silence, putting you at serious risk of falling right back to sleep, harry peels himself away, a whiny gasp slipping out of you as he leaves you empty and dripping onto the sheets. he stands, effortlessly lifting you off the bed (ignoring your protests), and carrying you to the bathroom.
turning the shower on, he sits you down on the tiled bench under the water, and with a kiss on your forehead, gently washes all the sweat and saliva and cum off your body. it’s not lost on you that even though he’s drunk and you’re sober, he’s still taking care of you first.
your heart aches with adoration when you look up into his pretty eyes, though he’s struggling to keep them open as much as you are.
“come on, baby,” you whisper. “your turn. then bed.”
you look after him just as he did you, untangling his disheveled hair and cleansing his skin of the mess you made. you tiredly climb out of the shower, drying off slow as sloths before stumbling back into bed. you don't bother with the blankets, but immediately wrap around each other anyway, not even caring how hot it is.
w2s x fem reader where shes out w maybe talip freya etc and shes so drunk and she just wants harry and he has to come get her and shes just so in love
Drunk in Love - Harry Lewis
description: you should know better than to drink on an empty stomach, and you should really stop telling everyone about what you let Harry do to you as soon as you've had a glass of wine.
warnings: none really, mainly fluff, kind of suggestive
It was Freya’s birthday, and the four of you had started the night with the best intentions. A nice dinner, a few drinks, maybe some dancing. That plan lasted exactly until the first round of shots hit the table and you realised you’d forgotten to eat anything since breakfast.
Big mistake.
Two hours later you were absolutely steaming. The club lights were spinning, the bass was in your bones, and your filter had completely disappeared.
You were clinging to Talia’s arm, eyes glassy, voice overly sweet as you told her, “You’re so pretty, Talia. Like… I get why Simon can’t keep his hands off you. If I were him I’d be all over you too.” You giggled, then immediately added, “But I want my Harry. He’s the only one who gets to put his hands where he wants.”
Talia burst out laughing, patting your head. “You’re a menace when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not a menace,” you protested, swaying into her. “I’m just honest. And horny. And I miss Harry’s hands. They’re big and warm and they do that thing on my waist that makes my brain go fuzzy… and then there’s the thigh thing. God, the thigh thing…”
Freya and Faith were losing it nearby, barely holding back tears of laughter.
“Mate, she’s gone,” Faith grinned, phone out. “This is gold.”
You pointed dramatically at the ceiling. “Why isn’t Harry here? It’s Freya’s birthday and my boyfriend isn’t here to… wish you happy birthday or…to pin me against a wall.”
The girls howled.
You were mid-rant about how Harry’s hoodie smelled like home and how you wanted to steal it and wear nothing else when you accidentally backed into someone.
“Oi, watch where you’re— oh. It’s you lot,” Simon laughed, steadying you.
Talia lit up. “Babe!”
You squinted at Simon, then at Talia, then back at Simon. Your bottom lip wobbled.
“Simon… you get to go home with Talia and do all the couple things. That’s so unfair. I want Harry.” Your voice cracked. “It’s been six months and I still get stupidly turned on when he says my name and he’s not here and I’m drunk and empty-stomach emotional and I just want him to come drag me home and do whatever he wants with me.”
Simon blinked, fighting a laugh. “Whatever he wants, eh?”
“Don’t encourage her,” Talia muttered, rubbing your back while clearly amused.
You were in full sappy-horny drunk mode now. “Harry’s so lovely. He pretends he’s all calm and tough but when we’re alone he’s not calm at all. He gets this look and his hands go everywhere and— and then he does the thigh thing and I can’t even think straight. I just really love him, okay? Like, I want to climb him like a tree right now. Tell him I want to climb him. No, don’t. I’ll tell him. But he’s not here!”
Faith was nearly crying. “I can’t breathe.”
Simon pulled his phone out, still chuckling. “Right. I’m calling Harry before you start offering to demonstrate the thigh thing on the dance floor.”
You gasped. “I would never. I’m classy.”
Simon stepped away. “Mate… yeah, it’s me. Your girl is hammered. Forgot to eat, gone full emotional and very… suggestive. She’s currently telling everyone how much she loves you and how she wants you to do ‘the thigh thing’ and drag her home. Yeah. Proper lovey and handsy. You might want to come get her before she tries to hump something in public.”
There was a pause, then Simon laughed. “She’s safe, just very affectionate. Alright. See you soon.”
He hung up and grinned at you. “Harry’s on his way. Sounded equal parts worried and amused.”
You perked up. “He’s coming? Really?”
“Yeah. To stop you from climbing random tall objects, apparently.”
You beamed and hugged Talia again. “See? He’s the best. I’m gonna marry him one day. After he’s done the thigh thing a few more times.”
The girls were still giggling when Harry appeared twenty minutes later, cap pulled low, looking half-amused, half-exasperated. The second you saw him your face lit up.
“Harry!” You launched yourself at him. He caught you with both hands on your waist, steadying you as you pressed yourself against his chest.
“There’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low. “Jesus, you’re pissed.”
“I missed you,” you mumbled into his hoodie, hands already sliding under the hem to rest on his warm skin. “You smell like home. And I want your hands on me. All over me. Right now. Please? Especially the thigh thing…”
Harry’s grip tightened slightly, a quiet laugh rumbling in his chest as he glanced at the girls. “What the fuck have you done to her?”
“She’s been like this for the last hour,” Talia grinned. “Very… descriptive about what she wants you to do when you get her home.”
“Oi, don’t encourage her,” Harry said, but his ears were a little pink. He tilted your chin up gently. “Come on, love. Let’s get you food and water before you start negotiating in public.”
You grinned up at him, eyes heavy-lidded and playful. “Negotiating? I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if you carried me home and reminded me why these thighs are your favourite.”
“Christ,” Harry muttered, but he was smiling as he guided you towards the exit, one strong arm wrapped securely around you. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You leaned into him, whispering far too loudly, “Good death. The best death. With your hands and your mouth and the thigh thing—”
“Food first,” he cut in, laughing. “Then we’ll see about the rest when you can stand straight.”
Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains the next morning. Your head was pounding, mouth dry, and you were tangled in Harry’s sheets wearing nothing but one of his oversized hoodies and your underwear.
Harry was already awake, propped up on one elbow beside you, watching you with a soft, amused smile. His hair was messy, and there were faint marks on his neck that made your cheeks heat up.
“Morning, trouble,” he said quietly, voice still rough with sleep.
You groaned, burying your face in the pillow. “Please tell me I didn’t embarrass myself too badly last night.”
Harry chuckled, reaching over to tuck hair behind your ear. “Depends on your definition of embarrassing. You told everyone you wanted me to ‘do the thigh thing,’ offered to climb me like a tree, and spent ten minutes describing exactly how my hands make your brain go fuzzy.”
You peeked up at him, mortified but laughing. “Oh god. Did I really?”
“Mm. Very detailed.” He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just below your ear. His voice dropped lower. “You also said you wanted me to carry you home and remind you why these thighs are my favourite.”
Your face burned. “I hate drunk me.”
“I don’t,” he murmured, hand sliding under the hoodie to rest warmly on your bare thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles. “Drunk you is very honest. And very… enthusiastic.”
You shivered at his touch, shifting closer. “And sober me?”
“Sober you is still enthusiastic,” he said, smirking. “Just slightly less likely to announce it to the entire club.”
You laughed softly, rolling onto your side to face him properly. “Sorry for making Simon call you. And for being a sappy, handsy mess.”
“Don’t apologise.” He pulled you in, kissing you properly this time—slow and deep. When he pulled back he rested his forehead against yours. “I like knowing my girl wants me that much. Even when she’s absolutely battered.”
Your phone buzzed repeatedly on the bedside table. Then it buzzed again. And again.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’ll be the group chat.”
You grabbed it with a sense of dread and opened the messages.
Faith
Morning legend 😂 How’s the head? And more importantly… what the fuck is the thigh thing???
Freya
I’ve been wondering the same since 3am. You kept saying it like we were supposed to know. Is it a sex thing? A massage thing? Harry’s signature move?? Spill.
Talia
Simon won’t stop laughing about it. He said you offered to demonstrate it on the dance floor 😂 Harry came to collect you looking traumatised but also very pleased with himself.
Simon
Mate I’m just the messenger. But yeah… the thigh thing has been mentioned approximately 47 times. Talia keeps asking me if I have a thigh thing. I feel inadequate now.
Faith
^ Same energy. Ethan just raised an eyebrow at me when I brought it up this morning. We need details or we’re never letting this go.
Freya
I’m making it my new personality trait until you explain. “The Thigh Thing™” – patent pending.
You groaned loudly and showed Harry the screen. He read it and immediately started laughing, shoulders shaking.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “They’re never gonna drop this.”
You quickly typed a reply, cheeks flaming.
You
I hate all of you. And drunk me. The thigh thing is none of your business 😂 Go away.
The replies came instantly.
Faith
TOO LATE. We’re invested now.
Talia
Harry’s probably smirking right next to you isn’t he? Tell him Simon says well done on the thigh thing.
Freya
If it’s that good you should write a review. 10/10 would recommend to a friend (but not actually because he’s taken).
Harry leaned over, still chuckling, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “You gonna tell them?”
“Absolutely not,” you said, locking the phone and tossing it aside. “They can wonder forever.”
He grinned, rolling you gently beneath him, careful of your hangover. His hand slid back to your thigh, thumb brushing the same spot that had you weak last night. “Good. Because that one’s just for us.”
You bit your lip, already feeling the familiar flutter. “Though… you could refresh my memory again. Just so I remember exactly what they’re teasing me about.”
Harry’s eyes darkened playfully. “Only if you eat something first. Can’t have you passing out before round two.”
“Deal,” you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss. “But tell the group chat to shut up.”
He laughed against your lips. “They won’t. But I don’t mind them knowing I’ve got you this whipped.”
You swatted his arm, laughing. “Shut up and do the thigh thing.”
“Hey, my name is Reader, I’m 22 and I’m a beauty influencer/ model. I’ve decided to do INSIDE because … erm, I dunno, I think I just really need, like, a social media detox and some time to just be without my phone or whatever. I rely on it way too much. I’ll struggle most about … being on camera 24/7 and worrying about how I’m coming across. I cry a lot, like, proper sensitive, and I don’t want that to be perceived as fake or game playing, ‘coz it’s not, I’m just a massive crybaby. I don’t think I’ll spend a lot of money? I’m not sure, we’ll see I guess. It’s hard to know before we get in there. I think my worst nightmare in here would be … ooo, probably my ex-boyfriend. He’s also come up in content creating recently, and I know he’s friends with the Sidemen, so … it’s not like there’s any bad blood, I just … Don’t want to be in forced, close proximity with him. Other than that, I’m no good with overly truthful people. Y’know when it comes across as just borderline rude? Like I said, I’m sensitive so it would just make me cry.”
( content warnings include : sensitive!reader , swearing , exs to lovers , mentions of sex and sexual experiences , potential smut/ suggestive content , arguing/ conflicts , mentions of poor body image and poor relationship with food , mentions of break up , angst (with comfort) , crying , jealousy )
( minnie here ! hey my loves!! i’m so excited to be bringing this series to you, and it might be the only series end up actually completing on this account lmfao. i’m not sure what my uploading schedule will be because obviously the entire series isn’t out yet, but i can’t imagine there will be any major plot twists where u have to adjust my whole plot … unless alfie gets voted off within three days which i can’t see happening lol. i hope you enjoy this series! xx )
summary: in which alfie has well established he is a taken man since the start.
pairing: ab x reader
notes: basically alfie talking about his girlfriend for 10 minutes! ofc imagine him to be speaking in these clips during shoots on set or during podcasts in the middle of convos! i hope you guys enjoy, it was cute coming up with ideas! pls like and reblog, let me know what your fav part was! share your thoughts! it means the most!! lots of love!! <33
PART OF YOU DIDN’T WANT TO CLICK on the video . . part of you had a dreaded gut feeling that you would cringe hard at whatever this content contained and the length of it put you off further - it was over 10 minutes long - that was more than enough time for your boyfriend to expose all the weird shit you got up to.
▶︎ AB talking about his relationship for 10 minutes straight | 10:55
on the other hand – you wanted to know every single detail this gimp was saying about you.
“—fuckin’ chica and pablo come bargin’ in my room, barking like the fuckin’ feds to mumsy like ‘they’re in here! they bumping bits in here, girl!”
ok.
so maybe you were better leaving it untouched.
chip was too busy trying to breathe through his laughter while calfreezy gasped next to him, “no way, the dogs do you dirty like that! you don’t still live at home, do you?”
“no, no, this was just before i got the grotto. probably the last time before i had enough, not gone back since,” he grinned as the others proceeded to laugh. “final straw. slammed the deposit down on the table after that.”
“man, i can’t imagine the struggle having y’gal over when you’re still living at home,” chip chuckled as freezy took a laughing fit this time. “we been lucky that way, we moved out real young.”
“until you move out, you don’t realise how mad it is but,” alfie shrugged, “what ya gonna do. i think back to times and get goosebumps i’m like was i possessed or something when i was tryna slip it in n’ the MIL strutting about the landin’, tryna get the washing done.” he watched the other two laugh wildly at his diabolical confession. “true story that.”
“bro,” cal chuckled greatly, fanning himself with his card, “red card! red card.”
ok yeah, this was definitely not what you were expecting 10 seconds in.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“so what is your situation? do you have a girlfriend? a situationship? single?”
“no, i got a girl,” he confirmed.
“you have a girl?”
he nodded, “yeah,” scrambling for his phone, he sat comfy on the couch of his first proper podcast appearance. he clicked the lockscreen button and all three pairs of eyes glancing to the mesmerising photo of the bikini-clad girl sat at a table opposite AB. you actually hated the photo, slouched in the plastic chair whilst waiting for your food to come after spending almost 2 hours in the pools at the waterpark, hair drenched from the slides and your boyfriend throwing you under water, you looked like a hot mess in your opinion.
all alfie saw across from him was some tanned, busty model sprinkled in water droplets looking like something straight out of a porno mag.
of course, when you kicked off at the sight of it, he said it was ‘lovely!’
“that’s your girl?”
“yeah.”
“do the people know you got a girl?”
“i think so. i mean i don’t hide it. if i bring her up, i bring her up, i don’t try to avoid it or whatnot. i think that makes a bigger deal than what it is. she’s not been in my vids or anything but i’ll talk about her. if she is it’s no longer than a minute or such,” he gave a quick swipe through the other wallpapers on his phone that rotated every hour, showcasing your beauty with cute smiles and gorgeous outfits and the odd one with him in it. he put his phone back in his pocket. “yeah.”
“wow. how long you been together?”
“uhh, coming up three years this year.”
“oh no way!”
“yeah.”
“how’d you guys meet?”
“uh, basically went through school together,” he bounced his leg over the other. “she hated me for majority and then 6th form,” he shrugged, “got wham and she wanted a bit,” he winked at the camera.
“actually?!”
“nah, nah, not entirely. i mean she did fuckin’ hate me in the beginning.”
they laughed at him. “no!”
“yeah, like, i was a nobody to her. she didn’t give a fuck - to be fair, she hated all guys in school like she was never the type that was interested in boys - you know how when you’re first year and you start fancying people and you meet up at parks n shit, have a cheeky kiss behind the swings, talk for a bit on snap — yeah she never did that. nobody had her, even in year 7 like, she fancied no one. when she said man-hater she meant man-hater.”
“is that what you got up to in year 7?” they snickered.
“nah bro, i was – up until 6th form, i was still like, late bloomer bro like no gal wanted me,” he laughed, “i was too busy playin’ minecraft with the boys.”
“so this the only girl you been with?”
alfie closed his eyes and fought back a nervous smile, “broo, y’gonna get me strung up by my gyal, man,” he said in his roadman accent, rubbing his eyes.
you smiled at the sight of him looking like he was walking on eggshells.
“we don’t talk ‘bout that, know what i’m sayin’.”
calfreezy and chippo laughed, seeing the guy perfectly represented how all guys felt when the mention of other females came up prior to their girl.
“nah, she is my first girlfriend, like, proper, in love, relationship,” he awkwardly explained. “just . . drips n drabs before that — fuckin’ hell, you man sweatin’ as well?” you laughed out loud when he dabbed his actually slightly sweaty forehead.
calfreezy kicked his feet as he laughed at the sight of alfie visibly dreading this topic despite laughing nervously.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“nah, 10 times out of 10 i go by myself. the gym with my missus is a whole thing. ‘cause she doesn’t want to work arms . . and i don’t want to work legs . . ‘n then she just gives up ‘cause she can’t be bothered which annoys me but then i annoy her when i try to push her . . then guys come in and i can’t chill ‘cause i feel like they’re looking at her and it’s like fuck . . i’m gonna have to establish dominance here by taking a drink from her fruity ass pink water bottle.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“so did she fancy you in school?”
“i mean, she didn’t really like anyone outside her own little circle in school. let me explain this vibe of my gal alright? her friends were a group of cunts,” he didn’t flinch at their dropped mouths, “i can say that ‘cause they’re not friends anymore, but pure, like, horrible girls when she stopped hanging with them. it’s a whole story, but basically the friend group - i mean, it was mostly one girl stirring it, but the rest followed her like the leader. they were unbearable the last few months of school, like, genuinely, i couldn’t stand them. but y/n like . . you kind of never bothered with her anyway ‘cause she was just like . . i’m not saying you didn’t stand a chance with her but you didn’t. just because . . . she just didn’t like any of the lads from school. she just wasn’t interested in relationships. everyone thought she went with someone from a different school ‘cause there no way she was single out of choice like — she — i mean i’m gonna sound biased but she genuinely was the stunner of the group. of the school to be fair. and the nicest, she was most easiest to approach, it was kind of like a pity she was associated with that group. that was her only flaw.”
“that was her red flag!”
“yeah literally! it’s like . . who are you really if you’re hanging with them? something’s up . . . but nah, like she just wasn’t fussed on lads. she was years ahead in maturity and it was probably like taking on a child in her eyes to get in a relationship at that age. you know what it’s like.”
“no totally, we’ve all been that age. we’re still not fully mature. the immaturity don’t leave us. still get called a manchild by my mrs.”
“yeah! the immaturity, lack of seriousness. proper delusional thinking you could get with someone at that age and expect genuine respect, proper loves you, won’t cheat, will last together type thing. i mean who comes to mind when you think of your old schoolmates who were together that are still together?” he rambled.
“valid. valid.”
“you could talk to her, chance your arm, but it’d be a waste of time, you got nowhere. and the lads weren’t exactly tryna make new mates, y’know what i mean? and she was always with her little crew anyway, so you just dodged the lot of them. her friends said they hated guys too but then got with every man goin,” he had his little vent on that dreadful old friend group of yours, “not my gal though,” he winked at the camera.
“so you won her over.”
“basically, but not in a i-wanted-to-be-her-boyfriend way like i genuinely just wanted her to like me as a person ‘cause she had this whole image painted entirely wrong of me and it used to bug the shit out of me. i was like i’m making it my mission to get you to like me ‘cause i swear i’m not some player–fuckboy type. i’ve got two chihuahuas, mate. i come home, i eat my chicken nuggs, i hop on minecraft and i mind my own business. i might look like i’d cheat on you with some fiat 500 batty but i get nervous ordering at greggs. don’t let the fade fool you, i-i can hardly look a gal in the eye. trust, i ain’t got that roadman ting going on.”
“oh did she think you were a prick?!”
“yeah, like, we were pretty calm in school, we got put through this same class for four years, GCSE to a-level, it was really small, like 10 people and none of my friends were in it, none of hers were so we were like - we still weren’t close but like . . if she needed caught up on notes, she was asking me, y’knaa—” he flicked his hand like he was flexing his rizz on the boys.
“she was asking me for notes—” freezy hit chips arm as he laughed.
“s’like yeah girl, write your number in there while you’re at it,” he joked, “nah but then she dragged me into a argument i weren’t even a part of in front of the whole canteen and made a dick of me so.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“i’m actually really romantic?” alfie defended himself against the older boys in the middle of filming a football shoot.
“what’d you do for valentines?”
“i actually got her a A3 card.”
“that said what? ‘best girlfriend ever?’” chris rolled his eyes.
“uh, it was personalised, i’ll have you know.”
“what was the photo?” harry asked.
“uhhhh.”
he had to scroll to find a photo of the card but he did. the cover was a photo you’d taken from the shower, your arm raised high above you to capture just from your shoulders, upwards and alfie also standing in the bathroom next to it, using the toilet but thankfully half-covered by the glass pane of it. “i–it’s basically us in the bathroom. she was taking a shower and i was taking a piss. y—you obviously can’t see anything b—”
“jesus christ.”
“and she put that up for her mum and dad to see?!”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“would you say you’re the jealous type? does your girlfriend get jealous?”
“pffftttt,” alfie spat into the mic, looking wide-eyed across at tays and ginge, “jealous? bros i got a pure psycho on my hands, i can’t lie,” he put on that stupid voice again.
“oh seriously?!” ginge sat up, intrigued.
“she not let other women breathe near you either?” tays said.
“she’s an unpredictable psycho. she likes to play a little guessing game w’me when i come home sometimes. have to figure out what mans did wrong. she let me breathe around one woman, i breathed around two, s’like shittt girl, my bad. ” the two boys laughed opposite him, getting him to laugh himself. “nah she my little demon. i like it. i like when she goes a bit crazy, feel like she might murder me. turns me on, lowkey,” again, with the weird voice. “i like a fiery ting, is she gonna kill me, is she not.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“nah i do have fun with my girl on nights out, i know some lads dread being the same place with their gal in the club ‘n that but i’m guaranteed to have more fun in her company than some of my boys like, some of my boys down 4 bottles and their knocked out like some 60-year-old dad in the corner booth. it’s like mate, allow it. my brother – we were on holiday a few months back with my family, and me and my brother said we would go on the strip like go to the club one night, got all hype about it, and then when it came to it he was like ‘nah bro, can’t be bothered.’ i turned to my mrs, said ‘d’you want to go out tonight?’ she said ‘yeah, will we get a bag on the way?’ i said ‘girl is the sky blue?’ — nah i’m jokinnn’ she didn’t say that, she didn’t say that. not that time. but you get what i mean, she meets my level.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“I’M SCARED TO BRING HER AROUND YOU LOT INCASE YOU DON’T LIKE HER!” he confessed stressfully to his youtube squad. “SHE’S REALLY BAD AT FIRST IMPRESSIONS ‘N THEN I’M GONNA HAVE TO SMACK YOU ALL WHEN YOU SAY SHE’S A SOUR-FACED BITCH!”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“you know what? i do feel bad, i feel like i’ve really exaggerated her to be this raging, controlling, psycho bitch, you lot are all gonna be like free AB but she’s really not, like, she gives me so much freewill—it’s me who brings out the psycho in her.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“i call it lemon and lime time.”
“ . . . wot.”
“come again?”
“lemon and lime time? because–no, listen, right— on boxes of tampons you get – there’s different colours. green and yellow -maybe orange, or i might be making that up- either way. she sent me out to get her some one time ‘n i was like ‘what flavour d’you want? lemon or lime?’ they must be scented or something, i dunno, and she voice note me back really laughing and said lemon, lime, whatever. found it really funny. whatever. but now it’s like a hack ‘cause you know when you ask your mrs ‘you on your period’ it’s like—”
“–aw bro, it’s like starting world war three.”
“–it’s a tricky situation.”
“–it’s a set up.”
“it is!” alfie sat up straighter, passionate about the topic, “but now i just say ‘is it lemon and lime time’ and she’ll answer without blowing my head off,” he smiled proudly, “life hack or what?”
“it’s pretty clever, actually. is that why they’re different colours then? flavoured or scented?”
“i think so,” he nodded.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“—she’s the one who came up with gimpy perm boy. i picked her up from a night out and we were sort’ve arguing beforehand, nothing serious but when i picked her up she was still in a mood, and she got in the car, rambling on to herself ‘n was all ‘yeah talk to me when you get a decent haircut, y’gimp. gimpy gimpy perm boy.’ it was the funniest thing ever, we both laughed when she said it ‘cause it was just so shit and the way she was talking to herself as if i wasn’t sat right next to her. . . and then i nicked it for my own video. SO the people who say they don’t like my gal and don’t think she’s funny - it’s her joke you all constantly comment on my vids, so suck on that,” he held up his two fingers to the camera.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“no but i have punched someone before.”
“have you?!”
“i’m not — i’m not a fighter like i don’t want to fight anyone, ever. and my girl always says to me like especially on nights out ‘just because you can, doesn’t mean you should’ - and im not that guy anyway, y/n would be fuming if i got into a fight like that’s the last thing she wants to see and i would never do anything she didn’t want me to. . i genuinely just want a nice night. maybe a kebab, go home, cuddle, that’s me. but like . . yeah. apparently i’ve got a bit of a temper when it comes to her. my mum says it all the time, like, ‘you go blind where that girl’s involved’ and i used to be like what’s she on about? blind where? i’m chill, i’m calm, i’m zen,” he shrugged cluelessly, “but then . . yeah. one night i got it.”
he shuffled comfortably on his seat. “it was late at night and we were all waiting on a taxi. can’t really remember what we were out for but just left the club, waiting to go home, getting hangry for a mcdonald’s and me and my mates were standing in the street. y/n came and met up with us so we could go home together,” he explained. “i remember i was all agitated anyway with just drunk people doing my head in, shouting and smashing things, guys looking at my girl - nothing major, s’just worse when they’re drunk, like, they’re not discreet about it, ‘n i get it: she’s a rocket. then this guy spawns in from nowhere - proper npc behaviour. already being loud, off his face, lingering round us. my mates were laughing at him, but i wasn’t. i clocked him straight away—weird vibe, ‘n he starts coming in on my girl, looks her over once and says the most - i be fuming thinking about it” he almost laughed psychotically, “says the most diabolical, gruesome shit ever like stupid little comment. i literally — i swear down — i-it—it was like one minute i was just standing there watching him . . . and then, i blinked, and i was still just standing there, except, he was on the floor and i genuinely like—” he stares into the void for a second, still baffled.
“NO!”
“HAHA! CLASS!”
“no, no, honestly lads, it’s — i don’t even remember moving – i - it could have been anyone who hit him ‘cause i genuinely didn’t move a muscle from my spot. it didn’t register. i didn’t even get this–this rush or urge to bang him, it just happened. it was y/n who like, was gripping my arm, panicked, going, ‘alfie?! what the fuck?! why’d you do that?!’ and i’m like, just as confused like why she blaming me? i’m looking at my own hand like . . wait what? what she on about? did i . . ? didn’t feel a thing. no rush, no blood boiling, nothing. it was. like my arm just acted out without telling me. i was stood there trying to remember if i actually hit him or if he just like, tripped on a crack in the pavement and karma did its ting.”
the boys were in cackles but you were laughing into yourself more so at alfie’s genuine confusion and despair as he reflected back to that night. “nooo wayyyy, bro.”
“my mates were there, they were like we couldn’t even stop you if we wanted to ‘cause it was like a twitch. like—bam. we couldn’t even clock it. and the guy’s friends came out after and were standing about and they didn’t even try anything, they were like . . yeah bro, he did have that coming but like . . . is he alive though?’ — y/n’s the one making sure the man’s breathing while i’m just hovering like an absolute muppet. and then i’m apologising to her like she’s the one i wronged which i guess i did . . .” he sighed stressfully. “swear, i felt the hangover kicking in and i just did my last shot like 10 minutes prior! stood there just thinking how’s this even happened? i was literally craving maccies two minutes ago, now i’ve apparently assaulted a man and my girlfriend’s out here playing paramedic to someone who just tried to undress her with his eyes!” he exhales like he’s just relived the whole thing. “but then . . yeah it’s chill. it’s all good. had to grovel a bit in the taxi to make sure she was still coming back to mine but,” he shrugged, “it was calm.”
“yeah, like she couldn’t be annoyed at you.”
“yeah, she wasn’t annoyed at me, she was just annoyed the way it puts her in a kind of awkward situation, like cleaning the mess up. but it was fine. i was like ‘fine, just tell me next time and i’ll stand behind you while you swing’,” he chuckled.
“class bro,” they applauded him and you rolled your eyes at the screen.
“but yeah, in–in conclusion, i have - wouldn’t say fought but . . i’ve hit a few people before. but it’s always in defence or something like that.”
“i’m so glad i’ve never had to defend my girl like that, then we’re both getting disrespected.” chip said.
“my ego couldn’t take it.”
“this is why you’ve gotta get wham, so you can defend your bird,” alfie winked at the camera. “had to back my boys up when it kicked off at a maccies though, one time after school. true story.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“i’ve learned in my time that ‘i’m fine’ really translates to ‘figure it out you stupid dickhead.’”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“—same as when you’re feelin’ yourself, y’know? maybe get a fresh trim, hit the gym real quick, clean fit — and then your girl walks in, probably in her fucking pyjamas, little tank and shorts on and it’s like . . how you gonna out-do me like that like i was feelin’ pretty leng then and you just show up and bring my rating down to a solid 4. don’t even get me started when they are all glammed up.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“yo girl, can i get your number? take you for a little spin ‘n that,” you recognised this clip as alfie vlogged from his brand new car (at the time) while passing each other on the road to both your houses. it was so weird and a little sad how you both had the same car and now his was gone and replaced with his new defender. you used to joke your audis were boyfriend and girlfriend too, his grey, yours white.
now he was just driving a military tank on the road that god forbid you left a lip liner in.
“i got a man. or actually i dunno where he’s gone. some guy in a tractor tank just pulled up thinking he’s peng,” you shielded your eyes from the sun as you looked up at him through your rolled down window.
he grinned, continuing his roadman persona. “say less. man’s here now, innit. jump in, i’ll take you nando’s, get you lemon and herb, maybe medium if you behave.”
“medium? you think i look like a medium kinda girl?”
“my bad, you’re right. you’re giving extra hot, still, might need to calm you down with a drink after.”
you leaned your head on your hand out the window, “what are you after?”
he adjusted his cap and slyly smirked, “just a man in his defender, tryna wife up a fine ting in an aldi A1.”
“aldi A1? as in . . the same thing you used to drive about like it was a range just last week?” you grinned.
he nodded, “allow it, girl, it’s a lifestyle. i can’t be seen in a basic whip anymore.”
“oh basic is it now?” you couldn’t hold back your smile at the audacity, “careful, mocking your roots. car’s gone to his head already.”
he laughed and shrugged, “yeah, well. we grow. we evolve.”
“into what? self-absorbed arseholes?”
“aight, be off then in your aldi A1, i got some rockets i need to chat up in their corsas,” he pulled his handbreak down.
“right, well, have fun in your debender,” you widened your eyes, hitting the indicator and speeding off around him before he could even finish turning his wheel all the way. you got to see how he laughed into himself over the interaction, as you remembered seeing him laugh through your rear view mirrors.
and that was when the debender joke was born.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“some girl from uni commented happy birthday legend with the little hand heart emoji and she screenshotted it, sent it to me, and just said, ‘legend, yeah?’”
“—OOOF.”
“—that’s rough.”
“that was it. i had to just let it simmer for the rest of the day. didn’t talk to me all day and when i pointed it out she’s all nonchalant like no obviously not i just been busy and i’m just like rightttt ok,” he rolled his eyes at the memory, but a smirk tugging on his lips.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“i used to be so scared of getting a girl and meeting her parents over dinner type thing ‘cause i’m such a picky eater, like my diet is a joke, but then she told me that she’s not the most adventurous eater either and basically orders chicken everywhere she goes, so’s like a match made in heaven. and she hates red sauce. soulmates.”
“you’re kidding.”
“swear. although she does love bbq which is just as bad, i can’t have that. need her to bleach her mouth before she even thinks about coming near me. moving like that.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“nah, even with my girlfriend, before she was my girlfriend, we didn’t go to our school formal together but we basically did but when i asked, it was so awkward, i was like ‘you going to formal?’ ‘yeah’ ‘you going with anyone?’ ‘no’ ‘oh nice, nice, yeah me neither’ . . . that was it.”
“fuck sake bro.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“nah she makes me laugh though. we were out the other day and this girl smiled at me when i held open the door for her — just a normal smile, like, polite human — and she was like, ‘do?? do you wanna go back and hold it open a bit longer??? orrrr??’ like the dramatics do make me laugh sometimes.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“so i’ve just ran into the shop, going to make a quick stop and see trouble . . . see peng ting . . see sneaky link,” he buckled his seat belt and turned on his car, the passenger seat occupied with his recent purchases. “she’s had a pretty shitty few days, really stressed out with work and uni ‘n shit, and i’ma good boyfriend, so i’ve bought her some—some bits, what we got here? chocolate . . crisps . . her favourite drink . . an ice coffee and flowers, just to hopefully pick her up a bit. it’s not much but it’s the thought that counts guys, alright? she’ll be grateful. my shayla . . my shayla!” he swung out onto the road.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“nah, boys, my girl just text me, i haven’t replied to her in an hour, she said what position you got her in?”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“chat’s blowing up. when’s your birthday? august. what are you doing for valentines? my bird. what do you get a girl for valentines? honestly, they’re happy with the little things my guy. get the flowers. get the chocolates. book the hotel room,” he clicked and pushed buttons on his controller from his set-up in the spare room. “my girl’s thing has always been jewellery, she loves all things jewellery - it doesn’t even need to be expensive, as long as you know what she likes,” he continued, transfixed on the screen. “even in my warehouse job, i always made sure to save a little extra for those important dates for a bit of jewellery ‘cause that’s when you do splurge a little. i got her a bracelet and she never takes it off. actually, i got her two bracelets she never takes off. one little diamond piece and one you can buy different charms? that’s a shout. then you can just buy charms for different occasions. little memories. like . . i got her big ben for when we went to london for the first time even before youtube . . or a suitcase when we went on our first holiday. she’s got the letters AB for me. she’s got a dog for her dog. what else did i get her? the charm bracelet’s the best shout i reckon. they’ll love that shit.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“yeah nah, she’s mad jealous. a girl in the shop could look at me for too long and i can feel her soul leave her body. but i rate it, it’s like . . kind of a primal thing, innit? sexy. i mean i’d rather that than someone who doesn’t care, like i’d be annoyed if she was like ‘yeah, have him.’”
“you like that little bit of friction.”
“yeah, s’like behave. but if you don’t, that’s fine too.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“we left the pub one night and she wouldn’t speak to me, like proper angry, seething vibes — arms folded, walking ahead. i didn’t know if she was gonna cry or kill me. we were passing the chippy ‘n i was starving, i had to order something, she was even more annoyed ‘cause she had to wait on me - ‘cause it was so late and she couldn’t walk home on her own. i actually felt bad even though she wanted to kill me. we were both waiting ‘n i was like ‘. . . do you want chips or do you want a fight?’ like stuffing my face, it was probably so jarring.”
“it’s so unintentionally funny like i know if we were there’d we’d be making the situation worse ‘cause we’d be laughing!”
“literally! i got the fight for anyone wondering by the way,” he deadpanned.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“do you get weird when girls hit on you?”
“i feel like i’m awkward around people in general, but it depends on the girls ‘cause some can genuinely just be nice and others are straight up like — ‘so are you single or not’ and i have to be like ‘nahhh, i’m pretty locked in.’ just flip them the lock screen.”
“the lock screens always a shout. you don’t even need to say anything, just hit the button.”
“yeah, exactly. i had some girl say i had nice eyes and i was like ‘cheers,’ and even at that i feel disgusting. i’m like i hope she weren’t thinking – like was else do i say to that? thanks, i have a girlfriend, then i just sound like a massive knob when they might just be genuinely paying me a compliment for the sake of it? i freak out over stuff like that, s’just like . . don’t compliment me . . please. respectfully.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“your mrs ever laugh really loud at another bloke’s joke and then you’ve to spend the next hour being funnier to re-establish the dominance?”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“oh my god, but d’you get when it’s not even your fault?! i was coming out of the petrol station one time, we’d just left the gym and this girl calls out ‘oi sexy!’ i just put my head down, got in the car — girl’s sat there, jaw hanging open as if i was the one who called her sexy! she just goes ‘take me home’ i’m like FUCK SAKES! DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING!”
“but she expects you to go punch her in the throat.”
“literally! she’s like ‘you were suppose to ride me in front of her’ i’m like,” he pulled his most bizarre face.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“yeah, bro, when you text them first before you text the boys chat, it’s over.”
“oh it’s so over,” the boys at pitchside agreed.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“the way you talk about your girl — people think she’s got you on a leash,” bach said from his host seat. “which is fine, i know from experience,” he quickly held a hand up with comedic laugh.
alfie laughed, “yeah, nah, i do make her sound like a bit of a psycho. she’s not though. she’s just got a low tolerance for nonsense — especially if it involves other girls. which, fair enough. i’d be the same. i don’t exactly help the image either, the way i wind her up. but honestly? i rate it. i like knowing someone’s that bothered about me.”
“you’ve been with her since, what, you said 18?” arthur tv guessed.
“yeah, ‘n people always say like i’ve been locked in too young and i should be out getting with all different girls, enjoying single life with no responsibilities and all that, but like . . i don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything. i am enjoying life and my relationship’s easy like i’m not miserable. if i was miserable, i wouldn’t be in it, you know? it’s jarring sometimes.”
“i like that you’re deeping it.”
“no it’s true through, people act like when you’re with someone young you’re making a sacrifice, like you’ve given something up but it’s the opposite. like, she’s literally my best mate. i know people hate hearing that but your girl should be your mate as well. we’ve got our own vibe, our own jokes, we rinse each other all the time, we’re never serious — i get to live life with one of my favourite people - it’s like when you’re with your boys and you’re like, ‘ah, imagine living together, that would be sick,’ – that’s how i feel with her like i want that, i would enjoy that. i don’t dread the thought of that.”
“so you’re not trying to be out here playing the field?” arthur smiled.
“jesus, no. trust me, no part of me wants that. i’ve got the girl, the banter, the comfort — everything. i don’t need saving, none of that free AB shit. i’m not stuck. i’m—i’m sorted.”
“he said sorted. oo, he’s in love, guys.” bach teased.
“exactly. i’m not whipped - maybe a bit - but i’m happy. big difference.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“ass or tits? boyssss, come on, it’s all in the personality,” he said from his computer chair, leaning back as he let out a sigh at their ridiculous questions. “. . . but have you seen the rack on my girl?”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“so last time i vlogged, i just put a wash on and text my mum if she was in so i can go get the dogs and bring them on a walk so at least i’m doing something in this vlog,” he spoke from his bed, not knowing what else he could do to spice up the grotto vlog. “i should probably pay a visit to my mrs, i feel like i’ve abandoned her the last couple days just ‘cause i been so busy. she’s been busy too but still, i should probably call in and see her,” he paused.
“i know, she knows that i’m not fond of askin’,” he sang next on his way to yours.
“hey,” the next clip was when the camera lens pulled out directly from your forhead as your boyfriend stood directly above you, “say something for the viewers at home, girl,” he put the roadman voice on.
you looked at the lens and then smacked your hand over it, doing (what you remembered) the most diabolical filthiest gesture that alfie flipped his camera to show his jaw almost on the floor with a heavy laugh in his chest. “DO THAT AGAIN. RIGHT NOW! GO! SHOW THE CAMERA!—”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“yeah like AB. AB and his girl.”
“i’ve actually met his girl and she’s very dead on. she’s not what he makes her out to be on cam,” joe weller told his co-hosts. “quite witty. i remember when we went to LA, we were going out one night and one of the clubs was a stripclub and he was on facetime, telling her what he was up to, and i, for some reason, brought up the stripclub and i was like ‘oh shit!’ like felt so bad - i didn’t want him thinking i was throwing him under the bus or trying to start something! - but she was just laughing ‘n was like ‘oh yeah no worries at all babe! what better things would you be doing! you go watch star and sapphire shake their arse while i do your dirty washing and clean out your wardrobe, it’s no problem! have fun! i’ll be right here when you get back!’ but like genuinely joking, it was so funny. i thought she would’ve freaked ‘cause you know, he makes her out to sound a bit mental but he turned to me and was like ‘nah, like, she mightn’t like it but she trusts me, that’s the big difference. and she knows me, she knows i’m probably gonna be mad awkward the whole time’ and to be fair . . . he was. boy’s head was in his phone or stuck to the bar, he didn’t know what to do. he really loves her, he told me a lot of their lore.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“yeah, mine neither. she’s surprisingly not that bothered by people before her - not that i had proper relationships before - but girls i’ve talked to like - she doesn’t care, but neither one of us want to talk about it anyway. i don’t fucking want to bring them up. she brings them up for a laugh when we have an argument ‘cause she knows i be mortified,” he laughed as the boys began to laugh at his confession, his face reddening. “so embarrassing.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“aw, no yeah — monaco vlog? dog house.”
“HOW?!”
“you tell me.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
chip was laughing, nursing a beer in one hand, the mic in the other, “bro, i don’t know how you do it. your girl’s intense, she’s like . . on you, all the time. proper psycho attachments. she puts me on edge.”
alfie stopped mid-laugh, still smiling, but his eyes locking in on the older boy. “alright, relax,” he shot him a look, “she’s not a psycho. she just gives a shit ‘bout what i’m up to and doesn’t know you lot well enough to know if you’ll look after me properly,” he said. “just ‘cause sabina doesn’t give a shit about what you get up to.”
freezy was laughing, cracking up at himself, “sabina sends him off to thailand hoping he doesn’t come back!”
“i rate my little psychopath, you lot don’t know how psycho i can be too,” he smirked to himself, bouncing his feet kicked up on the coffee table.
“she just acts likes she forgets who was here first, y’know . . . ” chip continued, letting out a deep sigh as if exhausted by your games.
“bro, you met me a year ago,” alfie, whether purposefully or accidentally, killed the joke he was trying to run. to your delight.
“nah bro, come on, unc was there when you were born. i know my neph like that.”
alfie just screwed his face at the camera like he didn’t know what the fuck he was on about.
you smirked, mentally pumping your fist.
chip 0 - 1 you
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“i remember in school - oh my god, this is actually so embarrassing, i actually have never told her this,” he covered his mouth as he cringed at himself, “i remember overhearing her talking to her friends about guys who wear chains and talking about haircuts and how they dress, and back then i was obviously so chopped, snapchat mems haunt me, had shortest fucking back and sides ever, flat top, rocking the silver chain — after hearing that, i grew my hair out, let the length grow—” already the boys were laughing and so was alfie, realising how pathetic he was when he wasn’t even sure if he liked you as a person, yet took your word for gospel.
he remembered taking in your words - not that there was nastiness behind them - it was just a genuine opinion, no talking bad about people (maybe jays trim inspired the conversation starter) but you weren’t being bitchy about it (unlike few of your friends). you simply voiced how guys needed to understand girls liked length on hair, how they didn’t find chains cool and needed to stop with the roadman tracksuits.
“got a clean fade, stopped using shampoo and the texture of my hair went how it is now,” he ran his fingers through it subconsciously, “got rid of the chain - huzz were flocking me after that.”
“NAHHHHHHH—”
it was weird, because he remembered the following year, it was like you were ahead of the trend and guys did start to change their look how you said you wished they would.
for that, he joked about your witchy ways, taking your opinion on manifestation seriously. to you, you simply told him this is why he needed to believe you were never wrong.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“you lot overrate me, big time. if i broke up with my girl, she’d be the one playing the field. you think i can pull anyone i want? it’d be me to break up with her, ready to sleep around and get none, meanwhile she’d be doing numbers. she’d be racking up the numbers EASY. she’d have guys lined up left, right and centre. she’s had blue ticks in her DMs. it’d be light work for her.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“do you try to keep your relationship off cam?”
“i don’t want her on cam all the time, i do want to keep things private but it’s her decision like, her tiktok’s public, her other socials aren’t. she doesn’t like to be on cam most of the time. if she happens to be in the car when i’m vlogging, i don’t mind if she wants to be in or out of it, or if she wants to say her piece with just her voice or if she does want to show her full self, it’s up to her. but i do try to keep it on the down low, i like keeping her to myself.”
“i like that, man.”
“like the other day, i was dropping her into town for drinks, she was all done up, hair, makeup, sexy little dress ting on. i was vlogging and was like ‘. . d’you want in it or no?’ ‘n she was like ‘fuck yeah, i’m gorgeous today’ so,” he shrugged, smirking, “viewers got blessed that day.”
“some of the girls want her in a vid.”
“bro, she can do what she wants. i don’t think she’d mind doing a feature every now and then but she likes the privacy too. although she has said to me stop talking shit or she’s coming on the pod to out me.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“nah, me and my girl, we got a nightly routine at this point. nearly every night we do rock, paper, scissors for who has to make a nutella toastie.”
“a nutella toastie?!”
“a nutella toastie. oh my god, greatest invention ever. i mean it’s just toast so like . . nothing special but oh my god. we’ll be lying in bed and one of us will go ‘aw . . d’you know what would be so nice right now? nutella toastie.’ ‘awww, go make us some’ ‘no you go’ ‘no you. you make them better’ ‘no you’ ‘no you’ ‘rock paper scissors’ but then we usually just end up joining each other in the kitchen. it’s like midnight. both just standing in pjs, cooking up a storm.”
“bro that’s actually really cute.”
“i need to try that.”
“you should,” alf agreed, “she put me on them. s’great”
he didn’t mention how sentimental he got on the nights you didn’t stay over and he’d be laying in bed and the thought of a nutella toastie would pop in his mind, and that’s when you usually got a text message in the middle of the night:
missing my lil nutella toastie rn
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“she’s actually not that bad. like i’ve ran into fans before and she offers to take the photo and is like ‘oh my god alfie, put your arm around her!’ like she’s not fucking lethal like.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“would you ever get any tattoos?”
“no. i mean . . i’ve talked about getting a deer as a red dead redemption reference but i don’t think i’d actually ever do it. i just got this on a drunk night out in mallorca.” he held up his wrist to the camera. “was crashing out, spiralling badly ‘n went and got it.”
his boys laughed at him, “what is it?”
“you can barely see it, it’s quite faded. it’s just a tiny letter and little heart beside it. my girl’s initial.”
“eeeeshhh, nah bro.”
“no way.”
“fuck off”
“i know, i know,” he faked embarrassment and dread as he put his hand to his head. “nah i actually don’t care though, like this was the argument she had with me on facetime at the time, ‘cause i was on facetime to her telling her i was gonna get one, she was like ‘no alfie, don’t be so stupid’ was going on about obviously if we broke up and i met someone else and i was fuminggg, i was like i don’t care! if i marry another bird, they’ll have to deal with it ‘cause i’ll love you more than her! i’ll look at her walking down the isle and kiss it — really crashing out, really ready to prove a point, ‘n yeah, woke up with this bad boy,” he slapped the side of his wrist. “could be worse, could have got like, a fuckin’ . . dolphin on my tits or something, there’s definitely worse tattoos. i know a mate of a mate got his mum’s phone number tatted on him.”
“FUCK OFF.”
“swear down.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“aw mate my girl buys thee tiniest handbags so when we go out my pockets are basically jammed to the brim with all her shit. fucks me off so bad, the look i give her when she asks me for her lip liner shit every 10 minutes - i actually did fuck it into a lake one time ‘cause it was literally every 10 minutes she was asking for it. she was like ‘you’re lucky that was 20p from primark because if it was one of my expensive ones, you’d well be in that ocean with your snorkel and goggles on’ and i-i fully well would have been.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“bro. first time i saw you two together — swear down - i need to say this—” danny sat up properly in his chair as he got giddy. “it actually stuck with me. it was in that club, lights going crazy, flickering like mad — you know that big london one, sidemen always throw their parties in? i think that’s what it was actually, that time.”
“yeah, i know the one.”
“the one everything’s dark except them long flashes hitting every few seconds. you were in the all black fit, just sat back, man spreading the whole couch, on your own, corona in hand, rolex catching the light, you looked cleannn bro. y/n was just in front of you on the smaller stools, but like, half turned away talking to someone beside her. her arm was resting on your leg, she was still close. and the way you were just watching her was like . . bro was scary! was intense! like the vibes, man, the aura. it was sick. like, proper cinematic,” he shared excitedly.
“you didn’t have to do anything — like anyone who saw knew like they’re together. d’you know what i mean? like, i swear, it gave me goosebumps. you were so cool. it stuck with me. i was like i wish people saw me and ten like that. we just look like two dweebs. people see us and think, ‘oh bless them, they’re trying.”
tennese laughed in the background, agreeing with him wholeheartedly.
“nah, i was like ten we have to do something about this. went home and ordered youngLA after that,” danny continued, rubbing his eye.
“DID YOU!” alfie laughed.
“yeah, man. and tennese ordered the dress y/n had on. we’re so lame. you guys are so sick, you’ve no idea.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“we were at the pub and some girl asked to borrow my lighter and i gave it to her —not even a convo— and my girl just raised her brows. like i–if you saw me i was like a deer in headlights, i was like fuck, was that a test and i failed?”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“jay-z ‘n beyoncé, 03’ bonnie and clyde. that’s our song. we played that really early on in our — i think we actually went a late night drive playing it before we were even boyfriend and girlfriend.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“what’s the chat saying? . . . are you a lover boy?” he sat back in his gaming chair, clicking the mouse with his headset on. “i’ll be honest boys . . you lot will rinse me for this, but i was out the other night in the club, out in london, and i got a whiff of her perfume on another bird, and i–i literally had to go home. i just left and got the train home to her. three hours. was supposed to stay at chip’s place. just came home. stayed over at her place,” he shrugged. “what about it?”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“i love seeing the free AB shit, it makes me laugh. ‘bro, blink twice if you’re in danger’” chip laughed at the comment, “‘she’s probably tracking your location right now’!”
“she’s got him chipped, my man’s not been seen out past 10pm in three years,” cal chuckled.
alfie smirked, ignoring the two laughing next to him as well. “they need to chiillll. i know it’s my fault, i’ve made her out to sound like my own airtag but she’s really not. no one’s got me on a leash. i’m here ‘cause i wanna be.”
“do you ever think like . . maybe you did lock in too early? you haven’t really had that single lad freedom.”
even through video, you could see the point when alfie got his back up a little. “see, that’s what people always say, like i’m missing out and i have no freedom but i don’t feel like that at all. i’ve never once looked at the so-called ‘single life’ and thought, yeah, i want that. nah. you lot go on your little nights out trying to impress girls you don’t even like. i go home to someone who gets me, who rinses me for my dodgy haircut, knows when i’m in a mood without me saying a word, and still fancies the shit out of me when i cringe myself out.”
“damn, you’re getting deep bro.”
“its not deep, it’s just the truth. people act like i’m trapped in a relationship against my own will but it’s not that. she’s my best mate and yeah — she’s intense sometimes. so am i. it works.”
“i can’t imagine you being intense. like doesn’t she get crazy jealous when girls chat to you? ‘n when they look at you too long?”
“yeah, she does. and? that’s not a flaw, to me that’s someone who cares. i’d rather have someone who feels that protective and loving towards me than someone who gives up and lets me do whatever. it’s not a control thing. she loves hard and so do i. we’re solid bro.”
“so you’re saying you don’t need rescuing?”
“bro, i’m not in a burning building. i’m in a warm fucking house, eating toast with the love of my life. i’m good,” he laughed.
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“do your mates not rinse you for you and your girl?”
“no bro, never. they—they love her, they really rate her. she takes care of the whole group. they’d back her before me. i write shit into the chat and they’re like ‘perfectly valid, i’d behave the same.’ one time i wrote in ‘going shopping with the mrs to get sorted for the lads holiday. anyone need anything?’ and none of them have girlfriends anymore ‘n three of them write back: ‘aw can we come? will y/n choose sort us out?’ four of us just trailing about town, y/n’s sorting us one by one with holiday fits, telling them she’s gonna wax their unibrows, making sure we don’t look a tit.”
“HA! i love that!”
“yeah, they rate her. like they’d tell her if i was doing something wrong or to come get me ‘n stuff. sisterly shit.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“you can tell you both don’t play about with each other.”
▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55
“aww, fuck guys, i forgot to end the vlog. this is me just editing. hope you enjoyed. peace n guidance. see you in the next one.” he held up the peace sign as he signed off, laying on the bed with his laptop in front of him and your arm wrapped around his neck, your pointy acrylics massaging his scalp and playing with his hair, just how he liked every day to end.
summary: when you go against medical advice after a nasty fall down the stairs, dr. park takes matters into his own hands.
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, AFAB reader, forced proximity (but it’s just park making himself at home with reader because he wants to), mildly dubious consent, light stalking, light exhibitionism, mean!park who is a softie underneath it all (kind of), divorced!park, unprotected (PIV) sex, oral sex, anal fingering (fem!receiving) (like, one sentence of it), park can carry/lift reader, wrist and clavicle fractures, medical inaccuracies
author’s note: the ending is rushed, and i apologize. i just wanted to be done with this! also, i didn’t feel like writing a long, drawn-out smut scene, so i hope what i did instead (multiple, shorter scenes) is okay. i hope you enjoy!
It was stupid. Something that was preventable and would not have landed you in the E.R. or required surgery if you had just used your brain.
But you didn’t use your brain, and in the rush to get to work, after the elevator in your apartment went out of service one morning a week ago, you rushed down several flights of stairs.
You had almost made it out of the building without so much as a scratch until the last flight, when you tripped on your new pair of heels and flew over tens of steps until you reached the bottom floor with a thud. And that wasn’t the worst of it. No, you had instinctively reached your arm out to grab the railing a little too late and landed on your dominant arm, the force of the impact snapping your wrist, radiating up to your clavicle, and snapping it as well into several pieces.
Or so the E.R. physicians explained as they stabilized you as best they could, referred you to surgery, and sent you home with a splint and a sling.
A week now since your fall, the orthopedic surgeon operating on you recounts to his students the events that led you to his table as well as the injuries you sustained. You’ve been given a nerve blocker for the pain, and you don’t feel your wrist and clavicle shattered into the small pieces I’ll be putting back together. Understand? Nod your heads if you understand, Dr. Park barks to them, drawing you from your thoughts.
He is not the nicest person. You got a sense of that during your pre-op consultation with him two days ago, but, to be honest, all you care about is getting through this surgery.
You do feel sorry for his students, though.
Once Dr. Park finishes his lecture, he addresses you, telling you, we’re about to start. Take some deep breaths.
Glancing at the diagnostic display by your side, the x-rays of your wrist and clavicle in full view, you breathe in and out through your nose. With a flourish of Dr. Park’s hand, you’re told to count down from ten and are put to sleep by the anesthesiologist. As you count down, the last thing you see is the intense cut of Dr. Park’s eyes and his harsh brows, the bulk of him taking up space in what feels like a cramped operating room, a nurse handing him a clamp—
and then it’s lights out.
He goes over post-op care with you once you wake up, lying in the bed of one of the patient recovery rooms, which you find odd, as this is not something you would expect the booked and busy surgeon to do.
You’ll need to keep your wrist in the cast for two weeks and your arm in the sling for six weeks. After two weeks, we’ll switch the cast into a brace. There’ll be a follow-up around the four-week mark to check your progress. Remember that someone will have to drive you home tonight. Take the medication prescribed to you if you find the pain to be too severe.
“You have someone, right?”
“Huh? Someone…?” The lingering effects of the anesthesia are affecting your concentration. You were so focused on trying to pay attention that you weren’t paying attention.
His eyes narrow. Dr. Park is the embodiment of impatience, but you suppose surgeons have better things to do than repeat themselves, and, from the looks of the dark circles under his eyes, a feature you admittedly find attractive and intimidating, he’s running on fumes.
“Do you have someone to take you home. No one came in with you.”
“Sorry, I—” You shake your head. “—my neighbor... he’ll be picking me up this evening.”
Dr. Park raises a furrowed brow. “Your neighbor. The one that found you on the ground?”
“My friends... well, they all had plans tonight, but he was available.”
“What about a boyfriend. Roommates.”
“I’m single. And I live alone.”
The room goes deathly quiet, and all you can hear is the beeping of monitors, the rolling of carts from the hallway outside, and your own breaths. Dr. Park watches you for a second, and you shift in the bed, uncomfortable being the subject of his scrutiny. But the silence doesn’t stretch for long. He speaks again, and it’s as if no time has passed.
“As long as someone takes you home. We’ll set you up for discharge—” He checks his watch. Your eyes travel from his wrist up his arm to his bicep, huge, as wide as your head, “—around seven p.m. A nurse will see you out.”
“Okay. Thank you, Dr. Park.”
He stands up from the comically small stool by the side of your bed and stares his nose down at you.
All he says before leaving the room, shouldering past a fresh-faced and green observing intern, is, “don’t run down the stairs again.”
Curbside in a wheelchair, you wait for the neighbor who called for and rode in the ambulance with you last week to pick you up.
You’ve bothered him enough; you nearly gave him a heart attack when he found you splayed out, crying on the ground and clutching your forked wrist, but despite it all, he was more than happy to do you this favor.
But... he’s late.
The nurse, overworked and past the time for her to clock out for the end of her shift, grinds her teeth and taps her foot against the pavement as she waits with you.
“I’m so sorry for holding you up. I can just wait here alone,” you say, glancing up at her over your shoulder. “He should be here soon.”
“I can’t leave until you’re picked up.”
“I won’t say anything if you don’t.”
She thinks on it for a second, chewing on her lower lip. Sighing, she says, “alright. Just sit tight. I’ll see if I can find another nurse to wait with you. If he gets here before then, then problem solved.”
You nod. “I will.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass, and your neighbor’s nowhere to be seen. He hasn’t answered your texts. Another nurse hasn’t come by, either.
You’re about to give up hope and just call yourself an Uber home when—
what are you still doing here?
You turn your head to find Dr. Park approaching you. Though you know the logical explanation is that his shift is over and he’s leaving, you can’t help but ask, “Dr. Park? What—what are you doing here?”
“I asked you first,” he throws back.
“I’m, uh, waiting for my ride home. Josh, my neighbor… he’s late.”
“Late, huh.” He stands still, giving you the once-over, before pulling his keys out of his scrub pocket, telling you to “just wait here,” and walking off into the lot.
You were already waiting, so nothing new there. But, suddenly, you hear the rev of an engine and watch as a big, shiny truck pulls out of its parking spot, one of the ones designated for employees, and circles the entrance before coming to a stop in front of you.
The passenger-side window rolls down, and from across the seat you can hear his voice.
“Get in.”
Oh.
This… hm.
You have no doubt that this is against the rules. But, at the same time, you would like to get home. And not have to spend a fortune on an Uber, or if worse comes to worst, figure out what buses you need to take to get you home.
“Do you need help, or can you get in yourself like a big girl?” he asks, impatience clipping his tone, after you take too long staring at his shadowed figure.
He rolls the window back up, blocking himself from your sight.
You stand from the wheelchair, a little loopy still, but manage to close the distance to open the passenger door with your free hand and settle in your seat. You struggle with your seatbelt, and he pulls off before you hear it click.
The ride home is uncomfortable.
You told him your address immediately after getting in, but after that it has been complete silence between you two. Words don’t come easy.
From the moment you met during your pre-op consultation, you’ve been on a cliff’s edge with him. He has a somewhat stifling energy. You would roll down the window to cut some of the tension, give yourself air to breathe, but you’re sure that would earn you one of the glares you’ve become familiar with.
After a series of oppressive red lights, he speaks up when you reach the front entrance of your apartment building.
“Give me your phone.”
You’re a little shocked by the suddenness of his demand. “Uh... why?”
“I’m giving you my personal number. Patients tend to have questions during their recovery. Better to ask me instead of strangers on the internet.”
That’s actually quite... thoughtful of him.
“Oh, that makes sense.” You dig your phone from your purse, unlock it, and hand it to him. “Do you do this with all your patients?”
Drive them home after their surgery, give them your personal number, make them feel as if they’re the snow in a snow globe, shaken up and studied.
“You’re not special, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Your mouth parts in offense, and you see the corner of his mouth lift as if he were about to laugh. It is odd that him saying that makes you feel... not so good, like it matters what he thinks of you.
“Do you think you are?” he asks.
“What?”
“Is it the anesthesia, or are you always this scatterbrained? Do you think you’re special,” he repeats.
Holding back your scowl proves impossible. And you thought he was being nice in offering you his number. You answer carefully, lips drawn in a straight line, “no, I know I’m just another patient. If anything, I’m being a burden. Thank you for driving me home. I do appreciate it.”
He grunts in response as he creates his contact in your phone. The electronic device barely fits in his hands, and you can’t help but wonder what they would look like on your body. It frustrates you that the thought crosses your mind.
He’s not worthy of a crumb of your attention. He’s strict and borderline cruel. Like a cutthroat surgeon would be. And you’re his patient. You don’t want to think about what he might be like with someone he hates. Or loves enough to be more of himself in front of, if he is capable of such a thing.
When he’s finished, he casually tosses your phone back into your lap and then dismissively says, “we’re done here. See you soon.”
You hop out of the car and turn around to say goodbye, with a lightness and a kindness he does not deserve.
“Well, hopefully not too soon, right?”
He watches you for a moment, his eyes searching your face and down your body to the strap of the sling on your shoulder and the cast on your arm and lower. To your croc-and-sock-covered feet and back up to your eyes. All in a blink. So fast you might have imagined it. Then he reaches over to close the passenger door himself, throws out a quick “if you do as you’re told, we won’t have a problem,” and peels off, nearly running over your feet and landing you another visit to the E.R.
He’s a strange one, Dr. Park.
As you make your way up to your floor—the elevator was restored to working order soon after your accident—you scroll through your contacts list and do a double take.
Did he not make one for himself?
But, upon further inspection, you realize his name, Brendon Park, with a shark emoji right next to it, one you know for certain doesn’t belong to anyone you know, is in your phone.
Brendon Park.
Not Dr. Park.
Your surgery was performed Friday afternoon, so you take the weekend to recover, hoping against hope that you will feel well enough to at least get yourself to work on Monday. You stay home and don’t push yourself. Saturday night, you order takeout instead of dining on microwave meals.
When you make your way downstairs to pick up your food, you feel eyes on you through the lobby glass, as if someone were outside in wait to watch you and specifically you. But you don’t see anything but shadows and chalk the feeling up to nerves. Having been home all day watching true crime doesn’t help your paranoia.
It’s the same thing Sunday night. You treat yourself to a second night of takeout, and again, you feel eyes on you as you pick up your food. But you ignore them.
Before you head to bed, you make sure the door to your unit is locked, though. Checking once, twice, three times. Just in case.
Your boss, as was expected when you had told him about your accident over the phone last week, was not happy that you missed work without the required notice for time off.
In the morning, you get ready and drive one-handed to the office, which, granted, goes against the medical advice that Park gave you. But it’s a close drive, and all you do is ride a desk.
It isn’t worth your job or getting on your boss’ bad side if you can manage fine. The brain fog from the anesthesia has worn off by now, and your days are mostly filled with phone calls and meetings, so your injuries aren’t detrimental to your productivity. The work you do serves as a nice distraction for the persisting itch of the cast padding rubbing against your dry skin.
You’re pushing yourself, though. The pain creeps up, sharp and sinister, closer to the end of the day. You swallow down some of the painkillers prescribed to you to alleviate it. The post-op pain is dreadful compared to the pre-op pain, which had already lessened after a week of waiting at home.
Once the workday is done, you step out of the office to head to the parking lot, your purse slung over your shoulder and your car keys in your free hand.
You don’t expect to see his truck pulled up right by the side of the building.
Park steps out and stalks toward you, a deep frown on his face. The sun sets earlier in the day, and his figure casts a long shadow to the side of him.
“What the hell are—” you start.
“—What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”
You have the urge to throw his words from the other night back in his face, but you’re, frankly, too flustered to.
“This—this is where I work.”
“You aren’t supposed to be working. You’re supposed to be resting,” he grits out.
“How did you know I was here?” you exclaim, throwing your hand up.
A few of your colleagues step out of the building behind you, and you temper your frustrations to avoid a scandal. Maybe there is a reasonable explanation for this, but you’re coming up blank.
He grabs you by your free arm and leads you to his truck, opening the passenger door, and essentially manhandles you in, buckling you in to your seat—only because of the cast and the sling and because he’s impatient, because otherwise it’d be too kind of him to do so.
If it weren’t for the fact that he’s a surgeon, your surgeon, the one that had his hands inside you and fixed your clavicle and wrist, you would be kicking and screaming right now.
“I’m taking you home,” he says once he slides into his seat and starts up the car. “Couldn’t sit still for two fuckin’ weeks?”
“Are you going to answer my question?” you ask, voice pitched high and incredulous. “I think you should answer my question, doctor.”
You regret the sass immediately. He pierces you with a glower, and you shrink in the soft leather of the passenger seat. It molds to your shape, as if you’re the last person to have sat here.
As he peels off in the direction of your apartment, he answers, “I check up on all my patients. Part of the job. Would’ve been here earlier if I didn’t have surgeries I couldn’t get out of.”
You don’t think it is a part of the job. Not to this extent. And it doesn’t explain how he knows where and when you work or that you returned to the office in the first place.
You rack your brain trying to recall if you had mentioned anything of the sort during your pre- and post-op meetings with him, but it’s either still fuzzy from the anesthesia or there is nothing to recall. It’s possible you could have said something while under, but you doubt it would have been something as coherent as the details of your employment.
And speaking of employment—
“So, are you not supposed to be at the hospital right now?”
“I cleared the rest of my afternoon. I didn’t think you’d go AMA. I bet you’re in pain, huh.”
“No,” you murmur, turning your body to face the window. “I’m fine.”
He scoffs, glancing at you quickly before returning his eyes to the road.
“You were crying your eyes out when you were brought into the E.D. I bet you were crying at your desk today too. Boss should’ve sent you home in your condition. Would’ve saved me the trouble.”
“I fell down the stairs and shattered bone. Who wouldn’t cry?”
Your face feels hot. You don’t like his patronizing tone, though you’re just as amazed you made it through the workday without feeling sorry for yourself and shedding a tear or two.
You don’t get it. What any of this means. But you’re afraid to hear the answer, so you’re almost glad he keeps his mouth shut on that front.
All you dare ask is, “what about my car?”
“I’ll pick it up later.”
The rest of the ride is silent.
This time, Park does not simply drop you off at the entrance to your apartment building.
He parks his truck in guest parking, follows you into the building, and with a searing paw on your hip, you ride the elevator up to your floor, and he walks in behind you through the front door.
It isn’t until you’re standing in the middle of your living room when you ask, “stalking isn’t something in the job description, is it? Because that’s what this feels like. You stalked me, and now—and now you’re in my apartment.”
You’re aware you didn’t put up much of a fight, but what were you supposed to do against the wall that is Brendon Park?
He crosses his arms over his chest, a loose strand of hair broken free from the cast of gel coating his scalp, casting a shadow over his eyes.
“You disobeyed my rules. I’m here to babysit you.”
He seems to think that is enough of an explanation and takes the opportunity to look around your apartment. From the look on his face, he is disgusted.
You do what you can to spruce it up with an assortment of plants, thrifted vintage decor, fairy lights, but ultimately, you’re not living in the best Pittsburgh has to offer.
The walls are stained with cigarette smoke from the previous tenant and are peeling. The heater is on its last leg and makes a clanking sound every other second. Your restroom and bedroom down the hall are a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare, the latter barely fitting your bed, dresser, and desk.
Park trudges into the open kitchen and looks inside your fridge and through your cabinets, scowling.
“This place is a shithole. How do you live like this?”
You ignore his comment and instead ask, “what do you mean by ‘babysit’?”
You watch, jaw going slack, as he opens your freezer and proceeds to peel back the plastic seal, tossing out all your instant meals in the nearby trash can.
“I need to make sure you don’t undo all my hard work. Better get used to me hanging around these next two weeks, Trip.”
“You’re not welcome here. And don’t call me Trip.” Raising your palm in surrender, you say, “I’ll stay home for the next two weeks as advised, alright? Please, just... get out.”
“I’ll make sure of it, because I’m sticking around; that’s final.”
Your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.
“But... why? Are you not—do you not have a family or… or a wife to go back home to? A pet or something? What about work?”
“I’m divorced,” he grunts. “I’m still clocking in for my shifts, but I’ll be coming home to you. Spending my days off here. Really, I’m doing you a kindness.”
The fact that he’s a divorced man doesn’t come as a surprise to you. Not that what you feel about it matters.
“This is absolutely absurd.”
“You should’ve listened to orders.”
He’s an immovable object. He won’t listen to reason. He is also literally immovable, and three of you couldn’t move one of him out of here.
You chew on your lower lip and hang your head, defeated, but it won’t lead to a different outcome. You don’t see him changing his mind.
Apparently done taking inventory of your kitchen, he walks back into the living room, closing in on you, and gestures for you to give me your keys. I’ll pick up your car.
You mindlessly toss them to him—the confusion of how he knows what your car looks like distant in your head—while working out the logistics of this. The how and why of it all still nags at you, but before you can ask him, yet again, for proper answers, he says, “I’ll be back,” and walks out the door.
By the time you hear his footsteps outside the door, it’s been a little over an hour. You’re not sure how he got there, if he’d called a rideshare or something, but the office is a ten-minute drive from your apartment. You suppose with rush hour traffic and having to go back and forth, it would take him longer to get back. You instinctively locked the door after he’d left, and you can hear him jangling your set of keys, figuring out which one is the one to your unit.
You haven’t done much except text your boss and overthink on the couch, picking at a loose thread on the sweats you changed into. You thought you might order takeout again since Park tossed your instant meals, but, being the kind person you are, you thought to wait for him to return to see if he wanted anything.
It’s ridiculous of you to have done so because he’s your surgeon and is forcefully squatting at your place because you can’t “follow orders,” and yet, you are willing to consider what he wants for dinner.
You heard about him and his reputation from some of the nurses during your short stay at PTMC. Park the Shark. He’s a good doctor despite his character flaws, someone you avoid if you can, or you risk getting bit.
As unconventional as this situation is, though, he’s not here to put you in any harm. Quite the opposite, in fact, if he’s to be believed.
As he walks through the door, you notice that he’s in different clothes; is holding multiple bags of groceries—the paper handles twisted up between his fingers; has his backpack slung over his shoulder; a drawstring bag slung over the other; as well as a duffel bag halfway zipped and spilling out with what seem to be his personal effects.
It is then that you realize why he had taken so long to get back. He must’ve made a stop for groceries and his place to get his things.
He leaves his stuff littered on the floor by your feet and starts to put away the groceries.
“I parked your car right out front where you’ll see it. Not that you’ll be goin’ anywhere.”
“Thank you for that, I guess,” you mumble, standing from the couch and joining him in the kitchen. “I see you got… groceries.”
“For dinner. All you got are frozen food and snacks. How are you alive?”
Through the crinkle of the paper bags he sets down on the countertop and rifles through, you can hear the judgment in his voice.
“I’m not much of a cook,” you say, slightly embarrassed, shifting on your feet. “And I thought I would just order something.”
“You’re eating what I make you.”
“It’d better be good then,” you throw back, rolling your eyes.
You’re not sure what to do. Hover or give him space? Is it worth trying to make conversation? Ostensibly, he’s your roommate for the next two weeks. A board-certified roommate that will make sure you don’t fuck up the screws holding your distal radius and clavicle together.
“Do you want me to leave you to it?” you ask, hesitant.
He doesn’t look at you when he responds, instead focusing on the slabs of meat he’s seasoning with your condiments.
Garlic and onion powder. Black pepper and salt.
He opens your fridge and pulls out a stick of butter to melt into a bowl and then washes his hands in the sink. Scrubbing down his wrist and beneath his nails, like he’s prepping for surgery.
“It’s your place. Do what you want,” he says, voice flat and uninterested. “I’ll call you when it’s time to eat. In the meantime, rest. Keep your arm elevated.”
“I know. I’ve been doing that for the past three days. Since you discharged me?”
He says nothing, his attention focused on his hands. His fingernails are clipped and neat, fingers thick, knuckles littered with patches of light hairs, working deftly to coat the meat in the seasonings.
For someone who is adamantly encroaching on your space, he seems to not want you to be here. You don’t want to subject yourself to his prickliness, so you hide in your bedroom and scroll on your phone until dinner is ready.
This is so weird. So, so weird.
When dinner is served, you take a seat at the dining table, where he is already seated beside you. Awkwardly staring at your plate, fork in hand, you’re unable to draw up conversation.
At least, this is awkward for you. You think Park prefers not speaking after spending so much time with colleagues and patients. You wonder if he performed your surgery in absolute silence. There hadn’t been any music on before you were put to sleep, but if there had been, you could take a good guess for some sort of heavy metal or rock.
When you first noticed your dinner plate, you were a bit taken aback. He had cut your steak up into pieces for you, mindful of your physical limitations.
“Do you need help,” he asks when you don’t make a move to eat.
“No, I think I can manage a fork just fine, thank you,” you answer, stabbing at a piece and taking a bite.
“Can you?”
With the sling and short arm cast on your dominant side, you’ve been forced to rely on your non-dominant hand, and Park can apparently pick up on the slight lack of finesse you have with it because he thinks you’re eating wrong, if that’s even possible.
“You’re as helpless as a baby.”
He takes your fork from you, guiding a piece of steak that he mixes with a helping of mashed potatoes to your mouth.
But you object because you’re well capable of feeding yourself. Smashing your lips together and turning your head away from the fork only irritates him more, however. With his other hand, he grips your chin with his thumb and forefinger, curling them inward to secure you in place.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he grunts. “I’m not against shoving this down your throat if I have to.”
So, you give in. It’s humiliating to be fed like this, but he’s doing this because he’s a good doctor, you think, to make sense of his behavior in your head, and eating well is important for your recovery.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” you ask between shoveled mouthfuls. You’re not sure if the crease in his brow is because of your noisy chewing or what, but you don’t care. It’s his fault for feeding you like he’s being chased.
“Not now.”
With only a few bites of it remaining, it is safe to say that the meal is delicious. A lot better than what you had expected. Judging by his bulky and muscular form, you knew he must eat well to maintain it, but you didn’t think he’d be a decent cook.
After he washes and puts away the dishes, you ask from your seat at the dining table, “you’re not actually staying the night, right?”
Though unlikely, you ask on the off chance that he’s had a change of heart. You don’t know him. Not well enough to allow him to stay here overnight, and it would weigh on your conscious if you didn’t at least try to make him reconsider.
“If you insist on monitoring me, maybe you could just visit me once a day. Or I could check in with you over text. While you were out, I texted my boss. After seeing how I was today, he agreed that it’d be best I follow medical advice. I’ll be sitting at home for the next two weeks, not fucking up your hard work.”
He watches you, wiping his hands on your dish towel, and then throws it on the counter. “I’m sleeping on the couch.” He walks past you to the living room to pick up his drawstring bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and heads to the door.
You’re shocked into a short silence after being dismissed so rudely. After a beat, you ask, “where are you going?”
“The gym.”
From his pocket he pulls out and shakes your keys, taunting you with them. You forgot he still had them. If it came down to it, though, you think he’d probably pick the lock on the front door.
“In case you lock me out again.”
The door slams shut behind him, and, though he just left for the second time tonight, the reality is dawning on you that he is here to stay.
You’re in the restroom about to take a shower when you hear your front door open and close. Not but a moment later, Park barges in, and you whip around to face him, holding your towel tighter against yourself, your cast wrapped up in plastic.
He worked up a sweat at the gym. His muscle tee is drenched, and he is shiny with that post-workout glow. Your eyes drift over the corded muscle of his arms, the veins in his forearms leading to the ones on the back of his hands, a prominent blueish-green against his pale skin.
“I need to shower.”
“Well,” you make a little high-pitched noise in the back of your throat, annoyed, “so do I. Your gym doesn’t have one you could’ve used?”
He can afford the luxury of a gym that has a sauna and a shower integrated all in one, let alone just a plain shower. Why he would come back and want to use yours is beyond you.
He looks you up and down, spending a particularly long time staring at your feet, toes polished with a light pink.
“Cute,” he says, teasing.
You chew on your lower lip and shrink in on yourself, hating the attention he gives you in such a vulnerable state.
He meets your eyes again and crowds in on you, your back digging into the towel rack behind you.
“Makes more sense if we take one together. I can help scrub you down,” he offers nonchalantly.
You have the feeling this isn’t as much of an offer as it is a demand. The audacity and confidence with which he says the most out-of-this-world things is quite astounding.
All you can squeak out is “what?”
“You heard me. I really hate repeating myself. Stop making me do it.”
He steps forward and wrenches your towel away from you, hanging it on the rack.
You screech, “Dr. Park!” covering what you can with your hand, but it’s a pointless thing.
“Brendon,” he growls out. “That’s the name I put in your phone, isn’t it? I couldn’t give less of a fuck about you naked.”
He says that, and yet, you can see his eyes not-so-discreetly raking over your bare breasts and cunt, his tongue moving beneath his lips and scraping over his teeth as if he’s looking at you like he wants to eat you.
You aren’t overreacting as much as reacting to the behavior of a hungry predator.
He reaches past you to start the water, opening the shower curtain, and guides you in with a hand on your lower back. You squeal when the water hits your skin.
“Cold! It’s fucking cold!”
He huffs a laugh, undressing himself and joining you, amused by your suffering, apparently.
“Means we’ll get out faster.”
While you two are under the spray, you don’t dare look at him. Your back is facing him, and your eyes are screwed shut. At least he has the sense to keep some distance between you two so you don’t feel him pressing up on you.
You learned his first name a few nights ago. Today he’s divorced.
You’re curious as to how recent it was. Though there’s the obvious lack of a ring, you made out the faintest tan line that hasn’t faded away just yet on his ring finger as he was cleaning up in the kitchen earlier.
And now, as doctor and patient, you’re showering together, medical ethics be damned. You haven’t even considered the fact that he’s around two decades older than you.
At least you think he is.
“How old are you?” you ask suddenly.
“Why.”
“I just—I just want to know. You know my age. Where I live. Where I work. My medical history. What I look like naked. It’s only fair you tell me a bit about yourself.”
“Forty-one.”
So, he’s not quite two decades older than you—you suppose the stress of his job makes him look a bit older than he is—but the point stands.
He’s old enough to be a young father of yours.
You worry his wanting to shower together is coming from a place of ill intent, but if he does have such intentions, he makes no sign of it. All he does is as he said he would, which is help you.
He scrubs with your washcloth, with a harsh and heavy hand, down your back and places that would take twice as long to scrub if you did it on your own. But as helpful as he may be, you can’t get over how flustered you feel that this is happening to begin with.
“Thank you,” you murmur once you’re both squeaky clean, apprehensively turning around. You make a conscious effort to keep your eyes on his and not anywhere else on his body.
His expression is neutral as he reaches over your shoulder and shuts off the water, your nipples pressing into his chest. You hold back something that is a strange mix between a moan and a noise of discomfort. He opens the curtain and reaches for your towel from the rack, carefully wrapping it under your arms and around you. He doesn’t shy away from looking at your bare body, but you keep your eyes on his.
“Showering has been time-consuming, to say the least.”
“Need help gettin’ dressed too?” he asks, oh-so casually.
Your mind’s image of him, on his knees, helping you step into your underwear, makes a heat creep up your cheeks.
“No, no, I’ve got it. Thanks.”
He hums in acknowledgement, stepping out, wrapping the other towel on the rack around his waist, and leaves you in the restroom.
You try not to imagine him from the waist down, naked, getting dressed in your living room.
You sleep in your bed a hallway away while he sleeps on your couch. This entire day has already felt like a dream.
The first few days of your cohabitation go by shockingly smoothly.
Not without some initial bumps, of course. Namely, being awoken by Brendon blending his morning protein shakes and then being poked and prodded at when he bursts into your room to check up on your wrist and clavicle if you had rolled to your side in your sleep or if your sling had fallen off overnight.
You don’t have the irrational fear anymore, though maybe you should, that he’s going to murder you in your sleep. That is to say, you’re finding you somewhat enjoy his company. Whether that’s due to being cooped up with little to do or you’re lonelier than you thought, you don’t know.
You don’t know much about Brendon, either, still, but at the very least you’ve learned about his habits living with him and a few things here and there from what scraps he gives you when he comes back from work and tells you about his day. For the most part, though, he’s quiet. He reserves his energy to speak for when he’s checking up on you in the mornings and before bed or when you can’t stand the silence during dinner and blurt out something that he cares enough to respond to.
You managed a chuckle out of him last night when you had told him how unreasonably hot you found all the staff at PTMC to be. When he’d asked who you found the hottest, you, of course, answered that he was. If only to not be fed like a bird, like he’d threatened.
Correct, he’d said.
Every evening since he’s been here, he’s gone to the gym, and by the time he gets back, you’re in bed, ready to fall asleep. Sometimes you’re not, though, and while he prepares and eats his dinner, you watch television.
Over the past two nights he has brought it to the couch to eat and begrudgingly watched your show with you.
But tonight, the fifth night of his stay, he lets it be known his distaste for your choices.
“This is your idea of entertainment. A dating show,” he asks. “Where everyone is cheating on their partners with other people?”
“I get what you’re saying, but it’s not really cheating. I mean, these couples are already in dire straits if they’re signing up to be there. It’s entertainment. Don’t take it too seriously.”
“It’s ridiculous, is what it is.”
“What do you consider entertainment, then, Shark? Nature documentaries, maybe? World’s Deadliest. You’re a blood and gore kind of guy, aren’t you. You obviously like bones.”
He sets his plate down on the coffee table with a clatter, and you know you should’ve just kept your mouth shut.
He drags you down the couch by your ankles, his big hands wrapped like shackles around them, and rearranges you so that your head is resting in his lap. It happens so quickly and with ease and without jostling your slung arm that you’re not only out of breath afterward but also worryingly turned on.
It isn’t the first time he’s shown off his strength in the past few days. He doesn’t lose his breath lugging your big and heavy vacuum across your carpet while vacuuming, for one. For two, you’ve slowly started to come out of hiding while he cooks dinner, and instead of watching from the dining table, he lifts you onto the countertop so you can watch him work his magic right there in the kitchen.
Watch closely; you might learn somethin’, he’d said, your calves banging against the lower cabinets as you kicked your feet.
You’re not complaining, per se; he’s not flaunting just to flaunt, but you don’t think you should enjoy it—him—this much, given the circumstances, and yet you do.
He retrieves the remote trapped between the cushions and flips through the channels, landing on a nature documentary.
As luck would have it, the segment is covering great white sharks.
“Are we seriously watching this?” you ask, head turning to the side to watch the TV instead of his face.
“You brought it up. And better this than that reality TV crap.”
Your heart skips a beat when he starts to pet your head, digging his fingers in slightly to massage your scalp. It feels... nice. Relaxing. Not something you thought you could feel around him—relaxed. A few more minutes and you’re about to fall asleep, but you open your lidded eyes and watch the screen when he says, “look. It’s us.”
Another segment. A lion encounters an injured gazelle. They’re opportunistic feeders, so he’ll eat her.
You’re not sure if he’s suggesting you’re his next meal or if he sees you as a frail thing to nurture back to health. It’s clear he’s the lion in this scenario.
Either way, it’s a fitting comparison, you think.
It’s not like you want to be stuck with him day after day in this domestic thing you two have going on, sorting laundry together on his day off, you putting it into separate piles, and him folding once it’s out of the dryer.
(Why’d you and your wife get divorced?
Why’re you asking?
I’m just curious.
We weren’t in love anymore. Simple as that.
...Do you think you’ll ever get remarried?
...Not yet. It’d be too soon.)
It’s been hard to make plans with your friends, and Brendon has made it clear that any outing comes with the risk of injuring yourself and setting your recovery back. But maybe you’re partly to blame for your isolation. You’ve been relying on him too much. He does the heavy lifting of the chores and pays for your food and answers the questions you have about your injury. There’s no need for you to go out or do much of anything when he’s here to do the hard stuff for you.
You’ve been a bit of a vampire during this time, but it is kind of nice to be such a sloth while you’re at it.
Brendon continues to hop in the shower with you with the excuse that it is time and resource efficient. He likes to shower in the mornings before his shift and again after his gym sessions, and he’d rather you take it with him in the mornings so he can get helping you out of the way. It is an odd routine to share with someone you have only known for a short time, but you have yet to see anything below his waist—though your resolve not to is fracturing quite pathetically—and he isn’t making passes at you under the guise of cleaning you up. He’s just scrubbing where you can’t and making sure you don’t trip in the shower, Trip.
You’ve convinced him to change the ice-cold temperature to lukewarm, at least.
During the day you graze and laze like an animal, but a week into this arrangement with him, a childhood friend of yours has some free time and makes plans with you for lunch.
It has been a week of sitting at home with Brendon, and you use the opportunity to slip away as a distraction from rubbing the itchy skin under your cast raw. Just under a week and you can switch into your brace and slowly start using your sling less and less, but even this past one has felt like ages.
Today’s a warm winter day, and you and your friend sit outside a little cafe walking distance from your apartment, eating lunch. You make idle conversation, catch up on life, and discuss high school drama that you’re beyond over by now but find entertaining to rehash every once in a while.
As you take a sip of your lemonade, the fine hairs on your nape rise, and you feel a presence coming up from behind you. Then he pulls up a chair and sits at the table.
Your friend is surprised but not necessarily annoyed by his intrusion. If anything, and by anything you mean the batting of her lashes and the giggly offer of her name, which Brendon ignores, his eyes locked on yours, you think she’s attracted to him.
“You’re here,” you say, polite but in a shrill tone. Your eyes widen, and you hope he can understand what you’re thinking.
You shouldn’t be here.
He doesn’t say anything to you and instead turns to your friend. “I’m taking her home. I’ll pay for lunch.”
“Oh, are you two...?” Her question goes unasked. She gives you a quick glance, pushing her chair back to stand, a crease between her brows. “Well, alright, then.”
“You don’t have to—”
She shakes her head and peeks at the time on her phone. “—It’s fine. I have an appointment I need to get to soon, anyway. Let’s meet up again once you’re healed up, yeah?”
She packs her phone into her purse and walks down the sidewalk, turning the corner and disappearing from view.
You face Brendon with a scowl. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to call the hospital and get you fired for harassing your patient.”
Which, to be fair, you should have done just that a week ago.
“You’re being dramatic.” He pauses, stealing a fry from your tray, then answers, “I turned on location sharing when I put in my phone number. That’s how I knew you went to work that Monday and how I know you’re here today. I don’t have a lot of time to spare, so let’s get going.”
You blink.
Location sharing?
And then check your phone to confirm that what he says is the truth.
Which it is.
Had he planned to crash at your place from the start? He couldn’t have, because he had only come to you when you went to work that Monday. But now you’re remembering the eyes you felt on you in the lobby over the weekend and—
you don’t know.
If you had just stayed put like he’d ordered, would he have left you alone?
“Wow. I don’t... I don’t even know what to say.”
“Are you gonna throw a temper tantrum? I deal with enough of those with my other patients.”
As much as you should throw one and run in the opposite direction, he has been helpful thus far. You could go as far as to say that you’re thankful he’s been around. He wants to keep you on the road to recovery, however stubborn and unyielding he is about it, and, beyond this week, he has no intention of sticking around any longer.
He pays for lunch, and you both walk back to your place.
He holds you with a firm grip on the wrist and walks in front of you, possessive, dragging you along like his prized possession, his injured gazelle.
After a week of sleeping on your couch, Brendon has well and truly ruined it. He’s just so bulky and heavy that the cushions have completely deflated under his weight.
That night, a few hours after you get walked home and when Brendon returns from his shift, you offer reluctantly to share your bed with him.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
When it happens, you let it.
Because you’ve been living so close to one another.
You’ve showered together. Shared meals together. He’s fed you with his bare hands and helped you floss the remains from your teeth after he had said waiting to use the restroom so you could finish your lengthy nighttime routine was stupid, deciding rather to use it at once.
Once, he took a piss as you gargled mouthwash, and he grunted, you can look if you want.
You didn’t, but you did want to.
You wake up with a chill.
The heat is out, broken like the elevator was two weeks ago, and though Brendon is next to you, the furnace that he is, you’re cold.
Your bed is a queen, but considering how large he is, you knew that in offering to share it with him, you would be stuck to each other like glue.
He grumbles, and you realize he’s awake. Or at least partially awake.
He doesn’t say anything, though. Just turns on his side and hooks an arm over your waist and pulls you in closer, warming you up, the heat of his palm seeping through your night slip.
It seems he’s too hot. In a second, you’re jostled as his shirt gets discarded, thrown over the edge of the bed.
You are still cold.
“You’re shivering,” he mumbles.
“Because it’s freezing in here.”
He hums. “I know a way I can warm you up.”
“How?”
“You always ask such stupid questions,” he puffs against the side of your neck. You shiver. “Isn’t this what you wanted to happen?”
You gasp when he lifts the hem of your slip and the pads of his fingers tease the fabric of your underwear.
“Brendon,” you warn, though it is a weak attempt.
Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, your limbs limp. With your free hand you encircle his wrist to stop him, so thick you can barely touch middle finger to thumb.
“Shut up. Lemme do this.”
His words are slurred. He is on the brink of falling back asleep.
He rubs your clit through your underwear slowly, just teasing, before pulling your underwear to the side.
“Brendon—”
He shushes you, throwing the closer of your legs over his waist, exposing your cunt to the room, his fingers dimpling the skin of your thigh. Then, with the same hand, he frees himself from his boxers and guides his cock to your hole, sinking in to the root.
You pant into your shoulder, breath wet and hot.
The position is awkward: on your back, one of your legs spread over his waist, the other over the opposite side of the bed, half seated in his lap, impaled on a fat cock.
“Jesus,” he grunts. “Just slid in. Are you always this wet?”
“S-sometimes.”
“Yeah? With the right person, maybe?”
Your traitorous cunt clenches down on him as if answering, with you, in the affirmative.
“Keep doing that, Trip, and see what happens.”
“I can’t—I can’t help it, you’re—”
“My cock feel too good for you?”
He rubs your clit, and your pussy flutters around his rigid cock.
“Stop, wait—Brendon.”
You can feel his cock twitching inside you with every pulse of your cunt.
If he doesn’t stop touching you like that, you’ll—
Your cunt spasms with the pressure he applies persistently to your clit, and you come with a pathetic whine.
“That’s it. Jus’ like that.”
Your cunt clenches down on his length, and, in turn, his cock jerks inside of you.
When he comes, his release is thick and sticky and so much that it seeps around his cock and down between your legs.
This is okay, you think distantly, tiredness and the sticky heat of your orgasm pulling you toward the edge of sleep. He’s your doctor. He knows you’re on birth control.
“Should be warm enough now.”
He pulls out, and you fall asleep with a cunt full of fresh come.
You don’t speak about it in the morning. But when you two shower, you know things have already irrevocably changed.
Facing the showerhead, you turn around to face him instead and look down at it. At the cock that was inside you just several hours ago.
There’s no point in not doing it at this point. And you’re curious.
Your suspicions are confirmed when you see that he is both big and thick.
You felt it, after all.
The hair on his pubic bone is trimmed and neat, darker at the base of his shaft. His cock jerks against his thigh from your rapt attention to it.
He grunts out, voice husky with remnants of sleep, “touch me.”
Your face heats, and you hesitate for a moment but ultimately wrap your fingers around his hardening shaft. Even at half hardness, it’s so heavy that when you let it go, it droops and sticks to his inner thigh.
You clench your thighs, remembering that it was stuffed to the hilt inside your cunt.
You slowly pump him to full mast, and he groans, squeezing one of your soapy, slippery breasts in one hand and the nape of your neck in the other, pulling you closer to him so he can lean down and suck bruises into the side of it. You almost get down on your knees but think better of it. Not in the shower and without your other hand to stabilize you to the wall.
He gently pushes you by your hips to the wall of the shower, plastering you to it. He steps close, grips himself, and presses inside you, water droplets dripping from his hair onto your chest, his come from last night still inside you, lubricating his way.
You fall apart when his pelvis grinds against your clit with every thrust of his hips.
Too easily, you note to yourself.
He’s not even touching you. His hands are on the shower wall by your sides, his mouth panting by your ear, interrupted by the occasional groan or curse of fuck, baby, sound so pretty when you come.
He comes inside you, scrubs himself and your shaking body down, and then leaves you alone in the shower to watch his seed drip out of you and stick to the shower drain.
In a few minutes he returns, fully dressed, shuts off the water, and towels you dry.
“Wear this.”
He pulls one of his cotton t-shirts, left hanging on the towel rack, over your head and your arms through the holes, careful to avoid bumping your slung arm.
“No underwear. We clear?”
The rest of week two passes by in a haze. When he’s not at work, he takes you all over the apartment.
You wake to him heavy and hard behind you, lifting your leg over his waist as he drives home, barely awake though he’s been up for hours watching you sleep.
So good, you’re so good, he slurs. All mine. Mine, mine, mine.
You can barely understand what he’s saying over the sound of skin on skin, your brain mush from sleep. Brendon, he… he doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s just dirty talk.
This is just… temporary. To pass the time.
Isn’t it?
Regardless, being fucked awake on his cock isn’t a bad way to start the morning. Moreover, when he presses his fingers to your clit and strokes your swollen bud until you pulse around him with a broken chant of his name.
While making you both dinner, he couldn’t help himself. You were seated on the counter, watching him prepare the veggies and red meat for dinner, the outline of your cunt visible through the short shorts that had ridden up your thighs.
At some point, they were torn away, and you were pasted to the fridge.
The backs of your thighs are slung over his forearms, and the whole fridge shakes with every one of his thrusts, knocking down boxes of cereal. Cocoa Puffs and Frosted Flakes, along with his healthy alternative, Raisin Bran. You can barely stabilize yourself, your free hand gripping the fridge handle, the other with its fist clenched within your cast.
He can bear your weight, though, so, despite the fridge threatening to topple over at any moment, all you have to worry about is taking his cock like a good fuckin’ girl.
On the couch, your back laid against the armrest, your legs thrown over his shoulders as he eats you out, someone knocks on the door.
Maybe—maybe I should—ngh—get that.
You make to move, but Brendon harshly squeezes your hips, locking you in place. Your eyes widen when they meet his, deadly and pointed, his upper body sprawled over the couch and his lower half, what with how massive he is, on the floor, his mouth shiny with your slick.
Don’t you fuckin’ dare.
But the knocking persists, so with a slap to your slick cunt telling you to stay put, he unwillingly separates from you with a growl and prowls to the door, roughly opening it without so much as a thought as to who it might be.
In your lust-drunk, on the verge of orgasm daze, you gather enough willpower to peek at the doorway. Brendon’s body is blocking the entrance, but you can tell from the visitor’s voice that it’s your neighbor.
He’s a bit older than you but younger than Brendon. Kind.
You thought he had a crush on you as recently as when he had offered to drive you home from your surgery, but when he didn’t show up or bother following up with an excuse as to why he hadn’t, you dismissed that thought.
He asks for you.
“Hi... is—is she here? I wanted to check up on her. See how she was doing.”
“You were supposed to pick her up, weren’t you, Josh?” Brendon asks, ice in his tone.
“Uh, who are you?”
“Her friend,” Brendon answers. “She’s fine. I’ve been taking good care of her.”
Brendon moves to the side, and Josh, confusion etching his features, takes a look inside to see you, half naked on the couch, scrambling to get decent, your shorts hanging off one ankle.
Brendon then slams the door in his shocked face, huffing a laugh.
Fuckin’ Josh.
“Have you ever taken a cock in here, Trip?”
His hand disappears from wrapped around your neck and reappears near your rump, his fingers brushing over your puckered hole when he leans over you on his other elbow and fists a handful of your ass in his palm, spreading your cheek.
Your cunt flutters around his cock. Your fingers clench the sheets. Your body is sore.
The itch under your cast is unrelenting, but the pain and the pleasure help to quiet the urge to scratch.
For as long as Brendon kept you from the outside to keep you from stalling your recovery, he sure likes to push your body to its limits.
“N-no,” you whimper as he continues to thrust into you, your legs wrapped around his waist, toes curling.
He brings his thumb up to his mouth and sucks, covering it in his saliva, before pulling out of you with a wet slap of his cock against his thigh and sinking it slowly inside your hole.
You mewl at the foreign but not unwelcome feeling.
“We’ll work up to it.”
The night before you’re free of your cast, the end of week two, what should be the end of this... arrangement, he fucks your throat and cunt sore on the carpeted floor before hauling your used and come-leaking, sweat-slick body to bed.
In the face of all the emotions overwhelming you, you ask something stupid before either of you has the chance to fall asleep.
“What happens tomorrow?”
“We wake up, fuck, I make us breakfast, and then we head to PTMC to get your cast switched out for a brace.”
You sit with that for a moment.
“And... after?”
“Don’t worry about it. Go to sleep.”
Then, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of your neck, he whispers when he thinks you have dozed off, “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
The next morning, in his office at PTMC, he double-checks and ensures that the cast did its job over the past two weeks and that the new brace is well-fitted to your wrist.
Your wrist is recovering as it should, and so is your clavicle, though you will need to wear the brace and continue with the sling for another four weeks.
Now seated across from each other at his desk, he confirms, “you don’t need the cast anymore, and the brace is good to go.”
You don’t need me anymore, is what you think he’s really saying.
It makes you more sad than you’d like to admit that this is over. You’ll go back to work on Monday and come home to an apartment without Brendon.
Your shoulders droop, and you sink a little further into the plush leather of the chair. “So, our... living situation. We—it’s done, right?”
His brows furrow. His jaw ticks. He looks almost angry. “Is that what I said?”
“No, but—”
“—Don’t make assumptions. I called you an Uber home. Pack a bag and wait for me to get back. We’re staying at my place tonight.”
“Your place,” you parrot, confused.
“Can’t stand that shithole apartment of yours anymore.”
You shake your head. “You... you want to keep seeing me?”
“What do you think,” he asks, cocking his head at you.
“I think... you planned this from the very start.”
He huffs a laugh. “Things just happened, Trip. ’s not like this was some elaborate scheme to steal your heart.”
You scoff but don’t deny that he may have taken a small piece of it, at least.
“Maybe. But you certainly took advantage of my situation.”
“You complaining?”
“Nope.” Grinning, you add, “I really am special, aren’t I?”
The solitary great white shark, too, can feel lonely, you suppose.
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
summary: an accident with a familiar, brooding ortho surgeon has you exploring an unlikely connection.
contents: 18+ minors DNI fm reader, no use of y/n, power imbalance (nurse reader/attending ortho surgeon), unspecified age gap, mentions of head trauma/concussions/medical procedures, jack abbot using pet names, swearing, drinking, oral (f/m receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, reader has a praise kink, use of the pet name ‘bunny’, slight choking, reader is fairly nondescript besides mentions of having long-ish hair. nasty and self indulgent bc i need that big mean man!!
wc: 7.6k
dividers by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏼
a/n— this is not yet proofread, please excuse any typos pls!
You were almost certain this wasn’t the right hallway.
Realization crept in somewhere between the identical looking beige walls and the third “Authorized Personnel Only” sign you’d passed in the last two minutes. Everything looked the same. Same floors, same lights. Directional signs all ran together, and suddenly your head was spinning.
You’d been working at PTMC for right at a year, but venturing out of the ED was rare. Each time you had to do it ended up the same— an extra ten minutes added onto whatever trip you were taking because you got lost. You were far more familiar with small, rural hospitals.
Your ID badge bounced lightly against your chest with every hurried step, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek. A familiar nervous habit. It didn’t help that it was nearing four in the morning and the familar buzz of caffeine in your system from the energy drink you’d chugged thirty minutes prior had you moving a little faster than normal. You were jittery and starting to panic a little and oh! Familar double doors came into view and you immediately thanked your lucky stars you hadn’t had to ask anyone for help to get back to the ED, shoulders dropping as you visibly relaxed.
Picking up your pace, you nervously tugged at your badge reel. Surely Abbot was about to send out a search party for you if you didn’t return in the next five minutes.
Hurrying through the wooden double doors, you turned down yet another corridor, finally familiar with where you were. Your eyes fell to your feet for just a moment. Only one more door until—
WHAM!
You’d been walking too fast to hear the click of the handle, or register the large stairwell door swinging open.
You only feel the sudden, stinging impact of metal meeting your head, followed by a delightfully ungraceful stumble backward that somehow manages to be both dramatic and deeply humiliating. You’re on your ass in less than a second, your right hand flying to your face as a string of profanities spew from your chapped lips.
“Jesus Christ.” A familar voice mumbles, and then he’s on his knees next to you, tugging to pull your hand away from your face to check for bleeding. “You alright?” He asks, voice tense. Park.
Certainly there were other people you’d have rather hit you with a large metal door than him. But it wasn’t everyday that something brought the six-foot-something ortho surgeon to his knees.
You blink hard, trying to orient yourself through the pain, your ears suddenly ringing. “Do I look alright?” You hiss, snatching your wrist from him, hot tears suddenly threatening to fall. You manage to meet his eyes, his expression emotionless as usual. Lacking any visible concern or regret.
“You look like you’re about to pass out, actually.” He replies sarcastically, gripping a shoulder to steady you as you sway a little. And admittedly, you are a little more dizzy than you’d like to be because this could definitely be a concussion or intracranial hemorrhage or—
“Hey.” Park’s voice cuts through your racing internal monologue and fuck you’re annoyed. He’s painfully aware of the panic in your squinted eyes and the way you’re growing paler, cheeks burning red from embarrassment. “Can you stand up? You need to get checked out.”
“Yes, I can stand up.” The words come out harsher than you mean them to, and as big and bad as you sound, your actions unfortunately don’t hold their end of the bargain. You’re slow to fully stand, clumsily swaying as you smack a hand against the wall for leverage. And there’s the nausea.
“Alright, up you go.” Park huffs, sweeping you into his arms in a quick motion, surprisingly not earning any protest from you— only a pained sound. “Don’t even think about vomiting on me.” He says quickly, carrying you with ease through the short corridor until a door opens and you’re met with the familiar sounds of the ED.
You slump against his broad chest, the beaming fluorescent lights only making you feel sicker. That and the strong smell of antiseptic.
Park is desensitized to the looks of fear he usually gets when he marches into the ED for a consult. But these— the ones he receives when he enters with a nurse in his arms.. were very different.
“What the fuck?” Abbot calls, slinging his stethoscope around his neck as he rushes over to Park. “What happened?”
“She walked into the door I was opening— smacked her head pretty hard.” Park grumbles, clearly unamused. He’s still cradling you, his expression almost cracking when you sniffle, clearly in a lot of pain.
“What the hell, hun?” Abbot taps your leg but you avoid his eyes, stuck somewhere between pure embarrassment and searing pain. “Let’s get her to a room.”
So, Park follows, avoiding the many eyes on him as he carries you with ease through the bustling ED.
As soon as you’re sat on the stretcher, you whine. “I feel sick.”
“Okay, okay.” Jack’s voice is soothing as he reaches for a emesis bag, handing it to you quickly before he snaps a pair of gloves on. Your heavy eyes meet his own as he leans over you, fingers prodding at the growing bump on your forehead. “She lose consciousness?” He asks Park who’s leaned against a nearby wall looking annoyingly nonchalant as he mumbles a quick ‘nope’.
Jack reaches for his penlight, retrieving it from his shirt pocket in a quick motion. “Let’s see those eyes, sweets.” The nickname settles deep in your stomach, nearly making you smile a little. You wince at the bright light, following his instruction as he raises a finger and urges you to follow it with your eyes. He shakes his head after, dropping the light back into his pocket as he looks at you. “Pupils are a little sluggish. I don’t like that.” He clicks his tongue. “Let’s get you a head CT, yeah? Make sure nothing is happening that we can’t see.”
You groan, letting your head fall back onto the stretcher, and regretting it immediately when pain shoots through your skull.
“I’m gonna handle this consult real quick.” Park speaks up, starting for the door. “Let me know how she does.”
Jack nods, sitting on the edge of the stretcher as the monotone surgeon exits the room. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Park is gone, then back at you with a goofy look on his face.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see him walk into my ED with one of my nurses in his arms.” Jack chuckles, and you muster a weak laugh that turns into more of a whimper.
“I hate him.”
Jack smiles. “He means well. And I don’t think you hate him.. You don’t look at him like you hate him...”
“Jack, don’t.” You huff. “He seemed more inconvenienced than worried.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just Park.” Jack pats your shoulder, sympathetic.
The next few hours blur together. Between the steady pounding in your head and the way you keep replaying the painfully embarrassing accident in your head, it’s hard to focus on anything. It’s nearing shift change when your head CT results finally return, and thankfully Abbot says you’re all clear. No fractures, no bleeding, no swelling. Just a gnarly bruise forming on the right side of your forehead— and on your ego too, probably.
All is well for a while. You’re accepting the day off tomorrow that Jack mentions you’ll have out of precaution. The embarrassment eventually starts to ease, along with the pain. You’re waiting to be discharged, curled up on the stretcher when you hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. You almost flinch because you know it’s Park. It’s almost as if he sensed your moment of peace and had set out determined to ruin it.
You meet his eyes, and when he doesn’t talk you give him a look that says ‘I’m waiting’..
He steps closer, letting the door close. “CT clear?”
“Yeah.” You mutter, turning towards him a little. “Thankfully you didn’t give me a brain bleed.”
You notice the way his jaw clenches. “I could’ve left you on the floor you know. Walked away.” He seethes. “I’m not responsible for you not watching where you’re going.”
Rolling your eyes, you fake a smile. “Thank you for saving me in my time of need Dr. Park.”
“Everytime I’ve seen you down here you’ve always been so cheerful. Interesting to see your true colors now.” He nods, returning the sarcastic smile. And you think it’s the first time you’ve seen any sort of expression besides a blank stare from him.
You let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m just having a bad night.”
“And you’re taking it out on me?” He asks, leaning up against the wall.
“Coming from the person who is constantly a dick during consults.” You retort.
Thankfully, Abbot entering the room ends your playful pissing match. He’s holding a few papers, and raises a brow at the sight of the two of you clearly having some sort of moment. “Right— you ready to go?”
You start to slowly sit up. “Dying to.”
“Well, you two be safe and I’ll be texting you to check in.” Jack says, pointing a finger at you.
You blink. “You two?”
“Park is taking you home right? He offered.” Jack smiles a little. “Surely you didn’t think I’d let you drive with a possible concussion, sweets.”
Something bubbles up in your chest. It’s not anger, but rather something you can’t exactly put your finger on. You close your eyes for a second, looking up at Park next with furrowed brows. He shrugs. “You were too busy fussing at me— I didn’t get the chance to mention it.”
“I can take an uber.” You protest, shaking your head.
“Let me take you home.” He sounds annoyed, but then again— that seems to be his normal. “It’s the least I can do since apparently I intentionally hit you with the door, right?”
And you unfortunately laugh a little at that. The sound eats Park alive, and he’s suddenly mentally cursing himself at the feeling. He’d always seen you. Noticed you more than the other nurses or residents. Not only were you clearly quite a bit younger than him, but you were bubbly— a stark contrast to himself. You seemed fearless, and maybe that alone intrigued him a little. Though, having only spoken to you a handful of times, he didn’t truly know you. And he didn’t expect that to change.
So, at the sight of you climbing into his SUV, he’s interested. Observant. You take in your surroundings, straight faced as your eyes rake over the spotless interior of his Porsche Cayenne. He hands you his phone without a word, clearly wanting you to put in your address.
You glance at him after, smiling a little when you hand it back to him. “This is somehow exactly what I pictured you driving.”
“Yeah?” He looks both ways as he turns a corner in the parking garage.
“Mhm.” You hum, eyeing his side profile before you turn your gaze forward.
“How are you feeling now?” He eyes you for a second next, and you’re genuinely surprised the typically cold surgeon is making small talk. You’d pictured a silent drive, uncomfortable even. But then again, he was probably just asking questions out of pity.
“Better.” You confirm, voice soft. “Head still hurts a little but that’s to be expected I guess.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you weren’t paying attention and I opened the door fast.” Park says, and is he smirking a little?
You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re such an ass.”
“So they say.” He half-smiles, long fingers moving to flip the turn signal. Your eyes shamelessly rake along his hands. His livelihood. Large and thick. Prominent veins on top. You blink, averting your eyes back to the road yet again and leaning your head on the headrest.
“Thank you for driving me.” You speak up, following a few moments of silence, your apartment building coming into view.
“Where should I park?” He asks, slowing the car. Your hands are busy gathering your belongings, and you don’t even look his way when you mutter “You can just stop at the front, I’ll get out there.”
“Where should I park for a few hours, genius.” He corrects, meeting your eyes.
You shoot him a confused look. “Hours?”
“I’m not leaving you alone with a concussion.”
“Possible concussion.” You correct, just wanting to be in your bed already. “I probably don’t even have one and I’m fine. You don’t have to stay. Plus I have very nosey roommates.”
“Abbot told me not to leave you alone.” Park stares at you blankly, convinced he’s going to win this. He’s pulled the car to the curb now, one hand still on the steering wheel.
Fucking Jack Abbot— he absolutely did this shit on purpose.
You sigh, exasperated. “I’ll be fine.”
“Either you let me stay, or you go pack a bag and you come stay with me.” He commands, and you’re about to bust a fucking blood vessel.
“Okay, okay.” You huff. “You can’t stay here. We don’t have an extra bed and someone’s crashing on our couch for the weekend.”
“So go pack a bag.” He says simply, shooing you. “Do I need to walk you up?”
“I’ve got it.” You grumble, carefully climbing out of the car and hoisting your bag over your shoulder, trying not to slam the door even though you’d love to right now.
It isn’t until you’re in the elevator that you fish your phone from your pocket, cursing into the empty space as you type a message to none other than Abbot.
You: Why did you tell this man not to let me stay alone!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I HATE YOUUUU
He replies almost immediately.
Jack: Well that’s easy. Because you don’t need to stay alone 🙂
You: I think I’m gonna block you 🤭
Jack: Have fun sweets!
It was well past seven in the morning now, and closing in on seventeen hours that you’d been awake. Not to mention the head trauma. You had minimal energy left and you weren’t gonna spend it arguing with Park. You’d get a few hours of sleep and then he’d take you to pick up your car. It seemed manageable.
And so, you watched with sleepy eyes a half hour later as his black SUV pulled into the driveway of a large brick house, nestled in a quaint neighborhood outside of the city. You could tell he was just as tired, both of you silent as he parked in the garage.
You followed him in without a word, watching him toss his keys in a nearby basket. His home was modern, but cozy. Exquisitely neat. Nothing looked out of place. It even smelled clean. You glanced around, impressed.
“I’ll show you the guest bedroom.” Park said lowly, words laced with exhaustion.
You nodded simply, following him up a flight of stairs.
“Bathroom is here.” He pointed, still walking. “There’s clean towels on the rack and some of my sister’s products in the cabinet you can use if you want or need to. Spare toothbrush in the drawer— Oh, and Tylenol too. If you need anything else just let me know. And if you don’t feel good, call me.” As he finishes, he swings open the door to a large spare room.
“Thank you.” You smile politely, offering him a small nod.
He acknowledges you with a hum, heading down the hallway, itching to get out of his scrubs.
You decide on a quick shower, hoping the steaming water will relax your aching muscles. And then, you’re crawling into cool linen sheets, sighing at the feeling of the soft mattress. It’s not your bed, but boy is it doing the job. Such a good job in fact, that you don’t even recall drifting off.
When you come to hours later, the sound of distant thunder greets you, gloomy skies allowing a slight darkness to fall over the room, rain tapping softly against a nearby window. Then, you smell coffee. You stretch a little, wincing when your forehead brushes against the pillow, a reminder of what you’re sure has turned into a nasty bruise. Your bare feet meet the cool hardwood as you stand up, tugging on some leggings before heading to the bathroom.
Crossing the hallway, you immediately head for a mirror, and audibly groan when you flick the light on and catch a glimpse of your head. Bruised indeed. A nasty purple and yellow bruise at that, one that thankfully wasn’t too large but was absolutely noticeable. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you begin to pad down the stairs. And there was Park, looking much more presentable than yourself, on the couch with some sort of medical journal because ofcourse he reads those. A pair of dark glasses perched on his perfect nose. He looked edible. So painfully domestic.
You can’t help the nervousness that blooms in you when he looks up, eyes following you as you walk towards the opposite end of the sectional he’s seated on.
“Sleep good?” He asks, eyes locking onto your bruise.
“Feel like I just woke up from a coma.” You chuckle. “So yeah.”
“Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?” He inquires next, sitting his book down.
“No, Dr. Park.” You hum, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I feel fine. Just sore.”
“Fair enough.” He nods, moving to stand up from the couch. “I’m gonna cook dinner. You okay with pasta?”
You just look at him for a moment. “And when are you going to take my back to my car?”
“It’s about to storm pretty heavy. Staying another hour or two won’t kill you, you know?” He looks back before he disappears into the kitchen. You huff, moving to follow him.
“I feel like I’m overstaying my welcome.” You say as you breach the doorway, voice wary. His kitchen is beautiful, one you could only dream of cooking in. Gorgeous marble countertops and dark cabinets. Sparkling appliances.
He plants his large hands on the kitchen counter, looking at you with that look he frequently sports at the hospital. One that typically strikes fear in people. “You are not overstaying your welcome, nor are you bothering me in any way. So can you let me be nice to you?”
You nearly physically recoil. “Not used to you being nice, but I guess I’ll take it.”
He nearly smiles a little at your reply, eyes softening. You can’t help the way your eyes float along his sharp features, then along the broad expanse of his clothed back when he turns toward the refrigerator.
“Glass of wine?” He offers.
“Will that help my alleged concussion?”
You hear him chuckle as he retrieves two crystal stemless wine glasses from a nearby cabinet. “You claim you don’t have one, so why do you ask?”
Darn him for being just as much of a smartass as you are and darn you for enjoying it.
You bite at your lip a little, fighting a smile as you watch him place a glass of red wine before you. Settling onto a barstool, you pull the glass closer, humming a quick ‘thank you’.
“You cook often?” And now you’re the one fueling the small talk.
“I try to.” He says, shuffling around to gather ingredients from the fridge, then a pan and some utensils. “It’s one of the few things that keep me sane.”
You laugh a little, taking a swig of the wine, playfully swirling the glass afterward. “And what are the others?”
“Mmm, the gym.” He starts. “Running. Reading. Hitting people with doors…”
And you’re giggling, the sound making something twist deep inside him. He switches on the stove, turning to lean on the counter and watch you afterward. He drinks you in. Your slightly messy hair that dances along your shoulders. Oversized teeshirt, clearly worn for sleep only. Gnarly bruise on your forehead that somehow you make look good. It’s different here. Out of scrubs. Out of a bustling hospital. He’s never gotten the chance to truly look at you, and he’s starting to hate the way you fit in so effortlessly in his kitchen. In his house.
“I like seeing you like this.” You admit sheepishly, a playful smile tugging at your lips. Almost as if you’d read his mind.
He blinks, crossing his arms. “Like what?”
“Not so mean.” You chuckle. “Relaxed. Making jokes. Trying not to smile even though you want to.”
“Maybe I like everyone thinking I’m mean.” He teases in return.
You lick your lips after taking another swig, and he can’t help but notice. “Seems like you’re just misunderstood.”
Park shrugs, smiling a little as he turns back to the stove, trying to silently convince himself that you aren’t having any effect on him. Because fuck, you’re cute. You’re clever and funny and so easy to talk to.
You keep talking, feeding your want to know more about the mysterious surgeon. And it doesn’t stop there. The conversation flows through dinner and beyond. When you’re watching him wash dishes (ones he wouldn’t let you help with because you’re a guest..) and when you take to the couch afterward. When he learns you’re afraid of storms because you jump at a crack of thunder, despite how loose you feel from the wine.
Before you know it, it’s totally dark outside and you’re still talking. The bottle of wine is long gone, and you’re purely giddy. It had been too long since you’d opened up to someone the way you did with him. Your roommates weren’t much for talking, usually retreating to their rooms as soon as they arrrived. To be fair, you’d met them in a ‘searching for Pittsburgh roommates’ group on Facebook and nobody bothered to really get to know each other. You’d spent so much time alone recently that you were shocked how euphoric it felt to simply hang out with someone. Park the Shark of all people, at that. The two of you were an unlikely combo, yet surprisingly had a lot in common.
Once you’d covered work, college, family, siblings, hobbies, etcetera— you retreat to the bathroom, slightly buzzed and accepting the fact that Park hadn’t mentioned anything else about taking you home. Likely due to the storm and he obviously wasn’t going to drink and drive now.
So, when you return to the living room to all the lights dimmed and the sounds of hockey flowing from the tv, you sit closer to him without a second thought. After all, your view was better there— or atleast you told yourself that. He doesn’t mention it, but he notices the way you’ve inched closer, sprawled out next to him now, reaching for a nearby throw blanket.
And for the first time in a while, he’s truly content.
Content enough to fall asleep apparently. The long hours of shift work that frequently rotate are a pain, and Park has mastered the art of falling asleep just about anywhere. But he can’t remember the last time he fell asleep infront of the tv. When he opens his eyes he starts to stretch, mind in a sleepy haze. The TV is still playing Pens highlights, even though the game is long over. Rain is still falling outside. And you— you’re curled up next to him, head resting on his leg. Chest rising and falling every few seconds, mouth partially open. He blinks, just watching you for a moment, reaching a hand out without thinking to push some hair from your face. That alone makes you stir. You’ve always been a light sleeper.
You twitch, breathing in as your eyes blink open. It registers quickly, the way your head is resting on the soft material of his sweatpants. Sucking in a breath, you move to start sitting up, hand flying to where your head is aching. Likely from where you’d been laying on your bruise.
“You okay?” Park asks, sitting up and adjusting his shirt.
“Yeah.” You breathe. “Sorry, I don’t remember falling asleep.”
“Stop apologizing.” He chastises. “I don’t either.”
Tapping at his phone, his eyes are met with the time. 1:47.
“Want to get in bed?” He doesn’t mean the way it sounds like an invitation.
You rub your legs together, still cozy beneath the blanket. “I’m comfy.” You groan. It’s a weak protest, but not a lie. You can’t help the way you shamelessly itch to lean back into him, and for once you don’t fight yourself. Without a word he lifts his arm, accepting your presence as you curl into his side. He kicks his feet up and leans his head back, something happening in his chest at the feel of you pressed against him. Fuck.
Letting out a long relaxed breath, you look up at him, eyes meeting his jawline and neck, then locking with his own when he moves to look down at you. Your stomach flips, heat ripping through you at the proximity of his face to yours. Then his eyes flicker down to your lips, and that’s when you know. You know he wants to kiss you. Everything feels heavier, especially the way his hand rests on your back, fingers starting to trace over the soft fabric of your teeshirt.
Neither of you dare speak a word, eyes saying everything that needs to be said. Park watches your tongue peek out to wet your lips, and he immediately starts to move in, giving you ample time to pull away even though he’s sure you won’t. And when you grab at his shirt, moving in a little yourself, he seals the deal.
Your lips meet, pressing firmly together, neither of you in any rush. Just taking in the feeling. Inching closer, you don’t dare pull away. His hand moves to slide against your jaw, holding firm as your lips leisurely move with his. When his tongue slides against yours you can’t help the way your thighs press together. You let out a small whine into his mouth, one that does not go unnoticed. Infact, the oh so pretty sound starts playing on a loop in Park’s head and he’s a goner.
He hadn’t dreamt of stopping until you moved to climb into his lap. Raising a hand, he pulls back to look at you.
“We shouldn’t.” He says softly, his rational side taking over.
But then, you’re pressing a kiss to his jaw. Then another. One leg sliding along his lap as you climb onto him.
“But do you want to?” You breathe.
He swallows. “You know I want to.”
“So yeah, we probably shouldn’t— but what if we want to?” You say softly, pressing yet another feather soft kiss to the spot right blow his ear. He groans a little, moving a hand to gently grab at the back of your neck and pull your lips back to his.
The way you move together is effortless, but growing increasingly messy. Teeth starting to clash. Tongues fighting. And when you roll your hips against his, the noise he lets out against your lips is sinful. Breaking apart, he runs his hands through the hair on the side of your head.
“You’re trouble.” His voice is deep, taunting. “Grinding against me all needy, huh?” Lips dancing along your ear as he speaks. Chills roll over you, heart fluttering. You move your hips against his lap again, relishing in the way his hands fly to your sides, your lips meeting yet again. The feeling of him hard beneath you only spurs you on, whimpering into his mouth when your clothed core slides directly over the length of him through his sweats.
“Shit.” He spits, deep voice floating around you. “You’re determined, huh?”
“Maybe I wanna torture you a little.” You purr, forehead pressing to his, careful to avoid your bruise. “As payback.”
“This isn’t the same kind of pain, baby.” He chuckles. “You should be focused on your head injury, not me.”
“Can you stop being responsible Park for twenty minutes?” You look at him, that sweet little smile doing a number on him.
“Which Park do you want right now then?” He teases, shifting beneath you, painfully hard.
“The one that fucks me.”
He’s nearly choking at your words, tangling his hand in your hair and yanking your head back in response. “Used to getting what you want, aren’t you? Stubborn little fucking brat.”
You mewl at his harsh words, eyes fluttering when he drags his teeth along your throat, hot lips leaving wet kisses along the sensitive skin. He’s so much stronger and bigger, hands ghosting wherever they touch, keeping you right where he wants you. Watching you as you helplessly grind over him again. He grips your hair tighter. “Use your words or we’re done here.”
“Want you, please.”
“Want me how?”
You sigh at the feeling of his lips on your pulse point. “Want you to touch me.”
“M’ already touching you, baby.” He reminds you, so fucking annoying.
You grunt, frustrated, and he releases his tight grip on your hair. Returning to his waiting gaze, your eyes are soft, lips plush and swollen from his kiss. “Want you to make me cum.” You say next, voice timid. “Please.”
He pushes some hair behind your ear. “Yeah?” His tone is laced with faux pity, almost mocking. Hips steady as you continue to rock against him, your breaths unsteady.
“I think you can cum like this.” He counters, grip tight on your waist. Neither of you had yet to shed any clothing, and you didn’t mind. He was right, the friction was delicious. “Think you can, baby? Think you can cum from rubbing that pussy against me?”
You clench around nothing, heat bubbling in your chest as you whine. “Just want you.” And you’re begging so pretty, calm little voice filling his ears, thick with want. Before you can form a coherent thought, you’re being lifted. Park’s hands cradle the underside of your thighs, letting you wrap your legs around him as he starts to venture toward the stairs. Your arms snake around his neck, giggling a little as he stumbles around a table.
Moments later when you’re being gently sat on the edge of his bed, you can’t help but glance around at his room. Neat and spacious. Black out curtains. Dark comforter beneath you. It’s so him. His familiar scent dances around you, your eyes floating up to watch him yank at his shirt.
“Lay back.” He instructs with ease, so used to being in charge. Spitting commands and watching everyone obey. You want to playfully object just to see where it gets you, but you listen instead, and his long fingers are gripping at the waistband of your leggings. He makes quick work of dragging them off, sighing in defeat at the sight of your simple grey panties, the obvious dark patch of wetness on the crotch mocking him.
“You wet from just a little teasing, bunny?” Between the tone of his voice and the pet name that came out of nowhere, you think you might actually pass out. He taps at your knee, urging you to spread your legs. Warm hands slide along your thighs and you watch him settle onto his knees on the floor, yanking you with ease until your ass is right at the edge of his bed. The look in his eyes is sharp enough to kill, eyes cloudy with pure lust. Jaw tight in concentration as he runs a finger along the damp crotch of your panties. You hiss and whine at the contact, hips raising to chase his touch.
“Please.” You whimper, begging. “Want your mouth.”
“There she is.” He praises, satisfied with your communication. It takes no further persuasion, and he’s working to drag your panties down your legs, revealing you to him fully.
“Fucking perfect pussy.” He growls, pressing a kiss to your pubic bone. “Pretty little thing. You’re so pretty.”
“Park.” You plea, barely able to stay up on your elbows to watch his motions. Body weak with need.
“Brendon.” He corrects immediately, hot tongue flattening to lick a thick stripe up your pussy, and your head falls back. The sound that leaves you goes straight to his cock. So do the ones after it. He’s skilled in more ways than one, clearly. Experienced. You’re blissed out from his mouth alone, fingers gripping at the comforter beneath you. He watches your every movement, working with delicate precision, and it’s been so long that you’re embarrassingly close already. He can sense it by your breathing and movements, deciding to push his middle finger into you with ease. One finger shortly turns into two and your mouth is hanging open, eyes closed. When you start to squirm, he holds you down by your waist, mouth still working and two fingers plunging deep, curling up to hit the spot that nearly has you in tears.
“Ohmygodddd.” You mewl, reaching to claw at his forearm that’s pinning your hips to the bed, but he moves it to intertwine your fingers. It’s thoughtful, the way he tends to you. “S’ so good Bren.” The words leave you in a choked sob and his response is a long, deep hum against your pussy— and you’re done. Breath hitching, you wiggle a little, legs starting to shake as you helplessly dangle over the edge and he knows. Somehow he can read you. Sense exactly what you need. His fingers curl once more, oh so deep, and you’re crashing beneath him, a high pitched squeal leaving you and he’s totally entranced. Working like a starved man and not daring to stop as he drinks in the way you look when you fall apart. All by his doing. He swears it’s the hottest thing he’s ever witnessed, actually.
And when you’re trying to push him away because it’s all too much, he presses a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh before he moves to stand up. You watch him in awe, and if you weren’t completely at his mercy before you definitely are now.
He laughs at little at your blissed out face as you eye him. “What?” He asks.
“I hate you.” You murmur. And it’s a lie, you both know it. A playful lie you’re just throwing around because how fucking dare he be so good at everything. Good looking and polite and considerate and talented. It’s not fair. Nothing about it is fair.
“You don’t hate me.” He smiles— a true smile as he starts to work at his sweatpants. You don’t try to tease any further, and he watches as you move to kneel infront of him, your hands moving to stop his. Then you continue his work, yanking at the stretchy material and leaving him in his dark briefs. You nearly salivate at the outline of his hard length through the material. That’s gonna hurt. The thought is there and gone, because you’re tugging them down next, eyes meeting his thick cock. He watches intently, teeth gnawing at the inside of his bottom lip as your much smaller hand wraps around the base of him. You press a kiss to the underside of the tip, eyes locked on his as you lick a stripe up the side teasingly.
He shakes his head a little because you’ve got him right where you want him and he knows it. When you take him into your mouth he groans, the sound rumbling from his chest and only spurring you on. You wanted to make him do it over and over again. A large hand brushes over the side of your face as you take him to your limit, starting to gag against him. “You’re so fucking good.” He breathes, moving to tangle his fingers into your hair again. Holding your hair up, he lets you work at your own pace, one that has him weak in the knees and muttering curses.
You’re relentless, taking him slow and deep until tears are brimming in your eyes and spit is starting to trickle down your chin. It’s a fucking sight. And he’s committed it to his memory forever, though a mental picture would never do the real thing justice. He pulls you off, admiring the string of spit that draws from your mouth that still connects you to his cock.
Up until now, you’d been pleasantly surprised at how soft he was being. The Park you’d shamelessly thought about more than a few times was far from a gentle lover. Though, your thoughts are interrupted by a rough manhandle that nearly has you squealing. He tosses you back onto the center of his bed, watching you bounce a little— and when he crawls over you next, he’s making quick work of your teeshirt that he wasn’t exactly sure why he hadn’t taken off of you yet.
The sight of your tits has his head spinning. Every part of you he’s gotten to see is perfect to him. He works his palm against one before pinching at the pebbled nipple. You writhe beneath him, so whiny. “Want you to fuck me, Bren.”
“You’re fucking bad.” He moves to growl in your ear, kissing at the lobe. “Dirty little fucking mouth on you. Took my cock so well, didn’t you?”
You nod a little, suddenly bashful at his praise. Pulling his face to yours, you kiss him. It’s rushed and messy, but you don’t mind a bit. Your manicured nails move to claw at Park’s biceps, and he hums against your mouth at the contact. When he pulls away, he just looks at you for a second, totally bare beneath him. Before you realize, he’s leaning down to your forehead to press a soft kiss to the dark purple bruise there.
Then, he’s adjusting himself between your legs, smacking the length of himself teasingly against your wetness. You just watch, gnawing at your lip when he lines up at your entrance. “Please be gentle.” You mumble out quickly, already wincing in preparation. His brain short circuits for half a second, and he silently curses himself for being too drunk on you to reach for a condom, but he trusts you and god— he wants to feel it all without any barrier.
“M’ not gonna hurt you, baby.” He promises. “You can take it.”
He starts to push in, aided by how soaked you were for him. You’re gripping at his arms, tense and eyes clamped shut at the stretch. He lowers himself, pressing his lips to your cheek. “That’s it, let me in.” You pulse around him at his words, leaning into his touch. He peppers your cheek and jaw with kisses as he continues to push in, slowly coming to a stop when he’s fully inside. It’s so fucking much you think you might just fall apart right then and there. Deep. Full.
“Mmm— there we go.” He coos, moving up again to admire the way you wrap around him when he slowly pulls out almost fully and then sheathes himself back inside.
You squirm, moans and whimpers flowing freely. “Fuckfuckfuck, s’ so big.”
“Yeah?” He presses his palms to the backside of your thighs, urging them higher until your knees are nearly up against your chest. “Taking it so well. I knew you would.” When he starts truly fucking into you, you’re a whining mess, fingers tangling into his comforter for leverage. He watches your hair scatter around you, painting the prettiest picture of you beneath him.
“Talk to me, baby.” He mumbles, urging you yet again to use your words but you’re so fucked out already you can hardly think.
“Feels so fucking good.” You cry, voice sounding pathetic.
“Yeah it does, bunny. You feel so good. Such a good fucking girl for me. Taking me like this.”
You never want him to stop talking. He speaks so eloquently. Fucking filthy and you’re obsessed.
His hips rock into yours at a devastating pace, a large hand reaching up to hold your throat. He presses gently, experimental almost, not enough to fully constrict your airway. Your eyes are lidded, blinking slow and he notices the tears in your eyes. He moves his hand to soothe against your cheek, worried for only a second until you offer him a weak smile to ease the concern on his face. And something about you feeling so good that you’re about to cry nearly makes him explode.
He lets go of your legs, feeling the warmth of your skin when you wrap them around his waist. Moving to kiss you, his hips continue to smack against you, the sounds of your wetness putting on a show. Your nails dig pretty little crescent moons into his large biceps, and you clench around him as you start to shatter. “Gonna cum on my cock, sweet baby? Huh?”
Your eyes nearly roll back in your head, his pace quickening when you nod, clinging to him. “Bren—”
“I know, bunny. I know.” He coos, smoothing your hair back. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”
You arch against him, body feeling like it’s suddenly shattered into a million tiny pieces. Hot tears rolling down the side of your face as you let out a long, broken whine. Vision blurring and hands clawing.
“There it is.” He drawls his words out, tone full of praise and admiration as he continues to slam into you, chasing his own high that’s burning through the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, Good fucking girl.”
You’re wrecked, absolutely spent as you cling to him, pulling him in for a long kiss, tongues thrashing.
“Where—” He starts to mumble, the rhythm of his thrusts growing messy.
You cut him off immediately, whimpering against his lips. “Inside.” You breathe. “Inside please, I’m on the pill.”
He groans, letting you hold him as he offers one more particularly hard thrust before he stills, fully burying himself deep inside, the warmth of him filling you. The sound he makes is otherworldly, a broken sounding growl. “Fuck, baby.” He whispers, staying buried in you as you both fight for air.
He lays there for a moment, skin sticking to your own. Breathing ragged. Then he presses one more sweet kiss to your lips before he slowly removes himself, exhaustion filling him as he heads for the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a damp rag. And he cleans you softly, the sight of it tugging at your heart. It’s so simple but it means so much.
“Go pee.” He nudges you next, the command swimming around your head.
With weak knees, you ease up and follow him into the bathroom.
You freshen up alongside him, neither of you speaking but rather finding comfort in each others presence alone.
And when you’re wrapped up in him again moments later, legs brushing along his as you settle beneath the cool sheets, you’re smiling. Smiling up at him, as sweet as honey.
“You alright?” He checks, hoping your head wasn’t bothering you again.
“I’m fine.” You assure him. “In fact, I think you healed me.”
“Oh, whatever.” He chuckles, pulling you closer.
It’s four days later when you see Park again. This time though, he’s marching into the ED for a consult. You were standing at the nurses station, and manage to spare him a quick glance before he disappears into Trauma 2. You’d spoken everyday, mostly by text. He’d promised to cook you dinner tonight, as it was the last day of a 3 day stretch. A proper date, he called it. He’d brought up a fancy steakhouse downtown, but you’d much rather watch him cook and share a glass of wine in his kitchen. Just be alone with him. He gladly agreed, assuring you that the day would go by quickly. That however, had not been the case.
The ED had been slammed, and though that usually makes for a quick day, maybe the anticipation eating at you had turned it into the opposite.
You speak briefly to Dana about the patient in South 16 that you’d just finished up suturing, and when you turn to round the counter again to check on another patient, you’re face to face with Park.
He’s sporting his typical intimidating demeanor, but you see right through it. For the sake of the rumor mill you know the ED can be, you offer him only a quick casual smile. “How’s your head?” He asks, voice low. And ofcourse, his extended presence has already conjured a few questioning glances.
“It’s fine.” You squeak. “Bruise looks more nasty than ever, though.” His eyes meet the mark, and it’s definitely gnarly. Yellowing and splotchy. But that’s normal for healing.
“It’ll get better.” He hums, his lips threatening to turn up into a smile but he fights it. One hand reaches up to tug playfully at the end of your messy braid, and then he’s turning to head back toward the elevators, leaving you biting your lip— cheeks rosy.
You blink, snapping back to reality and noticing far too many eyes on you as you start to walk towards your next patient in Central 14. Heart pounding in your chest as you scurry out of sight.
Dana stands still, having seen the entire exchange, and she’s nearly shook to her core. Surely not… She hadn’t worked with you much, as you were usually on nights, but she would’ve heard about this right? The infamous, brooding Park— and a sweet little ED nurse?
Robby slaps a hand against her shoulder, making her jump a little.
“I might be mistaken.” He starts, eyeing Dana. “But I think someone tamed the Shark.”
summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)
(inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / “spiritual” themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctor—medical accuracy idkher)
wc 16.5k words
“I’m sorry,” Jack says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable, “I’m still… a little lost here—what exactly are you doing?”
You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.
“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”
“—right there,” he cuts in.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”
He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”
You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”
Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.
“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.
You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”
You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.
“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”
You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate.
He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”
You try not to smile. You fail, a little.
“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”
“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”
You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.
You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”
He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.
Then—
“And this is just penetration?” he asks.
You freeze.
Your silence is loud.
Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”
You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”
“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”
“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”
That earns you a look.
“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”
You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”
“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.
You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”
“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”
You grin. “Oh, here we go.”
“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”
“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”
“Debatable.”
You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.
You hand him a fork.
“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”
He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”
“You could always use more.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.
You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”
He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.
A pause.
Then—
“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.
You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”
“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”
“‘Course I can handle this.”
★★★
“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.
Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”
“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”
Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”
“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”
“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”
Robby pauses.
Then looks up slowly.
“…Spooning.”
“Don’t,” Jack warns.
Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”
Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”
“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”
“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.
“You stayed,” Robby counters.
Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”
“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”
“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”
“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”
Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.
“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.
Jack hesitates.
“…Two days.”
There’s a beat.
Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.
Jack doesn’t answer.
Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“You’re like this after two days?”
Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”
“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.
“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”
“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”
Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”
“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.
Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.
“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”
Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”
“Ambulance crashed!”
The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.
★★★
Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.
He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.
He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.
But this. This thing you were doing…
The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.
From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.
That includes the easy things. The soft things.
And yeah—sex too.
It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.
But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.
And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake.
Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.
You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.
Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.
You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.
Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.
“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.
Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.
“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”
Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”
Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”
Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.
Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.
“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”
You were already moving.
Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.
You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.
“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”
Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”
“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”
Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.
You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.
Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.
“You busy?” you asked, softer now.
You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.
Then you leaned in.
Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.
Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.
Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.
“We’re heading out,” he said.
Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”
“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”
Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.
You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.
And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.
You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.
You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.
And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you.
It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.
★★★
Day Six.
He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.
The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.
The second— You.
On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.
And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.
Why does Santos know where you live?
Why is Santos doing yoga?
Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?
“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.
“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.
“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.
The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.
He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—
—and you shift just slightly.
It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.
His kiss lands on your cheek instead.
You don’t even break the pose.
“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.
A beat.
“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”
There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.
“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”
You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.
He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.
She rolls her eyes.
“Next pose,” she says flatly.
You shift without hesitation.
“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”
“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”
“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”
Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”
“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.
You let out a small laugh into the mat.
“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.
“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”
Santos chimes. “And spite.”
Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.
Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.
“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”
He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.
You glance up, watching him go.
There’s a beat of silence.
Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”
You follow, steady.
“He seems… stable,” she says.
“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”
Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”
“We’re touchy people.”
“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.
“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”
“You could just… not text her.”
Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”
You smile slightly.
“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”
“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”
“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”
“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.
“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”
There’s a pause.
“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.
Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.
You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”
★★★
Day Nine.
Virgin Mary, my ass.
That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.
The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.
He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.
His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.
You startle just a little, then relax.
“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”
“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.
He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.
“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.
“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.
“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”
He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.
“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”
His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.
You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.
Your hand stills completely on the counter.
“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.
He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.
“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”
You don’t answer.
Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.
His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.
Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.
“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.
“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”
But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.
Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.
“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.
“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.
“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”
His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.
“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”
The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.
He doesn’t move.
“Jack.”
“Just one kiss?” He asks.
You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.
You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.
“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.
You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.
You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—
You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.
It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.
If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.
You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too.
You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie.
Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.
It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.
“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”
★★★
Day Twelve.
“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”
Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”
“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”
“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.
“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”
“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.
“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”
The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.
Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.
“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”
He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.
Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”
“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.
“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And she keeps wearing—”
“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.
They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.
Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”
“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”
Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”
Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”
“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”
Robby stops walking.
Grabs his shoulder.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”
“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”
Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.
Locks. You.
At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.
You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.
“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”
Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”
“You aren’t going there.”
“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”
“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”
“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”
“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”
“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”
Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.
Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.
You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.
Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.
Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”
“I told you. Psychological warfare.”
McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.
“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.
“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”
“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.
“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”
McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”
You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”
“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”
You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”
“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”
“Santos encouraged it.”
“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.
“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”
Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”
You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”
You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”
Mel nods seriously, concentrating.
McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”
You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”
“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.
You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.
“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”
You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”
Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—
“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”
You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”
“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”
“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.
“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”
You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”
Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”
“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”
Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.
You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.
Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.
Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.
“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”
He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.
“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.
You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”
He stares at you.
“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.
You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”
He stands there for a second. Then another.
Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.
“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.
Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.
★★★
Day Eighteen.
You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.
Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.
“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.
You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.
He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”
You hum like you believe him. You don’t.
He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.
They stay on you.
Track every adjustment.
You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.
“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.
You shoot him a look.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”
“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”
And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.
One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.
Jack actually goes still. That’s new.
“…Right,” he says, quieter now.
You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.
“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”
You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.
Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.
He’s trying to be good. You can see it.
Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.
You keep going anyway.
“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.
“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.
“Nope,” you say immediately.
You don’t look at him.
Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.
You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.
“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.
“Who?” His voice is tighter now.
“Isla’s husband.”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”
You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.
Jack looks away this time.
Briefly.
Then back.
Like he can’t help it.
“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”
You glance at him now.
“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.
“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.
“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”
“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”
You don’t disagree with that.
You look at him. Really look.
He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.
You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.
He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.
“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”
His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.
“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”
That earns a small smile from you.
“Responsible of you,” you say.
“Have you?” He asks.
“Nope.”
“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”
You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.
“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.
You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”
“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds.
Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.
“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”
Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” you repeat.
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It’s small. Controlled. Safe.
Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.
He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.
Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.
You shouldn’t.
You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.
“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.
“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”
A pause.
“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.
You look at him for a second too long.
Then you nod.
His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.
You kiss him again properly.
It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.
Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.
His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up.
A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.
His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.
He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”
You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.
You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.
“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.
You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.
He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.
You glance down.
He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.
You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.
“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”
“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”
You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”
“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.
You don’t look back when you walk out.
★★★
Day Twenty Two.
You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.
Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.
We resist.
You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.
So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.
So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly.
So you added structure.
Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.
You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.
You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.
But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.
You’ve also tightened everything else.
Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.
The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.
“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”
Pitch black room. Eye mask on.
“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.
He’d watched it alone. Hated it.
Even the small stuff has become intentional.
You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.
He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.
And still—you function.
You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait.
The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity.
And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.
The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.
Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.
You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.
Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.
“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.
“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”
“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”
You nod, moving in.
The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.
You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.
“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”
“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”
Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.
You.
He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder.
Three weeks of this… discipline.
And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Traction,” Park says.
You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”
“Now.”
You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.
Whitaker visibly winces.
“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.
Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”
Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”
“Good. Splint.”
You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.
Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.
You hold his gaze for half a second.
“Doctor,” you say, light.
He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”
You blink. “Are you—seriously?”
“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”
You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.
“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”
Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”
Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”
“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”
Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”
“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.
“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”
Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”
“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”
“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”
You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.
“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”
You correct it immediately. “Better?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”
Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”
“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.
A beat.
Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”
Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”
“Robby,” Jack says, warning.
“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”
“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.
He opens his mouth—
“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”
You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”
“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”
Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”
“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.
Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.
“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”
“Oh—right—sorry—”
“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”
“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”
Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.
He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.
“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”
You don’t look at him. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How much you told Robby.”
He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”
“Debatable.”
“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.
“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.
There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—
“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”
You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.
“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”
You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.
Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.
Still looking at you like that.
By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.
“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.
“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”
You huff. “How is he doing?”
Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.
“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”
“And not clinically?” you prompt.
He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”
You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”
“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”
You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.
You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”
Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”
“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”
“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.
He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.
There’s a small pause, then—more casually—
“Soup was good, by the way.”
You blink. “The vegetable one?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“He called it punishment.”
“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”
You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”
You laugh under your breath.
He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.
You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”
“You too,” he says, stepping aside.
You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.
“See you at home in a few hours.”
He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.
“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.
You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.
“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”
Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking.
“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”
★★★
Day Twenty Nine.
“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.
McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.
“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”
You glance over. “Why?”
“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”
“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.
McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.
“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”
Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”
You glance at her. “You miss her.”
She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”
“You brought her up first.”
“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”
McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”
You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.
“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”
“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”
McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”
Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”
You blink. “It’s just discipline.”
McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”
You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”
McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..
Santos, however, immediately does.
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”
McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.
“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”
“Like… personality-wise?” you try.
Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”
McKay mutters, “Oh God.”
Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”
You nearly choke. “Santos—”
“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”
McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”
Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”
You stare at her.
“That’s not an answer,” she says.
McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”
“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.
Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”
You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”
“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”
You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”
McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”
Then, casually—
“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”
You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”
McKay exhales through her nose.
Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”
Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.
“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”
“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.
Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”
Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”
You look at her like salvation. “Help.”
Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”
Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.
Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”
Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”
Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”
★★★
Day Thirty Two.
Your schedules have always been a mess.
Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.
Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.
You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.
Eat something.
You too.
Left food in the fridge.
Miss you.
Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.
He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.
“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”
“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”
Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.
“…You are not my girlfriend.”
Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”
Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.
Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”
Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”
He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.
“I followed her recipe,” he adds.
Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”
“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”
A beat.
“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.
Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”
Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”
Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”
“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”
Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”
Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”
“…Did I what?”
Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”
“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.
“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”
Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”
Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.
“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.
“I salted it.”
“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”
Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.
“You two haven’t seen each other?”
“Not properly.”
Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”
“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.
Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.
The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.
“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.
“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.
You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.
“When’d you get back?” you ask.
“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”
“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”
“Shocking,” Robby mutters.
You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.
You pull back just as fast.
“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”
His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.
You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”
“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.
You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.
“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”
Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.
Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”
“Tell her I said hi,” you call.
“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.
He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.
“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.
“Out!” Jack says.
Robby leaves.
The door shuts.
And just like that—
It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.
“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.
“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.
He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.
“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.
“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”
You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.
“C’mere,” he says.
You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.
“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.
You nod.
“Speak,” he adds, low.
“Yes.”
That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.
You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.
His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.
“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.
You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.
He exhales, eyes still locked on you.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.
“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.
“Mhm.”
He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.
“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.
His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.
“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”
You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that.
You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.
Behind you, the stove clicks off.
A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.
“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”
He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”
“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.
“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”
You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.
You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”
His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”
You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.
“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.
“What else?”
“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip.
You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.
“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”
“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.
He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you.
The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch.
You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.
His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.
“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.
“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.
He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass.
He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.
“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric.
He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement.
“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”
You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.
He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.
“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.
“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.
His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.
You shake your head.
“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.
He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”
He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”
You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.
“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.
He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”
He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.
“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.
You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.
“Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.
You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.
He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say,
His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.
“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man.
His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.
You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”
You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.
“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”
“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head.
You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him.
You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.
“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.
“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.
“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”
“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.
“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.”
He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”
“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”
You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.
“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.
“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.
Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect.
His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good."
You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch.
He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.
He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?"
“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.
He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.
Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”
He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar.
He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him.
He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.
“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.
He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”
You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.
“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”
You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them.
You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch.
“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.
You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp.
You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense.
You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.
He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm.
His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.
His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?"
His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat.
“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”
“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.
“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.
“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.
“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.
“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”
His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.
"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely.
You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.
You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.
Like he doesn’t want to.
You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.
“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.
Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”
There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.
You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.
“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.
You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”
“Sure you were.”
“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”
He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”
“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it,” he mutters.
“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”
He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.
You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.
It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.
You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.
“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.
You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”
“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”
You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”
He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.
“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”
“I can help, I’ll—”
“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.
You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.
When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.
“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.
He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.
You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.
There’s a pause.
“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”
He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”
You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.
“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.
He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.
You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.
A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.
Who would you pick?
Who do you think I’d pick?
Are we about to say the same name?
“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.
There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”
You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”
“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”
You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”
You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.
“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.
“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”
His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.
The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.
You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.
Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.
a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!
Summary: A chance encounter at a bar gives Jack the perfect opportunity to finally get to see the piercings he’s been fantasising about since he caught a glimpse of them three weeks ago, and now that he had his hands on you he wasn’t going to give it up.
Tags: (MDNI 18+), Jack Abbot x reader, Female!reader, Resident!reader, Age Gap (reader is 29), Explicit Content, Breast Play, Thigh Riding, Oral, Penetration, Unprotected Sex, Dirty Talk,Jack Abbot is a tits guy
Word Count: 4.4K
A/N: I would like it to be known that I wrote this instead of cleaning my room, and have just had to awkwardly stand in it and apologise for the mess whilst a surveyor came in and did his checks. Oh the joys of buying a house (I already live in it, my housemate is just buying it off their dad). I did realise half way through writing this that my version of Jack is like an over excited Labrador jumping around at the front door because you said ‘walkies’. I’m kind of here for it. Give me more over enthusiastic Jack Abbot who is just so excited about the idea of sleeping with reader. Also someone please tell me why a one shot has me googling the legal limit in Pennsylvania and if two beers is over it. No one can ever claim my fics aren’t realistic.
Part 1 | Part 2
It was like all of Jack’s dreams had come true at once, and if he’s being honest he has had a fair few of them since you came into the ED three weeks ago. His hands had barely fluttered over the hard metal beneath your shirt before they had been disturbed and his hands were retreating, but already Jack knew this was going to be better than anything his brain could conjure up. He couldn’t bear to let you go now that he had you, even if you were currently standing talking to your roommate whilst he mouthed at your neck. Jack was exactly where he wanted to be, you’d turn your attention back to him in a moment. Jack could be patient, he had been patient for over a year.
“Let me make sure she gets in a cab okay.” You pressed your lips to his ear, Jack couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him at the contact. “And then how about you take me home with you and I’ll let you see these for real.”
What happened next resulted in you letting out a squeak that Jack would catalogue and saviour for the rest of his life. Before your mouth had retreated back from beside his face his hands were on your waist again, spinning both you and himself around so that his back was now against the wall and you were firmly held against his front, ass to crotch. His arms snaked around you, landing on your stomach as he mouthed again at that little spot beneath your ear.
”I can wait.” He breathed. His eyes flicked up to your roommate who was waiting by the curb for her cab. Jack wished the damn thing would just hurry up already, then he could get you back home. He was already half hard in his jeans, and was certain you could feel him when he felt the minuscule way you rubbed your ass against him. Faint, barely there, like you hadn’t even really meant to do it. Your body reacting without your mind's consent. It almost tugged a groan from his throat and his hands gripped harder at the soft skin on your waist.
Finally the car pulled up and Jack was almost vibrating with excitement. Arguably it had only been two minutes since your friend had ordered the Uber, but by god those were the longest two minutes of his entire life. Jack was polite, he was nothing if not a gentleman, so he did the gentlemanly thing and waited for the car to pull away from the curb before he spun you in his arms and pulled your hips flush with his.
“Do I get to take you home now?” He flashed you a sly grin.
—————————————
You could almost see the countdown ticking away in Jack’s head, and you weren’t even facing him. He waited the exact amount of seconds it was considered polite before he spun you and pulled you close again, his hand gravitating back to your chest as he asked if he could take you home with what could only be described as a shit eating grin plastered across his face.
”Don’t you need to tell your SWAT buddies you’re leaving?” You teased.
“They’ll figure it out.” He kissed your jaw line. “I’m a big boy, I don’t need permission to leave.” He spun you around again, he really needed to stop doing that, you were getting dizzy and everytime he did it sent a wave of electricity through you. His hand interlinked with yours as he pushed off the wall and set off walking, practically pulling you down the street towards his car.
”Slow down.” You giggle. “What’s the rush?” You’d reached his car, an obnoxious oversized truck you will absolutely be bullying him about owning in the morning. He pushed you against it, closing the space between you once again. Jack’s lips meet yours and you realise that despite everything that has already happened this is the first time he’s actually kissing you. You practically melt. His lips are plush against yours, his stubble tickling your chin ever so slightly. The feeling is intoxicating and exhilarating, a soft moan escapes your lips. Jack pulls away, but only far enough to press his forehead against yours.
”You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He breathes and it feels like a confession. Something so juxtaposingly tender compared to what you had just been doing.
”Oh yeah?” You smirk, tilting your head just a little to nudge his nose with your own. Your fingers had looped into the belt loops of his jeans, needing something to hold onto.
”Yeah. Since you transferred over to the night shift last year.” He nods, his breath fanning out against your face.
”I win then.” You giggle. Because even now you can’t help but tease.
”What?”
”My first night shift rotation intern year. The night you talked me through my first lower extremity fasciotomy. It was the way you were standing over my shoulder talking in my ear, I was gone from that moment on.” You chuckled and Jack dove in to kiss you again, bruising. His mouth pressed against yours with as much force as he could muster.
”Get in the car.” His voice was low, as he pulled the door open beside you.
~~~
It was almost amusing to you the way Jack couldn’t keep his hands to himself. That one simple request of ‘can I?’ outside of the bar seemed to have opened the floodgates. His hand is on your thigh the entire drive back to his, gently caressing up and down the entire time. A few times, when you’d hit a red light his hand would trail higher, not enough to give you any satisfaction just enough to tease you. It was driving you insane. Eventually his car turned onto a quiet neighborhood street and Jack pulled up outside of a modest single story home.
You suddenly became quite nervous. This was actually happening. You were outside of Jack’s house, about to go inside. When you pulled Jack out of the bar to stand with you whilst you had a smoke you had no idea that this was where the night could lead. Yet here you were, and realisation was just now sinking in. Jack gave your thigh a small squeeze.
”You coming in then?” He smiled. He still had that shit eating grin on his face, the cat that got the cream, and well how could you say no to that?
”Uh huh.” You hummed sliding out the door. As you walked to the door you felt him squeeze your ass, it made you jump just a little. The chuckle that rumbled out of him was worth the embarrassment.
—————————————
His restraint in the car had honestly been miraculous. Somebody had ought to make him a saint just for that, for the way he managed to never let his fingers trail too high up your leg. Never close enough to where he wanted to get to that it would distract him from driving all together. Even if he so desperately wanted to throw caution to the wind and slip a finger inside of you the whole way back, just to know what you felt like.
You looked down right sinful in that skirt as you walked ahead of him towards his home. He hadn’t paid it much mind earlier, too preoccupied with what lay above the waist, but now he was kicking himself for not noticing the way it accentuated the curve of your ass beautifully. So forgive him if he reached out to give it a squeeze as you walked, and forgive him if his heart fluttered at the way it made you jump.
Jack had barely closed the door before he was pushing you against it, slotting himself between your legs. Now that he had tasted your lips he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live without them. He was like a man starving as he ran his tongue across your lower lip, begging for entrance, for something more. You granted him access, and he dove straight in. A groan he couldn’t stifle bubbled up his throat and into your mouth. You were delicious, and all Jack wanted to do was take. His hips rolled against yours and you let out the most beautiful little gasp he’d ever heard, breaking the kiss. Jack pulled you away from the door, walking you backwards across the hall towards the living room, peppering your lips with kisses as he went. He could take you straight to his bedroom, but it felt so far away now, the living room was closer. He pushed you through the open doorway, flicking the light on without turning his attention away from you, and guided you towards the couch. In one fell swoop he was sitting down and pulling you with him to straddle his legs.
”Hi.” You breathed as you situated yourself on his lap, his hands caressing your back.
”You doing okay?” He raised an eyebrow. He wanted to make sure you weren’t second guessing this. As much as he wanted it, he had to make sure you were right there with him.
”Yeah.” You smiled, catching his lips as you rolled your hips. He was fully hard now, the cotton of your underwear dragging across the bulge in his jeans. He left kiss after kiss across your lips, cheek, jaw, before making it back to your neck nipping at the delicate skin there. The way you gasped and hissed was like music to his ears. Jack’s hands were on your waist, playing with the hem of your top. He knew what he wanted. What he’d craved for the past three weeks, and it was right in front of him now ready to be unwrapped like a Christmas present.
”Let’s take this off, yeah?” He rubbed the hemline between his fingers, itching to lift it up and over your head. The nod you gave him was the only confirmation he needed.
It was like Christmas and his birthday all rolled into one. The way your boobs bounced in front of him from the movement of stripping your top off. If he was twenty years younger he could have cum just from that sight alone.
”Jesus christ, you’re beautiful.” Jack was awe struck. Nothing he could have ever imagined compared to the sight in front of him now. The way your nipples pebbled from the cool air hitting them, and the silver bars jutting through each one. He would be seeing that in his sleep for weeks. His thumb caressed over the pink nub.
”What’s the verdict Dr Abbot?” Jack won’t comment on the way his dick twitched in his pants at you calling him doctor outside of the hospital. “Are they everything you hoped they would be?” He didn’t have words. In lew of a response he leant forward and attached his mouth to one instead, sucking your nipple and the piercing between his teeth. Letting a moan ripple out and vibrate around you. The metallic taste in his mouth was addictive as he sucked and grazed his teeth against you. The sounds you were making were downright delicious.
————————————-
You don’t think you have ever been this wet in your life. You were sure you had soaked through your underwear, and if you moved right now there was sure to be a wet patch on the front of Jack’s jeans. You had never met somebody so obsessed with your piercings before. Sure, they always got a good reaction from the people you slept with. You hadn’t met anybody yet who had turned their nose up at them, but Jack revelled in them like you just presented him with his last meal on death row. You were sure he would be content to stay here all night just doing this. You weren’t opposed to the idea either. The way he licked and sucked and dragged his teeth across them, you were starting to wonder if you could cum just from this alone. He removed himself from your boob with a slight pop before diving straight in for the other one which was met with your breathy inhale as your hands came to grasp at his hair. Digging your fingers into the curls by the nape of his neck he let out another groan. It vibrated through your chest and made your hips roll against him again. Just from feel alone you could tell he was going to be big, and that only served to make you wetter.
”Please.” You gasped, you weren’t sure for what but Jack did. He unlatched himself from your tit to look at you. His hands were back on your waist.
”Come here sweetheart.” He crooned, shifting you so that you were positioned on one leg instead of staddling his waist. “I’m going to play with these for a little while longer, Yeah? You just sit here looking pretty and ride my thigh. Can you do that for me?” You didn’t answer for a second, so Jack took the initiative and pulled your hips forward. The drag of his jeans against your pussy was heavenly. The gasp shot out of you without warning. “There you go. That’s what you needed.” His mouth went back to your tit. The hand on your waist guiding you back and forth along his thigh whilst the other came up to squeeze the tit he had left unoccupied. The feeling was heavenly.
You weren’t sure if you could cum from just this alone, but it honestly felt worth it. It all felt so good to the point it was dizzying. You stayed like this, grinding down on his thigh whilst he lavished your boobs with attention, for a few minutes before you found your voice again.
”Jack please.” You gasped. “More, please.” You needed something, anything. You were so turned on, you needed him to touch you. Reluctantly he removed his mouth from you.
”Okay baby, okay. I know.” He cooed, cupping a hand under your jaw and swiping his thumb across your cheek. “Let me take care of you.” He smiled. Then before you could even register it he was flipping you, laying you out on the couch and settling between your legs.
Your skirt had ridden up to around your waist now and you couldn’t help the giggle that came out.
“What’s so funny sweetheart?” Jack looked up at you from where he was pressing kisses into your thighs.
“If I’d have known this was where my night was going to go, I’d have worn nicer underwear.” You chuckle, looking down at the plain cotton panties you were wearing. Jack didn’t dignify that thought with a response straight away, choosing instead to bite at your inner thigh. He kissed over the top of your clit and it sent shockwaves through your core, your back arching ever so slightly at the contact.
“Well if you don’t like them, how about we just get rid of them all together?” He looked up at you from between your legs. You nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact with him and watched as the grin spread across his face. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged, shifting as he went to get them off your feet. Once they were off he tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans without giving it a second though. It was almost incredulous.
“Are you planning on keeping those?” You raise your eyebrows at him.
“Souvenir.” He shrugged. You tipped your head back and laughed at the audacity of it. The laugh was short lived though, quickly turning into a gasp as Jack licked a long stripe along your cunt.
“Fuck.” You groaned, the muscles in your stomach contracting at the sensation. Jack just hummed and licked again, saviouring the taste of you. One hand gripping your inner thigh, the other settled against your lower stomach.
It wasn’t fair. You were beginning to believe there truly wasn’t anything Jack Abbot wasn’t good at. You were seeing stars as he sucked your clit like a man starved. Your fingers were curled in his hair, holding on for dear life, and every time you dared to look down you could see the way he was rutting against the couch. If his devilish tongue wasn’t sending you over the edge then the sight of that alone would. You were practically writhing beneath him and then he decided to nudge a finger into your hole. All of the air in your lungs escaped at once, your back arching off of the couch as you let out a long moan. He barely gave you a moment before a second one was joining the first. His fingers were incredible. The perfect balance of long and thick, reaching places inside of you that you’d never explored as he pumped in and out at a nailbitingly slow pace.
“You gonna cum for me sweetheart?” He asked when he came up for air. Your juices slick across his chin and lips.
“Kiss.” You breathed out, winded. “Please.” And well who was he to deny you that? His fingers still inside you, Jack moved up your body to catch your lips with his own. The taste of his mouth and your arousal causing you to clench down around him.
“You like being able to taste yourself?” His voice was gravelly, a little hoarse from eating you out. At the same time he crooked his fingers, prodding at that velvety spot inside of you that made you see stars. You gasped and pushed his head back down, back to where you needed him the most. He dutifully obliged, attaching his mouth back onto your clit and sucking hard.
“Jack.” You panted.
“Gonna need you to cum for me before I can do anything else.” He said. It wasn’t a request, more an incentive. He blew cold air over your sensitive nub, the sensation making you full body shiver, before going back to the task at hand. His fingers had picked up pace now and you were barrelling towards your own release at a terrifying pace.
“I’m close. So close.” You could feel it pooling in your stomach. The elastic band wound tight, right on the precipice of snapping. He curled his fingers again and sucked hard. Your orgasm flooded your body. Your thighs snapped close around his head, your fingers a death grip in his hair. Jack let out a guttural groan as the sensation washed over you, stomach constricting and releasing over and over again as he brought you through it, fingers gently pushing in and out, tongue lapping over you serenely. You think you might have forgotten how to breathe as you gasped for air beneath him.
“You okay?” He asked, looking up at you once you’d release his head from your iron grip.
“Holy shit.” It was almost a giggle. If you had the energy left in your body to giggle.
“Oh, I’m not through with you yet baby.” He wiggled his eyebrows. How did he have this much stamina? You felt like you’d just run a marathon. You guess that Jack must have seen the exhaustion written on your face, because before you’d even had the chance to respond he was picking you up bridal style and walking you back out of the living room, down the hall and to his bedroom. You didn’t have the energy to argue with him about carrying you.
———————————
There were many things in life Jack was, a quitter was not one of them. His cock sat heavy and throbbing in his jeans, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to fuck you before you’d cum at least once. And god what a blessing it was to be able to experience it. Being suffocated between your thighs, you hands clenched so hard in his hair he thinks he might wake up with a bald patch, the way your cunt clenched and pulsed around his fingers. It didn’t matter if he died then and there. Jack was exactly where he wanted to be. Nothing in the world could have pulled him away from that.
You looked entirely blissed out on that couch, but Jack knew the main event was still to come. He had to be inside you, now. So he did the polite thing and carried you through to his bedroom, instead of making you walk. Depositing you down on the bed as he made quick work of removing his shirt before sitting on the bed to take his leg off before his pants. He felt the way the bed dipped as you crawled over to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and planting feather light kisses along his shoulders and the back of his neck. It was so delicate and tender, it sent a shiver through his body.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked. You had dropped your head onto his shoulder now, arms wrapped around his chest, just holding him as he tried to wiggle free of his jeans.
“Uh huh.” You hummed, content. Oh, what Jack would give to have you like this everyday for the rest of his life.
“You might want to find that second wind, because I’m not done yet.” He was being smug, he knew that. But who in hell would not be smug after making you cum? He turned where he sat and flipped you backwards, laying you out on the bed for him. It was like a switch flipped behind your eyes. The ones that had been content and sleepy only a moment ago were now looking at him like he was something to eat.
“You sure you can keep up, old man?” You challenged, and yeah that was definitely a challenge he wanted to take. He rolled his hips against your core. The only barrier between you being his boxers. His restraint was wearing thin.
“Those are some bold words for someone who was almost falling asleep on me thirty seconds ago.” He smirked, hovering over you now.
“Are you always this mouthy? Trying to distract me whilst you get it up?” There was an evil glint in your eye. Two could play at that game. He dropped his head down beside your ear.
“I think you know well enough what my mouth can do, don’t you sweetheart?” He dragged his clothed erection against you again, moving his head down to get his mouth around you tit once more, pulling a gasp from your lips.
“Would you just hurry up and fuck me.” You pout. You looked downright edible, he couldn’t deny you any longer if he tried.
Jack didn’t even give himself enough time to properly discard himself of his underwear, just shoved them down to below his balls as he fished his dick out. He watches as your eyes expand when you see him. It was enough to make him preen. Jack knew he was relatively well endowed, but the look on your face was enough to send anyone’s ego through the roof.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go slow.” He shrugged, teasing. You just rolled your eyes and huffed. You were so easy to rile up.
He pressed the tip of himself against your slit, rubbing it back and forth between your folds to gather up your slick and use it as lubricant. You felt amazing and he hadn’t even put it in yet. His eyes flicked up to you as you hummed and wiggled your hips, enticing him in. Slowly he pressed the head inside, both of you gasping in sync at the feeling. As he slid in slowly he could feel you stretching around him. Your walls hot and slick, trapping him in your velvety heat.
”You feel incredible, just sucking me in.” He groaned, unable to stop himself. As he bottomed out he had to pause to catch his breath, if he wasn’t careful he was going to finish too soon and be unable to savor this.
”You're not all talk now, are you big guy?” You were still being bratty. He had no idea where this energy had come from but he loved it. He pulled back and snapped his hips forward harshly. The whine you let out sung in his ears. So that was the pace he set. Sharp deep thrusts over and over again as his head fell onto your shoulder. His hand was back on your tit, squeezing and rolling your nipple between his thumb and finger as he punched into you. You were like putty beneath him and he wanted to keep you like this until the end of time.
”Oh, baby I’m close.” He groaned against your sweaty neck. The salt of your skin on his lips.
”Come in me.” You whined in that high lilt. “Come in me, please.” Jack didn’t think he’d be able to pull out if he tried.
”Yeah? Yeah.” He nodded frantically as his balls began to tighten. Just a few more seconds. His hips stuttered and his teeth clamped around your shoulder muffling the frankly embarrassing whimper he let out as he spilled inside of you. There were a few more lazy thrusts as he milked the last few drops out, your pussy pulsing around him helping the process along before he was collapsing on top of you.
—————————
The sound of your phone ringing woke you up early the next morning. It was still dark outside, making in an ungodly hour. You groaned as you rolled over. Who on earth was trying to call you on your morning off? You fumbled on the nightstand trying to find the phone without opening your eyes. Finally you found it and answered the phone, bringing the device to your ear.
”Hello?” You asked, voice still groggy.
”Who is this?” The voice of Dr Ellis came through the phone.
”What do you mean? Ellis, it’s me.” You were thoroughly confused now. “You called me?”
”Oh, my god.” She gasped. “Tiger, I called Jack sweetie.” You pulled the phone away to look at it. This wasn’t your phone.
”Oh.” Was all you could get out.
”Shen!” You heard her shout away from the phone, her voice slightly muffled now. “Yo! Jack finally grew a pair.” You let out a groan. This was going to be all over the ED within the hour.
”I can say with no uncertainty that there is no growing needed in that department.” You huffed and Ellis wretched on the opposite end of the line. Good, if they were going to try and embarrass you then you were going to make them all uncomfortable. Jack rolled over, awake now, and nuzzled against your bare chest.
”Who was that?” He asked, his voice sleepy.
”Ellis. It was for you.” You sighed and placed his phone back down. He just burrowed deeper against your boobs.
Warnings: fingering, unprotected sex, fingers in mouth, getting walked in on.
Apparently all I can do is get high and write smut 🫦
***MDNI***
Soft kisses pressed into the back of your neck, slowly pulling you from sleep. Warm breath brushed your skin as Morgan shifted closer behind you, one arm tightening around your waist.
“Mornin’, gorgeous,” he murmured, lips lingering just beneath your ear.
You hummed sleepily, arching back into him without thinking, melting into the warmth of his body. His quiet laugh vibrated against your shoulder as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your side, grounding you fully in the moment.
Turning in his arms, you cupped his face and pulled him down into a kiss. It started soft, familiar, before deepening naturally — sleepy affection giving way to something heavier as your arms wrapped around his neck and he kissed you back with growing urgency.
He shifted over you, settling between your legs, one knee nudging them apart as his hands slipped beneath the hem of your tank top. Cool air brushed your skin before his mouth followed, warm and deliberate, drawing a sharp breath from your lungs.
Your fingers tightened on his shoulders as arousal bloomed low in your stomach, your body responding before you could fully wake. Instinctively, your hips moved against his thigh, chasing friction.
“Fuck, Morgan…” you breathed, arching into him as he alternated between teasing and soothing touches across your chest.
His big blue eyes lifted to meet yours, watching as you began to unravel beneath him, your breaths turning shallow and uneven under the steady pleasure building through your body.
You reached for him, pulling his lips back to yours, unable to stand the distance any longer. He smirked against your mouth, the movement pressing your core closer to him and making your head tip back against the pillows.
Another soft moan slipped free as he kept his movements slow and deliberate, in no rush to let the moment end.
A quiet laugh left him, low and teasing, as he studied your face like he was enjoying the effect he had on you a little too much.
“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Not so sleepy anymore, are you?”
A faint smirk tugged at your lips as you met his gaze, still breathless but refusing to let him have all the control. You shifted slightly against him — just enough to make your point — fingers still clutching his shoulder blades.
“Fuck off,” you breathed, more reflex than intention.
His eyes flicked over your face, something darker slipping beneath the amusement.
“You sure that’s what you want, love?” he murmured, already sounding unconvinced.
He made a move to pull away — just an inch, just enough to test you.
You didn’t let him.
A soft whine escaped as you dragged him back down, denying him the space entirely.
His quiet laugh followed immediately, warm against your mouth.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, one hand sliding down your side to settle at your waist.
Your breath caught when he looked at you again — really looked — desire burning openly in his gaze.
“Still want to tell me to fuck off?”
The words barely landed before he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, all teasing gone.
Your breath hitched as his fingers slid beneath the waistband of your knickers. His touch was feather-light as he glided between your folds, spreading your slick slowly, deliberately.
“Gotta be quiet for me, yeah?” he mumbled against your mouth.
You nodded, nails clawing into his back as his fingers stretched you open.
His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles while his fingers curled perfectly inside you.
Your lips crashed against his, trying to swallow your moans before they could escape into the room. The coil in your belly tightened rapidly, pleasure building faster than you could control as your hips rocked helplessly into his hand.
Your head dropped into his shoulder, teeth pressing into his neck to stop yourself from crying out as your orgasm crashed through you.
Morgan’s fingers didn’t slow, guiding you through every wave as your body trembled against his. He murmured soft praise into your hair while you came back down, your breathing gradually evening out.
His forehead brushed yours as you shared the same breath, neither of you quite ready to separate.
“You alright?” he murmured.
You nodded weakly. “Yeah.”
A quiet hum left him. He believed you — but still didn’t move away immediately.
Eventually his fingers slipped free, his hand returning to your waist. His eyes softened, though heat still lingered beneath the surface.
His fingers twitched once against your skin.
Subtle.
Almost nothing.
Except it wasn’t nothing.
You shifted without thinking, still tucked beneath him, and felt his breathing hitch instantly.
“Morgan…” you whispered, his gaze dropping to your mouth and lingering there a beat too long. “Come here.”
That did it.
He moved first this time.
Slow at first, giving you space to stop him — even though neither of you believed you would.
His hand tightened at your waist as he closed the distance, pulling you back into him like there had never been separation at all.
The kiss started gentle, almost careful, before need took over completely. You pulled him closer without thinking and he responded immediately, shifting your bodies together until no space remained between you.
You broke the kiss only long enough to breathe.
He followed you straight back in.
The room felt smaller now, quieter — like the rest of the world had faded out entirely. Your thoughts dissolved into static, replaced by instinct and heat.
His forehead brushed yours again as you shared another breath.
Morgan’s gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering like it already knew where this was going.
As the kiss deepened, he slipped himself free from his boxers, a soft hiss escaping him as cool air hit sensitive skin.
Your nails dragged fresh red lines down his back as he slowly pressed into you, inch by inch. You panted against his mouth at the stretch, his hands tightening on your hips as he fought for control.
You rocked your hips experimentally, silently telling him he could move.
A broken sound left him.
He found a steady rhythm, lifting your right leg higher so he could press deeper, your left leg wrapping around his back and holding him close, refusing him distance.
The rhythm stole the air from your lungs. Every thrust knocked breath from your chest until instinct took over and your hand slipped between you, chasing the pleasure already building too fast to stop.
Moans filled the room as heat coiled tightly inside you, your second orgasm rushing closer.
“Told you to be quiet,” Morgan murmured, slipping his fingers between your lips.
Instinctively, you sucked them in, tongue swirling around them, completely lost in sensation.
“’M gonna cum,” you mumbled around his fingers.
His pace faltered for half a second before speeding up, driven by your confession. Your body went boneless beneath him, tension snapping tighter and tighter—
And then—
The door slammed open.
“Oi Ginge fancy coming to Traff— OH MY GOD—”
Everything stopped.
Morgan reacted instantly, pulling you closer and shielding you completely as his head snapped toward the door.
“GET OUT,” he barked.
Jakey froze, eyes wide.
“No—yeah—right—sorry—definitely leaving—” he blurted, already turning too fast, shoulder clipping the frame.
A beat.
“CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR, JAKEY!”
“YEAH—SORRY!”
The door slammed shut.
Silence dropped heavily back into the room.
Morgan stayed still for a moment, arms still wrapped around you like the world hadn’t earned access again yet.
“…Unbelievable,” he muttered, forehead dropping to yours.
“I can never look at him again. Oh my god.”
“You’re fine,” he said, exhaling. “I’m the one getting absolutely rinsed for this.”
“That’s not comforting.”
He glanced at you, a reluctant smirk tugging at his mouth. “He opened the door.”
“That’s not the point!”
“It kind of is.”
You groaned and buried your face in his shoulder. “Stop talking.”
His chest shook with laughter as his hand rubbed slow circles over your hip, grounding and familiar.
The adrenaline lingered beneath your skin, embarrassment mixing with warmth.
Your fingers traced absent patterns along his shoulder, following faint marks you’d left earlier. His breath hitched — subtle, but unmistakable.
His grip tightened slightly at your waist.
“…You know,” he murmured, voice dropping again, “he’s definitely told the rest of the house. Which means nobody else is coming near this room.”
A shared grin passed between you.
Your gaze drifted to his mouth without meaning to. He caught it immediately.
Morgan’s thumb brushed along your jaw, slower this time, testing rather than rushing.
You leaned in first.
The kiss began softer than before, almost shy after the interruption, but familiarity returned quickly — warmth replacing embarrassment as his hand slid back to your waist, pulling you closer again.
