Reality

spn | twd | marvel

[whoetoshaw]

MY GIRL | a. buttle

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.

▶︎‖ ─•──── 10:55

[jackrrabbot]

then, there is the opportunist

brendon park x fem!reader

word count ~10.2k

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.

And, in caring for you, he’s found a pup.

[rr-after-dark]

Hooked - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader

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.”

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[thelightofday]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬 — b. park ᥫ᭡

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.”

[miserymorgue]

my (wo)man on willpower | j. abbot

pairing jack abbot x fem!reader

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. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

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.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

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.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“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!

[unstablecaffeinatedmind]

one of the best things ever written???

the dialogue the sarcasm the banterrrrrr the FRIENDSHIP the looooooveee

perfection!!!

[therarityoflife]

Nipple Piercing’s, Part 2 (Jack Abbot x Reader)

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.

”She’ll survive without me.”

[ya-banned]

Interruptions

Summary: Jakey interrupts your wake-up call

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.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

it's a little bit messy | jack abbot

jack abbot x younger!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ 18+ MDNI !

summary: abbot’s hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs—because now you’re both trying to pretend it meant nothing, and neither of you is getting very far. [can be read as a standalone, but it's a loose pt 2 of this fic]

warnings: smut! car sex, panties being ripped, abbot yearns to the point of concern because he's down BAD for reader, reader cheats at beer pong & UNO because she can, a lil bit of angst but they fuck nasty so it's ok! thumb sucking, a lil bit of drooling, BITING, age gap implied, bad decisions being made, creampie (dont be like them), sexual tension, reader can't decide what she wants so abbot natrually fucks the decision into her ᝰ.ᐟ

wc: 7.9k

Abbot was certain you were avoiding him. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so annoying, the way you kept managing to be somewhere else the second he came into view. Turning corners like you’d just remembered something urgent, suddenly very invested in literally any patient that wasn’t his. 

He could stop it. He’s your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, he’d even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All he’d have to do is say your name in that tone and you’d come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like you’re supposed to. 

He doesn’t, though.

Which is its own kind of pathetic.

Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like he’s something you’d rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of what’s happening, and letting it happen anyway.

He knows why you’re doing it. There’s no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasn’t thinking. 

His hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs. 

For a lot of reasons. One, because he’s had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knew—knew—it was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.

You’re not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and he’s too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like that’s all there is to it. He’d want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least. 

Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.

The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.

And judging by the way you’ve been treating him since, you’ve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didn’t happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention. 

And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly. 

Because he can’t get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once. 

His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when he’s making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.

His shower is something else entirely. He can’t even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and he’s right back there, stuck on you admitting  that you touched yourself in there. 

He can’t even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. They’re constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.

“Earth to Abbot. What do you want to do?” Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. “You’ve just completely dissociated on me, man.”

Abbot blinks. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Okay—no, we’re not happy with that. Suction.”

Shen passes it without comment, though there’s a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern? 

“BP?” Abbot asks.

“Eighty-five systolic and dropping.”

He exhales through his nose, refocusing. “We’ve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a second—no, properly, you’re not putting enough pressure on it. There.” He adjusts Shen’s hand without thinking. “Hold it like you mean it.”

Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on. 

Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful. 

Not tonight though. 

Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didn’t even feel like they were attached to him properly. 

And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you. 

The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.

“Come get me if anything changes,” he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesn’t even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better. 

His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.

He doesn’t even really think about where he’s going until he spots you. Your back’s turned, which means you haven’t had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. There’s a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But he’s never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you. 

“You got a sec?” he calls out. 

You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, he’s actually talking to you. “Me?” you ask, pointing at yourself. “Surgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.”

He almost sighs at that. Not because it’s wrong, but because of course it’s something that’s already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending they’re not responsible for it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. “Not about that.”

“Right,” you drag out slowly, like you’re trying to decide whether that’s better or worse. 

A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before it’s quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you. 

Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. “Just—five minutes. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. You’re wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.

“Bathroom?” 

You nod again. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”

He does just that, hoping you don’t vanish the second he turns his back to you.

You don’t.

That alone feels like a small victory. 

He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock. 

Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. You’re leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.

He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesn’t land as one. Instead it sounds like something he’s been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride. 

“I—not intentionally. It’s just been a busy week.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh. 

“Okay,” you admit eventually, softer. “Maybe I have been.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He nods, swallowing. “Do you regret what happened that night?” he asks and you still can’t quite meet his gaze. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Do you?” he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesn’t keep moving the question forward it’ll get stuck in him. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We can’t even act professional at work?”

“I have been professional,” you argue reflexively. 

“Are you going to answer my first question?”

He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like he’s already halfway convinced he’s not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.

“Because if you do,” he adds reluctantly, “then I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.”

“Of course I don’t regret it,” you answer like it’s the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. “We said it’d be a one-off and I’m just trying to find the best way to work around that.”

“And you think this is the best solution?”

“Obviously not if you’re cornering me in the bathroom.”

It’s meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh. 

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I crossed a line that night and I shouldn’t have done it and it’s completely my fault for even putting us in this position, I—”

“Don’t do that,” you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. “Don’t make this out to be something it’s not. It wasn’t just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.” You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. “I don’t regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly can’t happen again. And I'm sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.”

Clearly can’t happen again.

You’re not wrong. You’re not. It can’t happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.

He knows that. Of course he knows that.

Yet his brain doesn’t quite…stop there. Doesn’t neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.

Can’t.

Not don’t want to. Not even shouldn’t.

Your only regret is that you can’t do it again. 

Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because it’s clear now, isn’t it—the both of you want this, but can’t have it without consequences that would only land on you. 

“Yeah…you’re right.” Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up you’re actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks.  “Can we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?”

Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when you’re trying to bite back a smile.

“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

You shrug. “If I’d known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I would’ve enforced it months ago.”

“Good to see you’re back to making jokes at my expense again.”

“Clearly you missed it.”

There’s silence again, and if he’s serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, he’s going to have to stop doing that—letting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting so…weird about it. 

“Maybe.”

You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. “You going to Ellis’s housewarming this weekend?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Why not?”

He pulls a face, turning towards the door. “Not really my thing.”

“Well why don’t you come,” you press lightly, “we could hang. Be normal about things.”

His head tilts a fraction, like he’s checking he heard you right and also like he’s trying not to read into it at the same time. “Hang?” 

“Yes. Hang. That’s what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.”

He nods, fingers finding the lock. “I’ll try and stop by.” 

Even as he says it, there’s still a brief sliver of doubt, because it’s probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?

When Saturday finally came, Abbot didn’t really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldn’t cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They weren’t…Shen just got the time wrong. 

Ellis didn’t seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.

In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbot’s favour. He could stay long enough for you to see he’d made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up. 

It’s a win-win, all thanks to Shen’s poor time management for once lining up in his favour. 

He’s halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer that’s gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.

Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbot’s standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things you’d need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there. 

He’s not surprised. You’re always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.

You don’t notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like she’s saving you from yourself.

And he just…watches. 

Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just can’t seem to help the habit that’s formed of tracking you in every room. 

Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shen’s attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately. 

He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby who’s right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasn’t caught a single word of it. Not one. 

“We don’t sleep with the residents, man.” 

Abbot does a double take, like he’s been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. “What?”

Robby doesn’t even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. “You’re practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasn’t even put her bag down.”

He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time. 

“I’ve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,” Robby goes on, “I don’t need her adding fraternisation to the list.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Shame,” Robby adds, almost idly. “Because if this is you not doing anything, I’d hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.”

“What, now you’re encouraging me?” 

Robby snorts, shaking his head. “No. I’m just saying—if there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.”

“There’s nothing going on, man. You can drop it,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether that’s the best decision with what Robby’s currently insinuating. 

“Okay, well, I don’t need to be privy to this conversation,” Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. “I’d like some plausible deniability.”

Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you. 

You’re wearing a sundress again. 

And his brain just…malfunctions for a second. There’s a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one he’s seen you in before. It’s stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.

This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and he’s stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when you’re in front of him.

“Ellis said you helped set up,” you say, coming up beside him. “That was nice of you.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didn’t even get a tour or anything.”

“Is that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?”

Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. “That was all Shen.”

There’s a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.

“We’re setting up a round of beer pong,” Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. “Next round is me and Ellis against you two—” he points between you and Abbot. “Be there or be square.”

Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. “How about you be sober since you’re my ride?”

“You can just catch a ride with Robby,” Shen shrugs. “He drove.”

He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbot’s half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.

“You playing?” you ask, glancing between him and Shen.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Shen groans. “You’re both playing. I’ve already decided.”

Abbot has come to realise that you’re actually really good at beer pong. Whether that’s down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shen’s made, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.

Which should be what he’s focusing on.

It isn’t.

Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like it’s a matter of life or death. And it’s endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you don’t even seem aware of anything else when you’re aiming.

And he’s meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else. 

Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball. 

He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shen’s cups with a splash. 

“No fucking way,” Shen scoffs. “We need to step our game up.” He nudges Ellis like she’s personally responsible.

“You need to step your game up,” she shoots back, grabbing the cup. “I’ve been carrying you this whole time.”

Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbot’s hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.

He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. “Nice shot.”

“Yeah?” You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. “You sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.”

“Distracted? No, not at all,” he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted. 

You don’t comment though, just take a small step back so you’re beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before she’s reaches for another ball. 

“Jesus,” you mumble under your breath. “She’s going to hate us in the morning.”

“I already hate you,” she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like she’s about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side. 

“El, your foot’s over the line,” you call out, all sweet and helpful.

She freezes mid-aim. “What?”

“Your foot,” you repeat, pointing vaguely. “You’re fully cheating.”

“I am not—” Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.

The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Just shoot,” Shen groans. “I’m ageing.”

“I was about to—” Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.

“You’re full of shit,” Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. “Her foot was not over the line.”

“I’m driving tonight.” You shrug, giving him a smile. “A girl’s got to do what she has to do.”

Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me. 

Abbot scoffs, looking at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.”

“It’s okay to say you’re impressed. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I prefer to win fairly.”

“Oh yeah,” you hum tauntingly. “I forgot you’re such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.”

“Ouch,” he clicks his tongue. “You always get like this when you’re caught cheating at frat boy games?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. “I think there’s a vein of rage popping on your forehead.”

“Yeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.” You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest. 

“There she is,” Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version there’s no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everything’s fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.

You’re too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when it’s not. And he likes that, he does, but this…this is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesn’t behave, doesn’t follow the rules you keep going on about. 

“Your turn,” you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. “Try not to miss.”

He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. “Lots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.”

“I didn’t need to,” you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. “I just wanted to.”

“Right. That definitely makes it better.” 

“My eyes are up here,” you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.

He wasn’t actually gawking this time, but that’s a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesn’t bother arguing with you.

“Wouldn’t want you getting distracted and making us lose.”

Several hours later, you’re pulling into Abbot’s driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like they’ve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off. 

“There you go.”

He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at you. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well it would’ve been rude not to. Shen’s asleep on Ellis’s kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.”

“Yeah. Hope Ellis doesn’t trip over him in the morning.”

It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now it’s later than he planned, and you’re here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.

He should get out.

But you’re genuinely smiling at him, and he’s not sure he has the willpower to leave. 

“You had fun,” he notes, quieter than before.

“I did,” you confirm blithely. “You?”

“Mm.” He nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and that’s when he catches it. 

A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row. 

He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that you’d go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. “You’re unbelievable.”

 “What?”

“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. “You cheated.”

You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. “At beer pong?”

“Yes, that too.” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. “You’ve got a card tucked in your—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know what I mean.”

“Bra?” you supply for him.

“Yes.”

“Funny, I don't seem to be wearing one.”

“Jesus Christ you need to stop doing that,” he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, there’s no way you’re not aware of what you’re saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.

Because now that’s all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t drag his attention right back down again, like he hasn’t already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.

“You’re accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing I’m not wearing.”

“I saw it. Don’t try and twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you reply, but there’s that look again that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel. 

“You cheated,” he repeats, leaning in. “Everyone thinks you’re all nice and polite and—” he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. A serial cheater.”

Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, there’s something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. “Yeah? What else?”

“You’re manipulative.”

“What are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t think that’s a normal activity friends slash work colleagues do—”

“You know damn well nothing’s been normal between us since that night. You’re the one who said it was a one-off,” he goes on, because it’s been sitting there waiting to come out. “But then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to just—what, ignore it?”

Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where it’s resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. “I didn’t say ignore it.”

“Then what did you say?”

“That it couldn’t happen again.”

“Right. And this is you… sticking to that?”

You don’t answer him, but you’re breathing has picked up. 

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Thought so.”

And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.

There’s a moment where he registers what he’s doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then you’re kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesn’t stand a chance. 

He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.

He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasn’t fast enough, like even now he’s impatient, still pulling you closer once you’re there, his cock aching for friction. 

“Still think this is a one-off?” he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.

Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.

“You’re not very good at sticking to your own rules,” he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe. 

“We—we both—” you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, “—agreed it’d be a one off.”

“Nu-uh,” he tuts. “You said you’d be able to move past it. I told you I couldn’t.” His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.

He’s imagined you like this more times than he’d ever admit, and he’s almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before they’re sliding down between the both of you. 

“You’re fucking joking.” 

You just shrug, like it’s nothing, like you’re not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.

“Unbelievable.” His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesn’t know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. “You cheat, you lie, and then you just—what—sit here like this?”

You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.

“You don’t seem that upset,” you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.

“Baby, with the view I have right now, I don’t think I’d notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.”

A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. He’s already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesn’t fancy doing it again unless it’s inside you.

“Need your jeans off,” you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons. 

“Yeah? Think we might struggle in here.”

You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesn’t dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.

Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.

“Huh,” you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what you’re about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. “Have you been this worked up the whole night?”

He lets out a strained laugh because he’s been caught out and doesn’t have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you. 

“Answer the question,” you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. There’s not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Been like this since you walked in.”

Your brows lift, impressed, like you weren’t expecting him to actually say it. “Good.” 

You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he can’t concentrate.

“Help me out,” you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.

Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like you’re getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinking—briefly, unhelpfully—about what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether you’d look the same. Whether you’d get that same faraway, intent expression.

But there’s no space for that in your cramped car.

And he’d rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead. 

His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. “Wait,” he says, though he doesn’t actually give you time to respond.

Because then his mouth is on you instead.

Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feels…earned.

He finds what he’s looking for.

Hooks his fingers into it.

Then pulls.

It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space. 

“Abbot!” you gasp. “What the hell?”

“They were in my way. Sorry, baby.”

You blink at him, still catching up. “They were expensive.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“How am I meant to drive home?”

That—apparently—is the wrong question.

He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like you’ve said something so wildly off-base it doesn’t even deserve a serious response.

“Drive home?” he repeats.

There’s a beat.

“You think you get to just leave?” The question isn’t really a question. “Not a chance.” His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “You’re spending the night,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got plenty of boxers.”

Another kiss. Slower this time.

“Or,” he adds, like he’s genuinely considering alternatives, “you can walk around without anything at all.” His thumb circles your clit again. “I don’t mind.”

You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. “Jack,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.

He hums delicately against your neck, like he’s listening, like he might even care.

He doesn’t stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. “You’re thinking too much.”

“M’not—”

“You are.”

You shake your head anyway and he doesn’t accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. “Look at me.”

You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like you’re already halfway gone somewhere else and he’s pulling you back just enough to see it.

“You are,” he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though it’s something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.

Interesting. 

There’s something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it weren’t for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like he’s not as removed from it as he’d maybe prefer to be.

“That feel good?”

You nod. 

“See?” he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like he’s deciding something.

“Stop arguing with me.”

There’s a pause.

Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.

He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.

“Sit up for me, baby.” He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.

You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it. 

“Jesus,” he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. “Slowly—go slow.”

You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but he’s not sure that’s wise in your dazed state. 

“Fuck,” you grit, stopping yourself before you’re even halfway down him.

“Too much?”

“Mhm.”

“S’okay,” he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. “You can do it.”

His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. “You’ve got it.” He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.

“Yeah… there you go.”

You’ve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight he’s not even sure how much longer he can last, and you haven’t even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.

“Don’t—” he starts when he feels you shift,  then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “Just—stay there a second.”

His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.

“Tell me when,” you whisper. 

That nearly undoes him more than anything else.

There’s something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like you’re handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it. 

He leans in for a kiss, and it’s slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that he’s already inside you.

It changes things.

Makes it heavier.

He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling back enough to take in the way you’re looking at him now. 

You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around him—your walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you. 

Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit. 

Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.

It’s fucking euphoric. 

You keep moving, whining—half-words, curses, his name slipping in and out—as you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.

“Such a greedy girl,” he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight he’s grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.

His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.

“Yes—keep doing that,” you mewl, and he’s the kind of man who follows orders, even when he’s not sure he’s got anything left to give.

Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.

“Yeah? That’s what you do?” His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. “Didn’t take you for a biter,” he mocks, but there’s no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased. 

You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. “Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. “If you’re going to do it, don’t half—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.

“Christ—”

“M’close, Jack—so close.”

His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm it’s actually happening and not something he’s made up to torture himself with later. “You like that? That’s what gets you going?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.” 

Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that don’t even belong to language anymore.

You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin that’s probably raw and marked now, something he’ll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you. 

It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of you—like this, because of him—pushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.

There’s no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where you’re pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.

He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like something’s gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance you’re regretting all of this already.

“What?” he starts, already bracing for the worst. 

He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. “...That?” he asks, glancing back at you. 

You wince, reaching up like you’re not sure whether to touch it or not. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Hey—it’s fine.”

You look unconvinced.

“It’s not fine, I—Jack, I think I actually made you bleed—”

“I know. I was there.”

That earns him an embarrassed huff. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”

“I did,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t hate it either.”

There’s a pause as you study him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious or just trying to make you feel better. “...You’re weird.”

“Yeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.”

Your mouth drops open. “Okay. I’m leaving.” You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since he’s still inside you, but Abbot’s hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.

“Not a chance. I already told you you’re spending the night.”

You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m still not changing my mind.” He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. “Plus you’re not exactly in a state to go anywhere.”

“I could,” you mutter.

He raises a brow.

“…I could try.”

He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him “Stay. Just for tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. “Just for tonight,” you repeat.

Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?

[burgundysnow]

On a whim baby

Word count: 3.4k Warnings: Breeding kink. Age gap, fem!reader, mdni, dirty talk, public sex. Medical inaccuracy’s, not really Erectile dysfunction but it should be mentioned. Nudes. Blindfold, handjob. Spanking, Sub!abbot if you squint. Summary: You and Jack are trying to have a baby, but after months of trying, the regular way just isn’t working and you want to know why. Turns out the samples Jack is supposed to give is a little harder to hand over then imagined. this can be a stand alone or it can be a part of this fic.

“And how often do you two have sex?”

Hearing that anywhere else would have been a HR violation. But it’s actually fairly normal in the reproductive endocrinologist department. 

After heading to your sister-in-laws baby shower, you and Jack both realized you want kids. Sure, Jack’s up there in age, but there’s always the possibility. The opportunity if you’re still willing. 

Trying the old fashioned way was the first step. You weren’t going to put thousands of dollars into regular sex unless there was a high success rate because there was also other factors, like adoption, or surrogates. You were open to anything. The end goal would always be a child. 

You talked with a gynecologist, and they talked about getting you both in the right direction. Checking Jack’s sperm count, checking hormone levels, checking your eggs. There was a lot of checking. 

And that’s how you’re here. Now. Sitting with a nice lady who has auburn hair and glasses on her face. Her name is Amy and she didn’t judge your age gap, acting as if it was completely normal. 

It’s a little awkward like this. She’s using harsh phrases and big words that you should be used to by now because you’re married to a doctor. But then again— she’s not your husband. 

You turn to look at Jack the same time he looks at you. Trying to decide if you should say “we can’t keep our hands or tongues off each other,” or maybe a more appropriate answer. 

You turn back to Amy, bashful smile on your face when you answer: “Often.” 

Amy nods and writes on that little clip board. Fuck it seems like that clip board is already the bane of your existence. 

“And are any of you on any medication that would prevent conception?” 

This time you turn to Jack before he can turn to you. Meaning he has to answer because he keeps track of most of your pill intake. 

“Not that I know of.” 

You picked a bad time to visit the doctors. The closest fertility specialist’s are at least an hour away from home. Jack’s wearing that tan polo shirt that’s just a little to tight around his biceps and chest area, he said he was trying to look professional even though he’s just wearing regular jeans for bottoms. Though his belt around his hips did make him look a little more distinguished.  

It’s safe to say your thighs squeeze together often when around him. The ovulation cycle making you particularly horny this week. Or maybe it’s the way Jack seems just the littlest bit nervous. 

You’ve zoned out for too long. Amy is talking but you hardly understand a word she’s saying. Jack will explain it all to you later at lunch, but for now she’s writing on her desk and opening up a drawer pulling something plastic out. 

“—and I’d like to take a semen sample for sperm count evaluation. If that’s okay.” 

She’s handing Jack a clear cup inside of a plastic bag. Asking as if he has a choice. Pathetically, Jack takes it. 

“Not a problem.” He half smiles. Almost like she didn’t secretly just say “I need a nice amount of your cum to study.”

“Great. There’s a private room just out the door to your left.” Amy points behind him before turning to you. “And while he’s doing that I’d like to draw some blood work and also get set up for a pelvic exam.” 

Jack turns to you, as if he’s about to get up to walk away. It’s hard to hold in the slight laughter because you know he’s about to go jerk off in a public place. Most places would throw you in jail for masturbating in public. But here it’s completely fine. 

Yet Jack still has those soft, caring eyes for you. “You gonna be okay?” 

Blood work— x-ray. Right now it sounds like a lot. But its not your first rodeo, you’re a big girl having gone to the doctors before. You can spend thirty minutes without your husband. 

“Yeah.” Jack gets up and presses a sweet kiss to your lips. Chaste, but still meaningful. “Go have fun.” 

Jack gives you a look, a small dead pan before giving you a wink. You watch as he walks out of the room. Keeping your eyes trained on his ass just like he would do for you. 

When you turn back to Amy she’s already standing. 

“Ready to go?” 

Your tests were fairly easy. A little needle prick and one ultrasound later, you were back in the room with Amy. 

“I’ll get those tests back in about thirty minutes and I’ll tell you the results.” 

You nod. And when you walk through the big doors, you see a certain missing husband has not returned. Both your brows furrow. But Amy shrugs. 

“Oh. He’s not back yet. It’s fine. I have some more things I’d like to go over with you.” 

Sitting back in your original seat you wait again, but your mind wonders back to Jack. You’ve been taking tests for thirty minutes and he’s still not back yet. It’s not weird. But it’s kinda weird. 

Amy sits down and pulls the computer closer to her. While she’s clicking on buttons and saying something like “I’m just gonna pull up your chart here…” You’re pulling out your phone. 

You click on Jack’s contact. It really has been thirty minutes and the more you think about it, the more you worry for him. 

Having fun in there?

You shoot the text. Sitting up straight in your chair you’re definitely not expecting a response back so soon when your phone buzzes on your lap. 

The most fun. 

You hide a smile. You can imagine him pulling down his pants half way with his dick hanging out and leaking. What you can’t imagine is why it’s taking so long. 

Then hurry up, we’re waiting on the test results to get back. 

About that…

Your brows furrow. You sneak a glance at Amy but she’s still looking at the computer screen. You can hear the clicking of the mouse pad. 

What did you do this time?

I can’t get hard. 

You want to gawk. Except not here, and not now in front of this nice doctor. But those words have only come out of Jack’s mouth maybe twice in your entire marriage. Your fingers quickly type against the keyboard of your phone.

You’re not that old yet. 

Idk what’s wrong! 

Jack, this is really ruining our baby making ability. 

Oh really? Sorry I was under the impression we didn’t need cum to procreate and the fucking storks were going to bring us a child. 

You can hear the sarcasm through the text. You can imagine the huff Jack would be letting out right about now and it makes you want to smile. 

Stay where you are. 

What?!?!

“So I’ve found—” 

You cut Amy off— bless her soul— and softly ask for the bathroom. She nods and tells you where, but your mind zones out. Because if you heard it right, there was a private room that Jack was inside and you were so going to tease him about this. 

Out the door, to the left, down a hall, and soon there is a door on your right with the words “private room” written on it. You knock rapidly a few times. Voice a little louder than usual. 

“Someone call for a sex worker?” 

Jack peaks his head through the door and lets his eyes wander up and down your body as if examining you. 

“Yeah, that was fast. We gotta keep this on the down low so my wife doesn’t find out.” 

You scoff, but only to hide your smile. Even after years of being married to him he’s still annoyingly funny. Sarcastic comments making a grin splay across your face throughout the day. 

You shove past him and into the room. It’s smaller than imagined and has a big worn loveseat with a small side table. There’s a rack full of playboy magazines hanging by the wall along with some lube, hand sanitizer, and tissues. Jack is gracious enough to close the door behind you and lock it. 

Picking one of the magazines up you show Jack the front cover. There’s a picture of a woman arching her back against the bed, sheet hardly covering her breasts. 

“This isn’t doing it for you?”

Jack looks at the cover but hardly for more than a few seconds before meeting your gaze. 

“You know I read that one through. There’s some pretty lingerie in that one and I think we should head to the mall after—”

You huff a breath and put the magazine back roughly, crossing your arms over your chest. Jack seems to get it now, this is serious. Or as serious as it can be when you’re told to jerk off in a shitty private room. 

“Why can’t you get hard?” 

“The stress— the pressure— is all a lot sweetheart.” 

Jack looks nervous, his ears are tinted pink and his whole posture is wound up tight. You’ll give him grace just this one time, letting your arms fall to your side with a small sigh. 

“Okay… what have you tried then?” 

Jack slides past you and sits on the couch, he sinks deep down into it and spreads his legs before handing you his phone. 

“Tried everything.” 

He looks a little disappointed, not meeting your gaze and when you open up his phone the first thing you’re greeted with was pictures of you. Looking like they could have gone on the cover of those playboy magazines. 

It’s so sweet you almost want to coo at him. Looking at your nudes he has saved. But your eyes dart to where the crotch of his pants are, where the stupid belt buckle rests, and there’s nothing there. 

“Did you think about the time on the cruise ship?” 

Jacks eyes bore into you. He sends you an almost death glare and you watch as his cheeks flame up into the lightest shade of pink. Though it fades fast. You know he’s really embarrassed when his voice changes a pitch higher when he throws his head back. 

“Yes. I thought about the time on the cruise.” 

You hum. He really is at a little bit of a dead end. But there’s still the real thing. Or as close as the real thing you can get. You sit down next to him on the couch. It’s still for a moment before your voice rings out loud and confident. 

“Let me take your clothes off.” 

Jack stares at you for a moment, his lips curve up into the prettiest smirk and you can see the gears turning inside his head. 

“At least ask me out to dinner first.” 

“I’m serious.” 

Your hand immediately goes under his shirt, lifting. He’s warm and relaxes under your touch a little bit before catching your wrist. 

“Sweetheart we can’t contaminate the goods.” He nods to where the plastic cup is on the tiny side table and you shrug. 

“I won’t.” 

Jack looks doubtful but lets you continue anyway with taking his shirt off. 

“Just close your eyes.” 

You whisper softly, and as soon as his arms are out of the holes of his shirt you wrap the fabric around his head, kinda as a makeshift blindfold. It starts to fall immediately and Jack laughs. 

“Shut up—” you tilt his head just so and make sure his shirt isn’t in the way of his nose or ears. Pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Just listen to me okay?” 

“I’m all yours baby.”

His words make you smile freely, stupidly. But your hands run down his chest. Over his pecks and down to his stomach. You glide your hands down his sides and to his v-line. 

You watch him shift his hips a little. Practically begging to become naked, and you relent. Undoing his belt buckle and the zipper of his jeans, he lifts his hips up and you pull everything down all the way to his ankles.

Trailing at a snails pace, you run your fingernails over his hairy thighs. You hear the slight change in breath but when you look at his cock it’s still soft. 

“Remember why we’re doing this.” 

You whisper as your hand slides closer and closer to his pelvis. Jacks head rolls back and his neck is out on display, scruff practically begging to leave little red welts on your face. 

“To get me pregnant, right?” 

Jack groans, it’s deep from his throat and you go to press a slow achingly desperate kisses on his neck. 

“Yeah. I— I wanna get you pregnant.” He begs, and you nod. Leaving an imaginary trail of kitten kisses from his neck to chest. 

Jack can’t see your hand, but his hand juts out. Fingers opened wide as if he’s looking for your hand. You give it to him graciously and he squeezes it three times. 

“I know you do.” You breathe, and finally you watch as his dick twitches the tiniest bit. It was almost too easy. “Wanna see me full huh? Walking around all helpless, with your baby.” 

Jack nods. Every once in a while you can see his eyebrows furrowing from under the shirt. You have a feeling he’s enjoying this. 

“Come on honey. Tell me about it. Tell me how you wanna get me pregnant.” 

Usually Jack is great with dirty talk. But right now, he’s licking his lips like his mouth is dry and at a loss for words. Your hand goes down to touch at his dick. He’s sensitive and you can feel the blood flowing down to it, making it warm and hard. 

“You’d be on the bed. Ass up face down.” 

“Mhm.” 

You hum. Nodding for him to continue. He has that slightly darker voice now, the one when he purposefully tries to make you all flustered. You twist your body just enough to grab at the clear cup. Undoing the top for it and in your other hand squirting some lube.

“Gonna rock your shit for hours. Spank that ass, because you know how much I love your ass.” 

As if to show you, his hand that’s not holding yours comes down, touching at your hip before going behind and gripping at the plump flesh. 

Your lubed up hand goes to touch his dick and Jack hisses. Giving a few tentative tugs, you feel him hardening in your palm. A soft moan slipping out of Jack’s lips. 

“Keep going baby.” 

You mumble and do a soft swing of your hips to edge him on. His hand travels down your body now. Grasping at all his favorite spots. 

“M’gonna make you moan loud. Beg for it. G’nna watch your little pussy take it all.” Jack’s hand squeezes at your sides before trailing up to your chest. Grasping at the heavy weight of your breasts. “Oh fuck I can’t wait till these are full.” 

When he’s hard enough you start to do slow tugs, smearing the lube around, up and down. Chastising him softly for the comment. “Jack.” 

“It’s true.” 

There’s no shame in his voice when you’re edging him on. He grips softly at your tits, massaging them through the layers of fabric.  

“Can’t wait for them to be heavy and dripping. Fucking wonderful you can feed our children with these. Can’t wait for you to be heavy and whiny. M’gonna be there baby. At your every whim.” 

You’re glad Jack has the blindfold on because you’re smiling wide. You’d like to believe this isn’t just dirty talk, and that he actually means all of it. That he really wants this baby just as much as you do. 

“Oh fuck— you’re a miracle worker.” 

Jack’s dick is now fully hard in your hand. Five minutes ago Jack thought he wouldn’t be able to get hard. Doomed to go home and have to jerk off and send all his swimmers through the mail. Which doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it is when you’re trying to have a baby and want one fast. 

You kiss Jack’s lips. Soft, with a hint of passion. He’s the sweetest. His hand drops from your tit and up onto your jaw, pushing your faces close together. Minds getting lost in each other. 

You feel Jack’s cock twitching in your hold with every up and down thrust and sloppy twist. You pull away, Jack follows because he doesn’t want to break the kiss. But you go back further than he can catch you. 

“Doing so good for me baby.” 

Jack wasn’t a huge exhibitionist. Probably why he couldn’t get hard in the first place. But if there’s a clearing in the trees, he’s not opposed to doing it in the back seat of his car. 

Jack groans again beside you. This time his hand comes down on-top of yours and guides you to go a little faster. “Nu-uh. You’re doing so good baby. Making me feel amazing— ohh fuck m’gonna give it to you so good when we’re home.” 

You bite your lip. He sounds wrecked and looks so pretty with the blindfold on his eyes and his mouth agape. Any other time you would use that to your full advantage, but not now. Not when it’s all about him. 

Wet squelches echo off of the small room walls, hitting your ears and making your thighs clench. Clit throbbing at the sight. You really hope he makes do with that promise about when you get home, because there’s definitely a damp spot between your legs.

You squeeze his hand that’s holding yours once, and Jack returns the gesture no matter how fucked out he is. You watch as his hips jerk up a few times, you want to let him ride it out. He’s so pretty like this, till you remember why you’re here in the first place.

“Uh… yeah, just like that honey.” 

You snatch the plastic cup from your side and position his dick down, pointing it into the rim of the cup. Jack doesn’t seem to know or even care. Quickly grabbing at the arm of the couch or digging into your skin. 

Jack rambles when he’s getting close, yet it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard, even when he’s repeating the same thing over and over. 

“M’so close—” it sounds like he’s struggling. “Right there baby. Gonna cum so hard f’r you. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—” 

And finally with a groan you watch the tip of his dick spill white hot cum into the plastic cup. The first two spurts are rough, hitting directly into the jar, after that there’s less and it lands on his chest and on the ground no matter how hard you try to get it all in. 

“Good job honey.” You coo, slowing down your thrusts and making sure to milk every last drop from him. Watching as the hot liquid drips a few more times until Jack finally stops you with a hand on your wrist. 

Jack removes his blindfold— his shirt— and watches as you cap off the tiny cup. Putting it in the plastic bag for him. You look oddly pleased. 

“Well, seems like you got a little cleaning up to do.”

You gesture to Jack’s chest and he shakes his head. Still leaning back against the couch he looks like a painting. One you would buy in seconds for your secret sex room. If you ever had one. 

Jack waves his hand in a come hither motion and you don’t think twice. Meeting him halfway for another long, lung aching kiss. Stealing your breath for himself. The selfish bastard. 

When you pull away and look into his eyes, they’re half lidded like he’s suddenly tired. 

“Better than the cruise ship?” You ask softly. 

Jack scoffs. “Nothing beats the cruise ship honey.” 

Your eyes narrow, almost looking offended at his words and you slowly walk backwards to the door. 

“Do not underestimate me, Abbot.” 

Jack lifts up his arms in defeat. Yeah, definitely tired after one orgasm. Old man. He’s shucking up his boxers and jeans and redoing his belt as your hand touches the door knob. 

“I’m gonna go out first and then you can come in five minutes afterwards so it doesn’t look like I jerked you off okay?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

[siolixz]

⊹ ˚⟡‧Starlight‧⟡ ˚⊹

When the quiet grace of a Lady of House Dayne meets the jagged temper of Prince Maekar 'The Anvil' Targaryen, she is caught between his cold silence and her growing fire. Finding a way to grab hold of the man behind the armor may seem harder than ever imagined. (one-shot)

pairings: Maekar Targaryen x (Dayne) Reader

warnings: Maekar is an asshole; age-gap ( • ᴗ - ); filthy smut (dragons are all dead but imma make sure ure gonna ride one alright);

words: 7k

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You pulled your horse to a gallop as you reached Summerhall once more. The brown mare breathed out in protest but followed your lead as you trotted back to the palace you called home. The guards and servants of the house were all mingling about, half forgetting of your existence as your stable boy took Chestnut away. 

The Redgrass Field was filled with the mangled corpses of the rebels and the Targaryens had won.

In the months following the master of the house’s leave, you could finally breathe the scent of freedom you longed for. The servants and maesters could finally rest easy knowing they will not be under the scrutiny of their lord, but under your careful guidance and grace for you were a Dayne, of the mighty Starfall. Many words and deeds were attributed to your house, many greater than the last, you were a people who believed in the righteousness of the soul, in the spirit of valor and the quiet power of words. You, as a Lady of the House, enjoyed the very same freedoms your brothers received, being trained by your father’s knights and taught the words of the common tongue as well as any poet or counselor.

The smell of vinegar hit your nose like a blow as you walked inside the main hall of the house, the servants had started preparing for tonight’s arrival, scrubbing every inch of happiness off the marble floor and from the walls. Your heart felt heavy. Gone will be the days you could bestow upon each of them the power of peace.

Even if today should be a celebration, you felt as defeated as Daemon Blackfyre. 

Nymella, a Dornish woman, who was born not far from your own home was your personal apothecary. Her black eyes and copper skin reminded you of summer, and truth be told, you regarded her as more friend than employee. She smiled as you walked into her room. Your light lavender riding shirt and white leather pants half covered in the dust dancing from the air at the border of the Dornish mountains heavy on your clothes. 

“Hello, Star.” She was pressing some sort of yellow herbs together. The air smelled of amber and sweet vanilla as you took a seat in one of the chairs she had in the middle of the room. You laid your head back on the pillow behind your head. Wondering. Thinking. What shall you say to him? Would he be changed?

“You look weary, is it because of the ride or the husband?” She took a seat next to your own, mortar and pestle on her lap covered in her dornish wear. 

You sighed. Truly you wished this all would’ve been easier for you. Your sister Dyanna, should’ve been in your place, she was made of tougher steel. She could’ve handled this much better than you. She could’ve handled him much better than you. She always knew what to do. You shook your head.

Nymella could read you like an open book, for she had known far more people than you. You looked into her eyes and searched for words.

“Is it cruel and terrible of me to wish he wouldn’t have returned so soon?” 

“Perhaps. But there isn’t anything we can do about it.” 

You nodded and Nymella laughed. 

“Gods above, Star, you look like you’re heading to war yourself, not in the arms of your Prince.” She giggled all the way through her speech.

“I am heading to war, Nymella. That's all he knows. Every time. He acts as if I am some sort of soldier he must command, not his wife. He treats these beautiful grounds like his own battlement he must order around.” 

“Still, your husband is returning and he brings with him a fire in his belly, doesn’t that sound pleasant to your ears? It should.” Her eyes were mischievous, probably imagining herself in your situation, albeit with a more pleasant knight. 

“No. I… I would rather not think of that.” Your ears felt ablaze with the usual shyness a girl of your experience showed. Memories of the night you became a woman flashed in your mind, your husband's body over your own and the pain between your legs. He left shortly after, the call of war greater than your marriage bed. 

“You shouldn’t let him dominate you like he does some piss poor farmer on the road here. You are his wife.” Nymella rose once more, bringing forward a vial of crimson liquid that smelled like the sweetest flowers in your garden. “Maekar is a man, as all men are men. No blood of his will change that.”

You took the vial from her and held it in your hand as she took her seat again next to you. “That’s easy for you to say, you’ve known a lot more men than me.” 

“Yes I have, so you must listen to the words I say. ” She didn’t understand you. Surely she didn’t see the way your husband filled any room he walked into, how he spread his legs like a Lyseni whore when he sat down, leaving all the etiquette of a Targaryen Prince out the door. How he spit on the ground like he was owed an apology. How he took you that night, and the following nights after, before he had to leave. His much larger hands moving you how he wanted, having you as much as he wanted, before turning his back and snoring like dying Balerion until the morrow. He would stare at you, and you would think to shrink as small as an ant before his gaze, your ancestors are probably turning over ten times in the crypt.

“I can see this brings a lot of thought in your mind,” She reached over, holding your hand in her own. She squeezed, once, for you to listen and twice, for good measure. "I’ve seen enough men and believe me, nothing unmans one faster than a wife who stops trembling and starts reaching. I’ve watched great generals shake like squires and heard of lords tripping over their own shadows just for a taste.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper “And that husband of yours? He’s just a man with a bigger name and a heavier hammer. He’ll melt, girl. I’ll wager my life on it."

“And what do you suppose I do?” Your voice adopted the same tone as her own. 

“I want you to go to him. Don’t let him take you, have him first and then you can tell me if he frightens you so.” 

You already imagined yourself on your knees before him as he sulked in front of the fireplace of your great chamber. His body a mountain before your own. The night in Summerhall allowed a cool breeze to drift through, and your husband preferred the breeze for his mighty blood ran hotter than the fires on Dragonstone. You quickly pushed that image out of your mind, for you had no idea where to even put your hands.

Would he even let you touch him where his attention would be physical without him making the first move? 

“Besides,” Nymella started once more, seeing your sour disposition and wanting to see your eyes brighten up again “one look at that silver hair of his and you understand why some claim his kind are closer to Gods than to men. You should feel your belly as restless as his is, it’s not everyday a woman gets to ride a dragon.” 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The day passed uneventfully afterwards.

You bathed then changed into the milk white dress your servants prepared, the soft silk easy on your clean skin. They braided your hair in the custom of your house and then you were left waiting.

Any sound outside would have the staff snap their heads to the grand oak doors and your heart beat a restless drum in your chest. The sun was leaving the sky to his sister as he painted the world outside in shades of bright orange which reflected off the terracotta hued marble from inside the house and created soft paintings over the walls of your home. You waited. They offered you dinner, but you could barely swallow your own emotions, let alone the roasted lamb your husband preferred.

Outside, in the private gardens, your mourning doves had begun their low, rhythmic lament. Usually, the sound brought you peace, but this evening their crying felt like an omen. Still, you waited. 

Nymella offered you some tea, a steaming cup of liquid gold, smelling of sun drenched fields and the deep, floral bite of saffron for “warming your womb” and calm your restlessness. You toyed with your silver bracelet. Truly, you wished he would just arrive already.

Leave it to him to make you wait and be miserable for hours. Mayhaps, something happened on the road. Bandits, or worse, mercenaries. But who would kill a fourth son? Your husband was so far from the line of succession, the only thing the crown needed him for was to break heads and hands. For he dearly enjoyed doing so.

When you looked up at the sky near one of the sandstone columns outside, you decided you had enough.

He won’t arrive tonight. 

You walked to the grand library you had in your ancient home. Happy you could get to reading a book as you sprawled once more in your colossal bed without a man to ruin your peace. You picked a tome of green and gold, it was the story of a knight who was righteous and understanding, who fell in love with a Lady and wanted to marry her, despite what her destiny might claim. You held the book to your chest as you returned. 

A servant passed you, running.

Then another one, a young boy, carrying a heavy towel. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as the commotion from inside the house reached your ears. 

So he did arrive home after all. 

He had no want for royal protocol, nor for stupid announcers of his presence. You thought for a second you might slip away into the night, get on Chestnut and ride hard and fast past the Red Mountain and the eternal Torrentine to go home. 

You rounded the corner and passed the heavy mahogany doors to see the servants, some having burned hands and fingers, pouring down buckets of boiling water in your copper bathtub to the edge of the room. He smelled of iron and burned leather. Simply overpowering any other scent you sprayed into your grand chambers, perfectly made to allow as much breeze into the room as possible. 

Maekar had his back to you.

Dressed in the black leather and red fur of his house. He knew your light steps better than you. 

“Our chamber smells like a Tyrosh brothel.” His voice traveled right to your ears in a clear, powerful tone. The same voice made for commanding armies, not for whispering sweet nothings into a woman’s ears.

He finally turned and you could finally see the face of your Prince once more. His hair, white as a bone, was swept back and he had a beard now. But it was still, unmistakably, Maekar. “The Anvil” they call him. And you could see no reason why they might call him anything else, for he definitely tried to shape you like iron on him during the last night you had together. His face, scarred from when he was ill with the pox, made his scowl even more terrifying. 

Not that many would be brave, or stupid enough to look him in the eyes.

“Welcome home, my Lord.” You bowed your head in the custom you were taught a Lady should perform as she greets her husband. He moved to the great basin, and started removing his clothes. First he untangled the silk cord holding his tunic in place, dropping it to the floor so the servants would be reminded of their place. The two young boys you saw running  approached him, reaching to help with his heavy boots, but he snarled at them and it was as if they were attending to a pointed sword.

"Fuck off.” he snapped "All of you. Out." They nearly tripped over themselves to flee and you had half the mind to turn around yourself and run to a dark corner he wouldn’t find you in.

Then he removed his tunic, then his undershirt and you, unfortunately so, looked away, even if it was for only a moment when you felt as if a stone was thrown towards your belly. The water was hot enough to blister human skin, yet he didn't even hesitate in swinging a strong leg over the tub.

“The road was long, I imagine.” Your voice sounded small against the splash of water as he lowered his body down with a groan, the sound traveled to your ears, then down between your legs but you didn’t wish to think of that.

“Was the weather kind to you, my Lord?” 

“It rained for three days near Blackwater,” his voice was akin to grinding stones, “The mud was up to the horses' hocks and smelled like a dead man's shit.”

You winced at the crudeness, but tried to maintain the grace your mother had taught you as you tried to not cower before him. "Regardless, I am glad you are home. We have missed your presence at Summerhall."

He looked at you like you said the dumbest jest he had ever heard: “No you haven’t.”

No you didn’t, therefore you didn’t argue.

The chamber was thick with the scent of scalded copper and the sweet perfume that Maekar clearly loathed. His head was tilted back against the rim, his throat exposed with a thick, powerful cord of muscle that looked as though it could weather the strike of a longsword. His eyes remained closed, his face a mask of exhaustion. You thought to say something, anything-

“Well? You’ve had a tongue for the servants and yet with me you are as quiet as a fucking squire.” Of course he knew of your gentle behaviour towards the smallfolk tending to you in the months he was gone, this was, after all, his house. “What has been happening in this nest of silk and song while I was cutting necks for the crown?”

You swallowed hard, the humidity making your white dress cling to your back. All careful words seemed to evade you, any lesson your family had ever taught you useless: “It has been… quiet, my lord. We followed the instructions you left. The harvest was brought in, and the accounts for the winter stores are nearly complete.” Your voice was more mumble than words.

“Speak up!” He snapped, and you, caught completely unaware and used to the grace of the staff, flinched as if he hit you. “I’ve spent almost a year with nothing but the roar of the catapults and the screams of dying men in my ears. I can’t hear your soft, palace whispers.”

“I said the accounts for winter are finished!” you said, forcing your voice to go louder, though it felt brittle and strange in your own ears. 

“Good,” he grunted, his jaw tightening as if he were biting back a curse. A long silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the drip of water from his beard to the bath. Then, without moving a single muscle, he asked another question “And who did you have in my bed while I was gone?”

You didn't answer immediately. You couldn’t. The sheer crudeness of the accusation felt like a physical blow and you were left to stare at him as he fixed you with his scrutinous gaze. 

Maekar’s eyes moved over your features like a commander inspecting a breached wall. He looked for a blush of guilt, a downward cast of the eyes, anything he could crush.

“No,” you stammered, the word catching in your throat. “Never. I would… I would never think to do such a thing. My lord, I have been here, waiting. Only waiting.”

His expression was unreadable and grim. He let out a long, ragged breath and closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the boiling water.

“Good.” he muttered. 

He didn't move for a long time, looking almost like a statue of some ancient, vengeful king. Just as you thought he might have fallen into a trance, his lips moved one last time, the words falling like the blade of an axe.

“I’ll have you dead if I find anything of the sort. I don't give a shit for the songs they sing about your house. If you stain my name, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

You were once again left speechless. Mayhaps he had been hardened by the rebellion in ways, his mind already looking for traitors at every moment. But you were, under all and every aspect, a good woman, you hadn’t lain with any man, besides the one now washing himself in front of you.

You didn’t hate him, but you surely didn’t love him either. 

You moved to your vanity and placed your book there, promising yourself that you will finish it one of these days. You turned around as you heard the water splash once more and was greeted with the sight of your naked husband, your eyes traveled immediately between his thighs like an arrow and you averted your gaze to your massive ebony bed in the middle of the room, decorated with dragons and made out of the strongest wood in the Seven Kingdoms. He moved to dry his skin and commanded “Take your dress off and get on the bed, on your back.” like you were one of his soldiers.

You thought for a second about what Nymella said, your arms shaking as you untied your dress, about having him on his back and you on him, holding him there and reminding him that in these bedchambers, in this room and on this bed, you- not him, would be in charge.

You forgot about all of that and more as he grabbed you by your arm, placed you on the bed, raised your dress to your waist and your knees by your chest as he pressed himself between your thighs. You closed your eyes, cheeks aflame and heart in your ears as you grabbed the hand he had on your left outer tight. You much preferred when he took you in the night, where you could barely see him and his colossal shadow was the only thing to remind you that your husband was there. 

The fire from behind him allowed for too much light and too many details. You gasped as he pressed himself in you, the feeling unfamiliar in the long months he was away. Maekar gasped too, albeit quieter as he positioned himself better, his breath quickened and his hands shook, pushing down your gown by your chest until he could see your breasts and grab at them like some boy with the apples in his mother’s garden while he dragged his manhood inside your body. You would remain quiet, not sure if he would like the noises you wanted to make. You didn’t know if that fact annoyed him, but he would drag himself out and push as much as he could inside until you would grab at his shoulders and push him away, moaning from the pain and the pleasure you would feel in your belly. He had you like that for what felt like an eternity and you were sure his guards outside could very much hear. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The fire in the hearth had burned down to a dull, glowing orange and the room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Maekar’s breathing. He had fallen into a deep, unshakable sleep almost the moment he was finished, his back turned to you like a wall of stone. Your body felt heavy and distant, still humming with the ghost of his weight and the rough way he had you.

The scent of the "Tyrosh brothel" was gone, replaced by the smell of salt, lye, and the faint, metallic tang of the "Anvil" himself. You stared out at the moon hanging over the Dornish mountains, feeling the ache between your legs. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The days after you tried to make sense of your husband’s presence in the palace. His will was iron and it seemed like even the air bent to it here. He had you every night, and once in his study, when he received a letter from Kings Landing that sent his anger sweeping through the house and finally finding you in the form of a young squire that trembled as he told you your Lord husband is expecting you. 

Nymella remained the same. With the same advice. 

Yet every night, when he bedded you, you could hardly bring yourself to make any action towards him, any sort of conscious thought left you while holding your eyes closed through the whole ordeal. 

One blistering day, a messenger arrived from House Caron, the Lord and Lady wanted to join the Prince and Princess of the Iron Throne for dinner and you, a dear friend of Lady Jeyne Caron, accepted. The Carons were marcher lords from Nightsong and were famous for their singing and their history as the first line of defense against Dorne.

The lamb was well roasted, the vegetables freshly plucked from the garden and the bread was warm as they arrived. Hand in hand, bowing low before you and your stoic husband as the lord steward announced their presence. You hugged Jeyne before you sat and Lord Allun Caron began regalling you with stories. Maekar was drinking the dark crimsoned wine of Dorne. You thought you were above such indulgences, but as you saw the way the two interacted, joking and looking at each other like the other might disappear, you started drinking as well. The wine burned all the way down, but in that moment, you wished for something stronger. 

Maekar was chewing his lamb and swirling the wine in his chalice with a bored look on his face as you maintained the discussion with the Lady and Lord of House Caron. 

Allun interrupted Maekar’s thoughts as he tried to make conversation with the man of many years and experience above his own: “I heard the mud in the Redgrass field was so thick with blood the horses couldn't find their footing. My cousin said the stench of the dead was enough to make a man pray for a head wound just to lose his sense of smell. Must’ve been a hell of a thing to watch the Blackfyre’s line break under that mace of yours, no, Prince? I bet the sound of that iron hitting plate was sweeter than any harp.”

Maekar didn’t look away from the wall with the fireplace casting warm shadows on his face “It sounded like bone breaking,” he says flatly. “There’s nothing sweet to it.”

You watch Lady Jeyne’s hand tighten on Lord Allun’s arm, not in fear, but in support, as if she’s helping him weather the Prince’s attitude. You wonder if you’ll ever have the courage to even touch Maekar’s sleeve when he’s like this, you moved your eyes away from the awkward exchange and stared ahead as Lady Jeyne’s voice cut through the silence and you made eye contact with her.

“The songs don’t do your bride justice, my Lord. They say the Daynes have the stars in their blood and justice in their eyes and your beautiful wife is the clear embodiment of that. Why, you must be the luckiest man in all the Kingdoms.” Jeyne smiled and for whatever reason you felt tears prick at your eyes. You thanked her as Maekar fixed you with a long glance and nodded to Lady Jeyne. You tried to mask your emotion by eating some food while the pair tried to make conversation with the brooding Prince you called husband.

Was it the wine? Mayhaps. But in that moment you felt like reaching over and slapping him so hard he would’ve seen the stars standing mighty over your ancestral seat. How dare he? He couldn’t even agree with her, he couldn’t even say that ‘yes, she is beautiful’ or pretty or comely or whatever else he found in that thick head of his.

You brushed another tear that fell and before you knew it you chin wobbled. 

You really shouldn’t have drank.

The chair scraped over the marble floor as you stood, excusing yourself as your voice broke. You must send a raven to Lady Jeyne, apologizing, tomorrow. But for now, you had to get away. Your feet echoed into the vastness of the great hall, as you rounded the corner and sobs rocked you into two. You cried like you’ve never cried before and you were sure in that moment that you hated him. 

You hated him and his silences and his crass way. You hated that he was more mercenary in expensive leather than Prince of the Blood. You entered your chamber and undressed, laying in your bed and holding your pillow to your face as you felt your sobs rocking you to sleep. 

You heard the grand balcony doors, facing the Red Mountains, open. And yet, you couldn’t be bothered to look at him. 

You hated him, no, you despised him. 

He was undressing. Maekar took the grey fur from the bed you two shared and threw it on the ground as he laid next to you. The bed creaked and the sound of hooves were heard in the distance as your husband sighed. 

He laughed. 

Maekar Targaryen laughed, no, breathed out a noise that was akin to laughter through his nose and you wondered what was it that brought him to this point. You wished to turn and see what the great fuss was about-

“I know you’re awake.” 

You let a moment pass. The moon cast a white light in the room from the window and you turned, opening your eyes as if his rough voice awoke you, not your thoughts. Your eyes were bloodshot and your throat was scraped from all the crying. 

You hated him and you hated your silence and careful words of respect towards him. Maekar Targaryen didn’t deserve them. 

“Why must you be so cold?” you felt a fresh rush of tears to your eyes, and you let them fall, not caring he saw them, “You’re cold and uncaring, has anyone ever told you that?” 

His back was to the ebony headboard he was usually repeatedly slamming to the wall by this time of night. Maekar blinked once, like he was trying to make sense of your words and your boldness. 

You didn’t care what he thought of you anymore “When I was a little girl, I hoped that the Gods would bring me a man like Lord Caron, for he is sweet and caring. But they brought me you- and you are as crass as a mercenary and as unbecoming of a Prince as any soldier is.” You spit out the nearest insult you could find. Words tumbling out as fast as rain with the help of that sweet summer wine you drank. Your head was beginning to hurt, a pounding pain that settled in your skull. “You can barely see me as your wife so why, I ask you-” you hiccuped “-why have you made me so, if you would be uncaring with my soul and my body?”

Emboldened by the fire burning in your belly at finally speaking your feelings towards the stone wall you called husband you continued “Why do I, out of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms get to be with someone like you, while others can get to laugh and kiss their Lords when they please, how often they please- there are others who hold their wives, did you know? They don’t have to take them like some whore on the road.” Hot tears streamed down your face and you hiccuped all the way through your speech.

“Is that what you want me to do? To hold you? And kiss you?” His white hair and beard caught the light from outside and he looked every bit like the Valyrian lords of old he was descended from.

“Nay, my lord, you can keep your embraces to others, I clearly don’t wish for them.” You turned your back to him, still crying. He wouldn’t change for all the might of Valyria or the Iron Throne.

You could feel his presence beside you. He didn’t say anything else afterwards. Your sobs were the only thing heard in the colossal room.

You thought sleep might claim you again as you heard his voice.

“I don’t know how to act towards you so you may not be frightened of me.” Your belly hurt from all the sobs you put her through. Still, you listened. “I find it hard to find words to say to you, or to hold you- Gods know I haven’t been held in my life as you wish to be.” He scoffed at the last part and you realized you didn’t know much of his past. You took a deep breath, scared that any words might frighten him into solemn silence.

“If you wish to be kissed, you can act upon it yourself.” At that, you turned. 

You raised your bum to sit upright, back to the headboard as well. 

“You don’t wish for a husband like Lord Allun, trust me when I say so.” His voice was a whisper and you realized you never heard this hushed tone from him. “He’s had about a hundred whores and has bastarded half his servants” 

You gasped, “You lie!” your tone was a whisper as well. Memories of gossiping with your fellow Ladies came back, though this was surely different.

He shook his head, something akin to a smile forming on his face “It is truth what I speak.” 

You thought to turn and sleep, for you dearly wished to rest, but that godsdammed Dornish wine overpowered you before you could remember your manners before your Lord.

“Have you ever fathered any bastards?” 

A sound came out of him. A sound you never heard before from your man. You had half the mind to call Nymella and the Maester to find a cure. The sound was like that of…of laughter? He was laughing!

“No, I’ve not fathered any bastards. At least none that I know of.” You smiled with him, happy that you could see him happy. You half forgot what you were crying about. 

The dark covered you both in its embrace and maybe that’s why you were so brave. 

“You should sleep, before you bring me any more questions I may not know the answer to.” He laid down and sighed.

Yet, you were not done. No. What did Nymella say to you?

You rested your head once more on the warm pillow as he turned his back to you. You closed your eyes. Nay, maybe not tonight. Though, when else could it be if not tonight? Your heart thrummed in your chest as you lifted your hand.

Only for you to bring it down once more between you two.

You imagined him coming to your bedchambers, sitting down with a groan for his bones were weary, he was not as young as he used to be. You imagined yourself, sitting down on his lap of burned leather and expensive furs and kissing him. Not the closed mouth kissed you bestowed upon him once in a while, when he wanted you to, but open and hungry, like the ones Nymella’s books wrote about. You imagined him grabbing you with his strong hands and not rushing anywhere for once. 

You rubbed your thighs together and for the first time since meeting him you wondered: What in the Seven Hells were you so frightened of? 

You grabbed his shoulder and turned his much bigger body around with a definite pull to sit on his back.

You shuffled closer to him, closing your eyes as you often did when you were near him in such a situation. You opened them back up as you felt the smell of sandalwood and cedar and his broad shoulder land in the middle of your chest. 

He opened his eyes and that’s when you were expecting a remark, a curse, anything. You braced. Nothing came. Only his eyes. And yet, you didn’t cower like a flower in winter.

You touched the left side of his face and grabbed hold of his beard, forcing him to come closer and respond to your kiss. His lips were soft and careful as your own grabbed his upper lip and held it. His mouth tasted of summer wine and you were sure yours did too. You turned your head to the side, see if he tasted sweeter from there and your lips made a sound as they broke apart and then collided again that traveled right to your stomach and between your thighs. Maekar was surely feeling your heart beating out of your chest but you didn’t care for that. 

You moved your body to sit half on top of him as he grabbed your leg and put it across his thighs, legs moving on their own to find any friction between them that may ease the heat you felt. In a moment where you thought he would bring himself above you, as was his rightful place to be, he did the opposite.

Maekar grabbed your behind and pulled you on top.  

With his strong hands, more used to a mace than the soft skin of your waist beneath your nightshift. He settled your heat on top of his growing one as you placed both hands near his head and kept kissing him with as much need as any girl might towards her lover. You found all the long weeks spent dreaming of this moment and longing for it to happen to come crashing down all at once. So it could happen to you too. This wasn’t just books and whispers by friends in court.

He rose up to meet your feverish kisses and you found him pressing his hot mouth to your neck as he held your hair back. The noises that left you were so unlike you that, on any other day, with much less wine drank, you would’ve bowed your head in shame. But it was he who must be shamed, for he had treated you so unkindly.

You touched his broad chest and looked down upon your dragon husband. He looked smaller this way, much less royalty and more man. He grabbed your soft nightshift, raising it, and you threw it over your head and away from the both of you. His gaze swept across your body, to your breasts and waist, towards your thighs and the place he wished with ardent desperation to be inside of. 

You swung your leg off him and took his pants off. He needed the help, for his eyes never left your body. By the time he was in an almost-comfortable position you got on him again, feeling his heat on your own for the first time without rushing, and without closing your eyes so you may not die in shame. 

Your folds parted slightly as you took him beneath you and rubbed down on him. Moaning and looking down at him as he looked away to the canopy above you, lips parted and groaning all the way under your affection. His hands rested on your hips, but he barely commanded you to move.

You smiled. Then you grimaced in pleasure, and then smiled again. For this is what you wanted, no, needed. He looked into your eyes as you stood on your knees and brought him before your already wet entrance. His brows were furrowed and you felt his heart beat fast beneath your palm on his chest. You lowered yourself down and his moan was like that of your own. 

He brought his hands up to your breasts and closed his eyes as you tried to find a pace and a movement that might bring enough pleasure. At one point you stood too straight and a feeling like that of being impaled shot through your flower and towards your belly, you lowered down on him. Elbows on both sides of his head and kissing him like you did before as he rose up to meet your thrusts. The old bed croaked after each press of your body to his. 

The one stoic Maekar was groaning like you’ve never heard him before whenever you would meet him halfway. The only sounds in the room were your wetness and the feeling of damp skin pressing against each other time and time again as you cried into your husband's mouth. 

You rose again as he told you “Slower”, voice smaller than he ever used, but you couldn’t even begin to think about caring for any of his requests as you shoved yourself down on him time and time again. He didn’t seem to mind your pace either as he closed his eyes, and held your hips, grabbing you like you might disappear between his fingers. 

Your most sensitive spot rubbed against his own body time and time again and you grabbed fistfulls of his undershirt as you came. Squeezing him time and time again as he pulled you down once more on him. You wet your throat as he grabbed the back of your head and held you there. He didn’t stop until his thighs were shaking from beneath you and you felt the familiar pulse of his manhood, pressed as deep as he could in you. 

You remained laid with your head on his chest. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it beneath his hot and damp skin. 

After a moment, you looked at him. His cheeks, even in the soft light of the moon, looked impossibly rosy, like a maiden on her wedding night. And his once careful swept back hair was because of your hands, restless and wanting something to cling to, tangled and unkept. 

You kissed him again and he smelled of you.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You couldn’t say things remained the same afterwards. 

Meakar wanted you all the same, and yet you found yourself wanting him too. Nymella smiled whenever you came into her chambers with a knowing look.

“Your husband smells like a ‘Tyrosh brothel'  from neck to feet, any wonder why that is?”

The changes were subtle at first, like the slow turning of a season. It wasn't that Maekar suddenly became a man of poetry and flowers, but rather, the sharp, jagged edges of his temper had been filed down. He still scowled, but now, when his eyes caught yours, there was a flicker of something that looked like a secret shared between the two of you. A secret that set your heart on fire and pooled low into your stomach and beneath your thighs as you would be the one to call him to bed when he spent too long in his study.

You knew that his attitude would never touch you again, nor would his words make a dent into your humors as you regarded him as soft as summer air when you two were alone. Gone was the man who towered over you and you shivered in his shadow. He still existed, though you liked to imagine him with those silver locks of his buried beneath your legs as you held him there. 

You found that he loved the tartness of pomegranate juice one of your maids made and that he enjoyed the smell of jasmine. That he would much rather prefer staying in silence, each of you doing something of your own devices as you would often catch his gaze, though it wasn’t scrutinizing, you knew it was, in his own way- the only way he knew. His confession that he cared for you. He cared for you passionately as he extended your library and ordered Chestnut to be brought a wonderful saddle, made of fine leather from his own home, Dragonstone. 

His booming voice regaled you with stories of old, stories from his own family and how cruel he found life in the Red Keep, overshadowed by his brothers. He was glad he would never have to return there. 

He once told you, after you were both spent, with your back to him and his strong arm holding you, that he loved you, that he wished for you to love him back, if you could find it in you. You laughed. How dull could this man be? 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You looked ahead into the horizon as you waited for the Carons to arrive, you had to make amends for the way you treated them last time they visited you, Maekar had no choice but to obey and scowl at the sun.

“Maekar” You turned your purple silk dress towards him “please try to be pleasant- smile, at least.”

“I am smiling.” His face hadn’t moved from a scowl.

“Look at me. Smile,” your face was brought to a grin while you pointed at it “like this, see?”

He looked at you and tried his hardest to replicate your face, yet he looked like a sneezing tiger more than Lord. You doubled over in laughter as he looked away- this time, with a real, genuine smile on his face that made him look a decade younger.

He could be funny when he wanted to be.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

Authors note: Yall I had to. I love a man who is emotionally constipated and I tried to bring him in this story as much as I could. UGH Maekar I've liked u since u had that fuck ass bob in the Snow White and the Huntsman. THANK YOU FOR READING this was longer than I intended at first but if you find it in you to write a message to me that u enjoyed this story- it will make my whole day. Have a great day loves <3 imagine how he's gonna act when u die in a few years after birthing 6 kids

[dearwalker]

I can see you

Pairing: Jack Abbot x reader Word Count: 7.6k

Description: New city, new hospital, new job. You give yourself one last day to be free before your first shift, and happy hour ends with a stranger on your bed. The real problem starts the next morning, when he shows up in the same ER answering to “Dr. Abbot.”

Tags/warnings: second year resident fem!reader, smut, sleeping with the boss (?), porn with plot, Jack talk ‘em through it Abbot, clit stim, oral m receiving, p in v, hotel sex. ER cameos, mentions of a minor head injury, and banter.

Note: New man who disss 🤭 This one’s dedicated to my dear @nexxen24, who got me into The Pitt, and also gave me the idea for this lol. Enjoy! 🤍

Masterlist

And I could see you being my addiction

You can see me as a secret mission

Jack Abbot needed something sweet.

That was the excuse he gave himself today, anyway. The truth was, he found himself at the hotel bar a few blocks from the hospital more often than not, because it was quite dark, even in daytime. Dark enough that he could sit at the corner of the long counter and just exist for a couple of hours. 

Sometimes he came for a beer. Sometimes a sandwich. Sometimes just to swap stories with the bartender until it was time to go back to real life and drown himself in someone else’s blood.

Today, he came for a very specific thing: Chocolate cake. A slice of expensive, moist, and obscenely sweet cake. He was sure his imminent descent to madness was the root cause of these…cravings. Whatever.

He slid onto his usual stool at the far end of the bar, in a black shirt, and some joggers, badge and scrubs stuffed away in his backpack. 

He looked up at the bartender, but it wasn’t his usual guy. Instead, a girl with the darkest hair in a ponytail, walked up to him with a tired expression. There was a small white pin that said ‘Lisa– TRAINEE’ clipped to her uniform. 

“Evening, sir,” she greeted. 

“Afternoon, and just Jack, please,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing at the fancy clock on the wall. 4:43 pm. He still had a few hours off duty.

“Oh yeah–sorry! I get a little lost in here sometimes. Ugh, the only thing getting me through this shift is knowing I’m off tomorrow for the PittFest,” she said, making him chuckle. 

“Trust me, I get it. I’m also looking for something to help me get through mine,” he shrugged. “Festivals are not my thing, though. I’ll leave that to the ones with healthy knees.” 

“Mm, that’s fair,” she said, chuckling back. “So what can I get for you, ‘just Jack’? Gin? Old fashioned?” 

“No drinks, but can I get a slice of that infamous chocolate cake?” 

The girl looked at him like she wasn’t necessarily expecting that, but you know what? Hell yes, old guy. 

“Sure.” 

She walked round the bar, to a discreet door that led toward the kitchen, and asked for the cake to be served before stepping back to the bar again. 

“Thank you, Lisa,” Jack smiled, finally letting his shoulders loosen. 

You needed a stress reliever. 

You weren’t stressed now, but you knew that in less than 24 hours it would become your new normal…again. You are meant to start your first shift at PTMC as a second year resident tomorrow. 

New city, new program, and still…no apartment. But at least your hotel room was nice and ready for you to make it an early night, slightly tipsy and relaxed for your last blissful hours of freedom. Which is why at four something, you decide you’re going to treat yourself to be first in line for the hotel’s happy hour like the responsible adult you are. 

The hotel lounge is large and dimly lit. A couple takes one of the single couches, curled into each other with matching martinis. The rest of the space is almost empty, aside from–

Wait. That man is cute. Wait again. You have to do a double take. 

An attractive–no, very attractive man is sitting at the far corner of the long bar, waiting for his order. Simple outfit, camo backpack resting by his feet. He looks a little worn to be honest, but then again, don’t we all? 

Huh. Guess someone beat you to happy hour.

You take the opposite corner, leaving about six empty stools between you, when the bartender approaches you. 

“Afternoon, Miss.” 

“Hi, Lisa,” you smile. “I don’t really know what cocktail to get. Can I just get whatever your favorite is?”

“Oh–yeah I can do that,” she shrugs with a smile, turning back to her inner counter to mix the drink. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out, checking the payment notification from the guy who’s buying the festival tickets you’re selling. You text him to confirm he has to pick them up at the hospital tomorrow, hoping you get a spare minute to walk out the ER, when someone walks out a hidden kitchen door and slides a plate in front of you. 

“Chocolate cake,” the guy announces politely, but before you could even say that’s not yours, he turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again. You shrug, turning to the bartender who’s handing a drink to the man you saw when you came in. 

“I didn’t order this,” you both say at the same time. 

His head snaps toward your voice, and your eyes meet across the row of empty stools. He sees the generous slice in front of you, and with a not so subtle up and down look at you, a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Something flutters in your chest, so you break eye contact first, dropping your gaze to your phone and pretending to read another message. 

Come on, play it cool. 

“No drinks for me, Lisa. Remember?” you hear him say playfully, turning back to the counter. 

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she rushes out, reaching for the drink in front of him. “I’ll switch them right now, I–”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping her by wrapping his hand around the glass. “I got it.”

Your thumbs froze over your phone. He got it?

From the corner of your eye, you see him stand up, and duck down to scoop up his backpack. Your heartbeat does something very stupid as you try very hard not to stare while he walks in your direction. Okay. Okay. This is fine. Silver fox is walking toward you. You are not freaking out. You are a doctor, you have seen actual organs on tables. You can handle an older guy with pretty eyes. 

He slides easily onto the stool right next to you, setting the glass down with a soft clink. Fuck. Of course he smells good. You have no choice but to look at him properly this time, and up close, he’s even more handsome. Fluffy, wavy grey hair, with matching stubble (makes you wonder if the carpet matches too) and a glint of humor in his eyes that you know is trouble. 

“I believe this is yours,” he says, nudging the cocktail close to where you’re still holding your phone for dear life. 

“Then I believe this is yours,” you say, setting your phone with a smile and sliding the plate toward him.

He narrows his eyes playfully, looking between you and the cake. “Tell you what.” He leans in, and nudges it closer so it sits between the both of you. “I don’t mind sharing…do you?”

Oh. Okay. So that’s where this is going. 

“I don’t mind a lot of things,” you tilt your head, leaning one elbow on the bar, deciding to match that dangerous glint in his eyes with your own. His smirk grows before turning to the bartender again. 

“Can we get another spoon, please?” 

“Oh, sure. Here,” she says, handing it over. 

He takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’, then holds it up in front of you like an offering.

“I’m Jack, by the way. Don’t think I heard your name.”

You let out a small chuckle as you take the spoon, the tension in your shoulders loosening a little under his charming gaze. You tell him your name, his smile softening when he repeats it back to you.

“Nice to meet you, thanks for sharing my cake,” he says, finally digging his spoon into it. 

“Thanks for bringing me my drink,” you reply, reaching for the glass. You definitely need some buzz if you intend to survive this interaction. “I guess we’re even now, Jack.”

“Not yet,” he says, getting the first bite of cake. He hums in delight, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “But we’re getting there.”

You divert your gaze to your phone once again, heat blooming your cheeks. He smiles triumphantly at your reaction, deciding to push you a little more. 

“Well, aren’t you going to try it?” 

You bite back a smile, nodding as you dig your spoon into the cake. He watches your every move like a hawk as you lift it towards your mouth. You mirror his hum when you taste it, instinctively running your tongue over your lips to get the sugary remains off. 

Jack shifts in his seat. 

“Great, isn’t it?” He says, “tried it once and never was the same.”

“Would’ve never thought to try it, to be honest,” you chuckle.

“Me neither, guess I just needed something sweet today,” he shrugs, still too calm and too smug, still making your heart rate go crazy without even trying. “Looks like I came to the right place, though,” he winks, digging his spoon again for another bite. 

Yeah, no. He’s definitely trying. 

“So, what brings you here to the land of cake instead of…I don’t know, a whiskey?” You ask, playing with the straw of your drink.

“No drinks for me,” he shrugs.

“Designated driver?”

“Designated something, I have to leave at seven,” he glances at the clock again. You follow his gaze, and see it’s just after five. 

“What, you gotta catch a flight or something?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he grins.

His answers are vague, intentionally so. You recognize it instantly because you use that tone too about your own job, when you don’t feel like opening that door with a stranger. 

“What about you? Are you celebrating something?” He asks, and you swear with every question he shifts a little closer to you. 

“I’m making it an early night, tomorrow’s a big day,” you nod with a smile.

“Oh yeah? Festival?” he asks, you can feel the genuine curiosity under the smug tone. 

“I wish,” you shrug. “I got tickets but something important came up, so…here I am, first in line for happy hour instead. Making the most of that hotel lifestyle,” you lift your glass, he lifts his spoon with a chuckle. 

“You’re staying here?”

“Mmhm. It’s actually pretty great. Nice room, silk bed sheets, the works.”

“Decent cake, too,” he adds mocking seriousness. “Too bad someone stole it.”

“Excuse me,” you protest playfully, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be looking sad and lonely at the end of the bar.”

He laughs, catching the attention of Lisa who’s clearly not trying to eavesdrop. “Yeah. I’m glad I’m not, then,” he says quietly. “Company’s good.”

From there, the conversation just flows.

At some point, you realize you’ve barely touched your cocktail, or the cake between you. You can feel the tension building with every shared look. The way his gaze dips to your mouth when you bring the spoon to your lips. The way your knee kept drifting closer to his, the faintest brush when either of you shifts on your stool. 

And that warm, electric buzz in your veins has very little to do with sugar or alcohol.

Your eyes flick instinctively toward the clock on the wall when you laugh about something he said, and see it’s a few minutes past six already. 

This is the moment where you could let him go, say goodnight and head upstairs alone. But you feel like you haven’t gotten your fix yet. That good moment of pure bliss before you go back into charts and monitors and reminding yourself you love the career you chose.

Some people do drugs or caffeine, or apparently, sugar as a stress reliever. The poison you chose today was supposed to be alcohol, but maybe you have something better sitting right next to you. 

Huh. Sometimes dick does the trick too. 

You turn your gaze back to him, lashes half lowered and innocent, catching him watching you already.

“It’s getting late,” you say casually, “but I think you still have time to walk me to my room.”

For a split second, the words just hang in the air. Clear and irreversible. His expression doesn’t change much, because he’s already been giving you bedroom eyes this whole time, but you notice the way his jaw tightens slightly, before that unmistakable smirk reappears.

“Yeah, I think I do,” he rasps. 

Cake be damned. He’s got a sweeter dessert right in front of him. 

He straightens on his stool and lifts a hand, catching Lisa's attention with a small wave, then reaches for his wallet. You press the button to pay with your phone, but he puts his hand over yours to stop you. 

“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, sliding his card over the counter before you can protest. 

You’re not sure what exactly made your heart almost jump out of your chest again, the gesture or his electric touch on your skin. Maybe both. 

You distract yourself by looking at your glass, still more than half full. 

“Thank you. I didn’t even finish it…” 

“I don’t think we’re going to miss it,” he looks at it, then back at you amused. 

Your face warms–again–at the implication. 

The girl gives him the receipt, and the way his arm flexes on the counter when he signs it with a quiet ‘thank you’, makes your thighs rub in anticipation. He slips a final twenty over the receipt as a tip, before turning fully toward you. He stands up first, grabbing his backpack with one hand, and helping you out of your stool with the other. His hand finds its way to your lower back, settling there as you walk. 

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

By 6:10 pm the door of your room clicks shut. 

Jack drops his backpack somewhere to the side, one hand finds your waist, the other cups the back of your head before he pins you against the wall, and his mouth finds yours in an instant. 

You gasp into the kiss, immediately grabbing him by his white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. His gray stubble scrapes your skin in the best possible way, burning along your jaw as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You slide one hand up to his hair, it’s softer than it looks, and he makes a low sound when you tug it just enough to angle his mouth where you want it. 

His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, rough palms spreading over your back. You can’t keep your hands to yourself either when you get past his shirt, running them through firm muscle and chest hair. Your hands can’t help but wander around his strong back, nails scraping against his skin when he starts kissing down the line of your jaw, scraping his beard along your throat in a delicious burn. 

“Jack…” you breathe, tightening your grip in his hair.

He smiles against your skin, dragging his lips and stubble slowly across your neck, sending sparks all the way down to between your legs. When he sucks a particularly sensitive spot, the sound that slips out of you is embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“I got you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to tug the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?” 

You nod quickly, and soon enough both of your shirts end up somewhere on the floor. You’re left in your bra, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath, but it’s hard when his gaze drops to your chest and lingers there. 

So you ogle him too. 

He’s built like a brick wall. Solid, toned chest dusted with hair, and framed by broad shoulders. And those arms? Oof. God, you can’t wait to feel all that strength he hides under those tired eyes and easy smiles.

He nudges you away from the wall steering you backwards, mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your legs bumps into the base of the bed. He gently guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress. You look up at him, already dazed. His hair is a mess from your fingers, chest rising and falling quickly, that cheeky smile of his still on his face. He reaches for your jeans next, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off. The cool air of the room kisses your skin as he throws them somewhere in the room. 

“You’re still too dressed,” you chuckle, left only in your underwear.

“You’re still too desperate,” he jokes, laughing when you gasp and slap his chest weakly. “Hmm. Harder next time, sweetheart.”

You probably shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did, but he seems satisfied with your silence. His hands go to the waistband of his joggers, barely grabbing the elastic when his hands suddenly stop. If you weren’t watching his face, you would've probably missed the way his confident smile faltered for a second. 

“Are you okay?,” you ask, straightening up on the bed.

“Yes,” he says quickly, but his hands are still frozen on his hips. “Yeah, I am. I just–”

You notice the way he shifts as if to step away from you, but your body reacts before you can think. “Hey, wait–”

You hook your feet around his calves to stop him from pulling away, but your left foot feels something different than you expected. It’s not the familiar firmness of muscle, but the unmistakable sensation of metal where skin should be. You don’t really need to see it to know what it is. 

His camo backpack and the vagueness of his answers suddenly click to you, but Jack is frozen in place, trying to read the expression on your face. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, you figure it’s the script he probably hates having to say but feels obligated to in situations like this. “I should’ve told you before we came up, it’s okay if you don’t want to–”

“Jack,” you cut him off, quickly standing up so you’re pressed against him, before he decides to step back again. You tilt your head back a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? If I didn’t want this, you’d already be standing shirtless in the hallway,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. 

“You don’t…mind?” His hazel eyes scan your face, still trying to find the desertion you’re not giving him. 

You can feel his heart racing under your palm, and it almost makes you laugh how the doctor in you wants to inject him with something to fix his tachycardia. Opting for a less aggressive approach, you slide your arms over his shoulders to play with the hair on the back of his neck. 

“I don’t mind,” you say, as reassuring as you can. You liked him the second he shared his stupid cake. This? This just adds more to it. “But if you do, we can stop,” you add, slowly pulling away from him but he slides his arm behind your back.

“I don’t want to stop,” he rasps, pressing you tighter to him. The bulge digging against your skin agrees with him.

“Hmm. Then you better hurry, we’re running out of time…” you sing-song, grinding yourself against him. 

He breathes out a laugh. Oh, how I love this girl. He halts the movement of your hips, his hands become sure and steady once again as they settle on your waist. He forgets about his pants for a moment, innstead, he decides to focus on you. 

“Turn around,” he says, but you don’t move an inch, just blink at the sudden change in his voice. He chuckles, loosening his grip just a little. “Turn around, sweetheart.”

Now you’re the one who needs help stabilizing their heartbeat. 

You nod, then do as he says, shifting so your back is to him. He closes the gap immediately, one arm around your shoulder to hold you while the other settles just above the hem of your panties, but he doesn’t slip inside. His hand drifts lower and lower, stopping right over the slick leaking through the fabric, making you gasp. 

“There she is,” his pleased voice while he drags teasing circles around your clit–but not really there–makes a chill run down your body. “Thought I lost you for a second there.”

You let your head tip back onto his shoulder, prompting him to apply more pressure, or find the right spot, but he keeps you pinned right where he wants you. He keeps rubbing slowly, still over the fabric, still teasing, coaxing the smallest sounds from you. 

“I know you said to hurry, but I gotta take care of you first,” he whispers right in your ear. “Think I can do it this way? Without really touching you?” He barely grazes the base of your clit, dragging his finger back down immediately just to hear you whine again. 

“Jack I–fuck.”

He chuckles when the faintest additional pressure makes you squirm, but that's no issue to him, he easily shifts you into the angle he wants. His fingers finally skim higher, now properly rubbing your clit. A moan escapes your lips, the friction of the cotton against your most sensitive spot has you feeling embarrassingly needy, moving your hips to chase more. 

“That’s it, right there,” he coos, encouraging you. “How does that feel?”

You make another sound that’s not even close to a word. He chuckles onto your hair, shaking his head but still moving his fingers quicker. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart. Feeling good?”

“Yes,” you manage to say between ragged breaths. “Really good.”

“Yeah?” He helps you move just a bit more, pressing his whole palm over your clit, before letting you take over. You start grinding his hand, clinging to his arm for support. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing great.”

The praise lands harder than it should. You’re used to being talked at, ordered around on chaotic shifts, and occasionally complimented for a good job…but this is different. 

You feel the pressure building in your stomach quickly with every buck of your hips, but what makes you see stars is feeling the outline of his hard cock rubbing against your ass with every grind. 

“Shitshitshit I’m gonna–” you cry out mid sentence. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart let go,” he coaxes, moving his hand faster. 

When you finally break in a strangled moan, he stays wrapped around you, his firm body braced behind you so you can learn all your weight back, holding you together while you fall apart. He places a kiss on your shoulder when you shake under his grip, whispering praises you can’t make out as you ride your orgasm out. Jack finally takes his hand away when your clit twitches violently under him, squeezing your ass playfully. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you, immediately inhaling and exhaling louder to show you just how. You instinctively match him, effectively grounding yourself. “Good girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck–

“Easy,” he says when he feels you tense again. “It’s okay, you were doing so well. Just breathe.”

Still panting, you tap his arm so he lets you turn around to face him. You meet those devilish eyes again, hazel overtaken by dark pupils, a smirk on his lips as he takes in your flustered appearance. 

“You’re really…really bossy, you know that?” You chuckle despite yourself.

“I’ve been told,” he smiles, bringing you in for a peck on your lips. “And I’m about to get more bossy so why don’t you turn around for me again?”

There it is. That fucking tone again. Your mouth falls open, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. If anything, you turn around before he even tells you twice, slapping his arm behind you when you hear him mutter “eager.”

He stirs you toward the bed again, until your knees bump the mattress. You hear the shuffle of his joggers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the leg off, instead letting the fabric fall and pool at his feet. You don’t turn to look, giving him the moment. 

The whole thing only makes him feel more devastatingly real. 

He leans closer to you, his palm traveling up your spine to gently bend you forward. You follow his guidance, hands sinking into the mattress, ass on full display. You feel his foot nudge your left leg, parting you open for him.  

“There,” he says, giving you another playful slap. 

Heat rushes to your face again, feeling completely exposed to him even if you’re still covered in your underwear. So, Jack takes this as his chance to finally drag your soaked panties down, slowly, and lets them sit at your feet just like his pants, leaving you just in your bra. He groans at the sight, your soft, glistening pussy dripping and ready just for him.

“God, look at you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. 

The next thing to land over his pants are his boxers, freeing his heavy, swollen cock into his hand. He lines himself up, dragging just the tip across your wet folds, his pre cum mixing with your slick as he drags it up and down. After more whimpers from you, he pushes only the tip in, and you let out another moan that makes him groan.

“Deep breath for me,” he says, and at this point, you’d do anything he wants. 

He makes sure to move with you, timing himself to your inhale. The first roll of his hips makes his cock slowly stretch you open, inch by inch. You gasp, fingers clutching the silk bed sheets. He groans as he watches himself disappear inside you, gripping your ass to help you find the angle he knows will have you seeing stars. 

“Fuck me,” he hisses, skin meeting skin when he bottoms out. 

“Please…” is all you whisper, he’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way. 

And you can’t wait for him to fuck all the stress out of you. 

“Shhh, pretty girl. You’re okay,” he coos, slowly dragging out.

You clench around him before he leaves you completely empty, and he curses again, his hips jerking forward as yours slam back to meet him. He huffs a strangled laugh, stopping you by digging his fingers on your waist to take back control. 

“There you go. Let me do the work, sweet girl,” he rasps.

The rhythm finds itself, fast and deep, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off your hotel room walls. You’re still too sensitive from your previous orgasm, and you can’t stop moaning every time his hips snap against your ass. The bed creaks under you, and the sound of his cock dragging in and out is loud and filthy. 

“Relax–fuck, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”

You try to “relax.” You really do. But the angle, the rough rhythm he coaxes you into, the praises, are a lot. Your legs start to tremble, the effort of holding yourself up becomes a harder task with the pleasure building inside you.

He notices, of course he does. He tightens his grip to hold you better, barely slowing his pace. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”

“My legs…” you choke out in a breathless laugh. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs out a chuckle. “Hold onto the bed, for me,” he instructs. You obey brainlessly, fingers fisting in the covers. 

His hand wraps around your right leg first, just behind your knee to lift it, throwing away your panties in the process to make it easier. He places that leg up on the bed, then does the same with the other. The new position pulls another weak sound from you, both knees now on the bed, opening you up to him in a way that makes you miss him inside you. He presses you back into the mattress, not wasting time in pushing himself back in with a harsh thrust.

“There you go, that’s better,” he says, setting his rhythm again. The new angle is more comfortable for him as well, leaning his legs on the bed for support while he pounds into you. 

You let the sounds spill out of you, choked off gasps and desperate little sighs. Every one of them seems to go straight to his cock. You can hear it in the quiet curses he mumbles, the way his hands find all the familiar places, your hips, your waist, slipping under your stomach to push down the fabric of your bra so he can watch your boobs bounce with every thrust. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans when you start pushing back, chasing more and more. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart.”

When your legs start to shake again, this time it’s not from strain, it’s from how fucking close you are.

“Jack–” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clawing the sheets, little sounds spilling out of you that you can’t control. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and your body is about to snap. 

“I know,” he says, quickly sensing your overwhelm. “Come here.” 

You barely have time to think before his arm loops around your waist, pulling you up from your forearms. You gasp as he lifts you, slamming you back against his chest so you’re half kneeling, half suspended in his hold.

And then…his free hand comes up to cover your eyes. You gasp when your world goes pitch black, narrowing only to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his body behind yours. 

“Shh,” he coos near your ear, placing delicate kisses all over your jaw. “Just feel, sweetheart. That’s all you have to do.”

Without sight, everything else slams into focus, the heat of his chest behind you, the roughness of his stubble on your neck, the tight grip of his arm keeping you upright. He starts thrusting again, chasing that sweet spot that makes your head go dizzy. 

It’s more than enough now. It’s too much. You feel undone and held together all at once.

And to top it off, he decides now is the time to reach for the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with his free hand to hold you up by cupping your bare breasts. Your fingers reach back blindly, to his hair, his thigh, wherever you can reach. Jack just keeps his sweaty palm over your eyes, shielding you from everything but him.

“Fuck, you’re clenching,” he groans, knowing you’re almost there. “Let go for me, don’t think…just feel.”

You come with a shaky cry, your entire body shuddering in his hold. He keeps fucking you through every helpless little sound, feeling his own release building up. 

After a few moments, when he considers your breathing has sort of stabilized, his hand finally slips away from your eyes, caressing the hair sticking to your face as he keeps pounding you from behind, still fast, still deep, but sloppier. You can tell he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside you.

“There you go,” he praises you, even if his breathing is ragged now. “That’s it. You did so good for me–shit–”

As your eyes adjust again, the post nut clarity hits you. 

Your fucked out doctor brain freaks out. No protection, you’re very irresponsible, don’t let him. He seems to make the same calculation–pretty strange for a man–because he starts to pull back. 

Fuck it.

Before he can deal with it himself, you wriggle out of his grasp to free yourself, and get off the bed. Your jelly legs barely hold you up before you sink to your knees in front of him. From there you get a clear view of all of him, the fact that the carpet does match the drapes, and even the leg he’d been hiding. He instinctively steps back, almost stumbling over the pants pooled over his feet. 

“Hey, careful,” you coo, placing one hand on his thigh to nudge him forward, the other wraps around his glistening cock, making him curse. “Let me? Please?” 

“Jesus,” he breathes. His hand holds the back of your head, managing a weak smile. “Atta girl, be good to me.”

Jack doesn’t have to tell you twice. 

You don’t even have to do much, just a quick pump at the base of his length as you lean forward to place a teasing kiss on his leaking tip, almost sending him right over the edge. The sight alone makes him twitch, he was going to have to cover his own eyes if you kept looking at him like that with his cock on your mouth. 

You wrap your lips fully around him with no warning, letting his cock stretch your mouth as you swallow every inch. Every strangled sound he makes encourages you to be as devoted to him as he was with you. Your head bobs up and down, guided by his firm grip on your hair. 

“Fuck–you’re gonna kill me–” he chokes out, you take that as your cue to nod at him, mouth too full to tell him to let go. “Okay, that’s…I’m–”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s already finishing inside you. He groans as he spills strings of hot cum on your tongue, fingers tangling in your hair a bit rougher, pushing his hips forward to fuck the last of his orgasm out. You choke just a little, holding onto his thighs, trying to swallow every drop he sends down your throat. 

Jack pulls out with a groan when the adrenaline of it passes, dragging his thumb over your lips to wipe the remnants off. 

“Pretty girl…” He praises, as you look up at him with swollen lips and glassy eyes. 

“Atta boy, you did good for me,” you rasp, making him laugh. 

“Come here.” He helps you get on your feet, then back to the bed. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, tugging the duvet off to cover your body when you sit down.

He stays quiet as he hauls his joggers back up and finds his shirt somewhere by the door, until he can’t avoid looking at his watch anymore. 

“Shit.”

“So…no cuddling?” You chuckle. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, even though you both knew this is how your little hotel affair was going to end. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to you. 

He takes a moment to cup your cheeks, memorizing every feature, and you try to do the same. Your eyes trace every line of his face, the glint that never left his hazel eyes, the gray dust adorning his jaw. 

God, he’s so handsome. How are you supposed to forget him? 

Jack starts leaning forward, but you meet him halfway, closing the space between you. The goodbye kiss is not rushed like you expected, no, he still takes his time even if he’s gonna be late to wherever he’s headed. He pulls back with a smile, and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter as he licks his lips.

“What?” you ask.

“You taste like cake,” he says, clearly amused, then adds with a little tilt of his head, “and…something else I probably shouldn’t think about on my way out.”

“Oh, just go!” you laugh, shoving him away. “Before you’re late and whoever’s waiting for you files a missing persons report.”

“Yes, ma’am. They will,” he says, lifting his arms up innocently as he walks toward the door. “Good luck tomorrow with your…big day.”

“You too, with your…something,” you smile. God, you’re definitely going to need a good night's sleep after all of this. 

He nods, and with a devilish wink, he’s finally gone.

You wake up feeling like you can take on the world.

With a pep on your step, you walk out of the hotel with clear scrubs and an even clearer conscience. Good sex? Check. Good sleep? Check. Daydreaming about the silver fox stranger you’ll never see again? Check check check. 

You’re ready to kick ass and save lives. 

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is just a short walk away, but it gives you enough time to self regulate your emotions before you walk through those doors. You get there early, greet everyone politely and exchange a few words with some nurses before your shift actually starts. For a moment, you almost forget you’re the new kid, and you feel like you’re right where you belong. 

You make your way through triage, mentally rehearsing how you’re going to introduce yourself to your attending, when your sneaker slips on something. You don’t know if it’s saline, or water, or spit, all you know is that one second you were walking and the other you’re losing your balance. Your hands desperately find the wall with a smack, saving yourself from landing flat on your ass, but your forehead still hits the edge of a door frame with a sharp little crack.

You see stars for a second there, the same kind you saw yesterday. 

“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?” Someone calls. 

You groan, but straighten immediately, because what else are you going to do? Sit down and let the tears from your eyes spill? Absolutely not. Not on your first day. You swipe your fingers over your forehead, hissing at the sting, and when you look at your hand there’s the smallest smear of blood.

Perfect. 

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I’m–”

“Absolutely not, come here.” A woman in black scrubs and a ponytail approaches you, holding your jaw to assess the wound. “I’m Dr. McKay, and you are?”

“I’m okay,” you say, trying to shrug her off. “Really, it was just a slip, it didn’t even hurt. I really need to go meet Dr. Robinavitch–”

“You slammed your head into a door frame, Robby can wait,” McKay says flatly. 

You try to protest but she steers you toward one of the small triage rooms right off the ER entrance. You groan as she nudges you to sit on the bed. “I just need a band-aid, it’s just a scra–”

“A scratch, yeah, I heard you. You’ll get your band-aid after I make sure you’re not walking around with a concussion,” she says, then holds a finger up as if to say ‘wait’ and walks to the door, “Perfect learning opportunity, actually.”

Oh no.

“Hey! Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, come here,” she urges more people with scrubs. Great. “Consider this your first patient.” 

You consider faking your own death.

All three of them clock your black scrubs and badge, and your bruised ego dies a little more when they realize you’re one of them. McKay just stands next to you like this is science class and you’re the classroom’s skeleton. 

“We get all types of patients here. And today…” She pats your shoulder with the back of her hand. “It’s a colleague who discovered the floor is slippery on her very first day.”

Redacted. 

“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Really. I just need a band-aid.”

“After we use you for educational purposes, now look up please,” she says, shining a light in your eyes to check your pupils. You resist the urge to slap her hand or lean away. “Headache?”

“No.”

“Any loss of consciousness?” 

“You literally saw me since I hit my head,” you say, a little too aggressive, but McKay ignores your tone. “Sorry–no.” 

“Nausea? Blurred vision?”

“No. I swear, I’m okay.” 

“Alright. Whitaker, you’re up. What are your concerns when someone hits their head?”

“Um…we should ask what caused the fall?” He says, and McKay nods approvingly. He turns to you, “Did you feel dizzy before you slipped? Lightheaded?”

“No. There was just…something on the floor. I didn’t see it and unfortunately I slipped.”

“Good,” McKay says, more to them than to you. “No dizziness, no neuro complaints, no loss of consciousness, minor external injury that doesn’t need stitches.”

“And no reason for a CT,” one of the girls adds. 

“Correct, Santos. So we’ll clean it, come on, you’re up.” 

Your shoulders drop in the smallest relief. Now you have to survive the rest of the day after this humiliation, but adding unnecessary imaging on your first day would’ve ended you right there and then. 

Mckay just smiles at you as Santos gloves on and prepares the stuff she’s gonna use. You look outside the door for a moment, trying to remember the confidence you’d walked in this morning, when a figure walking by catches your eye. 

All you see is a flash of broad shoulders in a dark shirt, and a camo backpack slung over one arm. You make eye contact for a brief second as he glances inside casually, before doing a literal double take when he realizes who’s in there. He stops in his tracks, just as your heart stops inside your chest. 

For a brief second you think you do need that CT, because there’s no way you’re not hallucinating talk-you-through-it Jack in front of you. 

Here. In your ER. Wearing matching uniforms. 

Jack, the man you let manhandle you last night–or afternoon?–whatever. The man who covered your eyes and told you to just feel. The man you sent you into orgasm oblivion and then kissed you goodbye tasting cake and himself on his tongue.

No. No way. Absolutely not.

You hiss when Santos presses something wet in your wound, and Jack decides that’s the best moment to step in and cause you a stroke on top of everything. 

“Everything okay in here?” he asks casually, looking at you with the same glint in his eyes as yesterday.

You want to die.

“Abbot! Thought you were on your way out,” Mckay beams. 

“I was, then I saw you tormenting the new blood. Didn’t want to miss the show,” he gives her a tired grin, shrugging, then looking around the room. “Morning, everyone.”

Javadi just smiles awkwardly, while Whitaker shifts on his feet and nods at him. At least Santos is having a blast enjoying the hell out of your tragic situation.

“Our colleague here decided to introduce her face to the wall,” she chuckles, shutting up when she realizes she only gets an unimpressed look from McKay. 

“Hmm. Minor head trauma on the first day…that’s one way to make an entrance,” Jack jokes trying to lighten the mood, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks you.

You hesitantly shake your head, and Santos barely steps back before he gets between your knees and you have to look up at him, and wow, that’s familiar. His fingers are gentle as he tilts your chin higher, focused on the small scrape by your hairline.

“It’s just a scratch,” you mumble under your breath.

He ignores it, and brings a penlight to your eyes, doing the same little routine Mckay did. Is this what your first day is supposed to be? A tortuous loop? 

I might just fake a seizure right now. 

“Any reason you might’ve tripped? Blurry vision? Sudden vertigo? Or…any specific memory that made you lose focus?”

It’s the way he drops his voice lower that makes you almost choke on your own spit. That exact same tone. That damn voice in your ear.  

“We already asked those, Dr. Abbot. She said she slipped on a wet patch. No dizziness, no other symptoms,” Whitaker, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in. 

Jack slowly turns his head to look at him, with an unimpressed stare that clearly says no one asked you to speak, white boy without using a single word. 

Before anyone can torture you any further, a blue eyed doctor bursts in. 

“McKay! We’re doing rounds.”

“Alright, meet us there once Dr. Abbot is done with you,” she says to you, ushering the others out. “Don’t forget to give her that band-aid she’s so desperate for.”

“I’ll take good care of her,” Jack replies, with an innocent smile. 

The audience of your public execution finally leaves. And it’s great! Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: alone time. You don’t realize you’ve been holding onto the gurney for dear life until Jack–or should you call him Dr. Abbot now?–chuckles. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, amused.

“I don’t know, you’re the doctor here, apparently. So you tell me, how’s my head?” you snap, in a mix of nerves and residual embarrassment. 

He grins. Oh he grins like fucking devil. “I don’t have any complaints.”

Heat rushes to your face instantly, and suddenly it’s like you’re back flirting in that bar again, sharing a chocolate cake. You shake those thoughts away, clearing your throat. 

“So um…your flight was actually a night shift…in this hospital,” you say. 

“Yeah. And your ‘big day’ was starting your first morning in this same ER. Nice upgrade from anonymous hotel guest, I guess.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he chuckles, but you’re still looking at him skeptically. “Hey–it’s not that bad. People have done worse.”

“Worse than sleeping with an attending?” You say. “Like what–stealing medicine or secretly killing patients?”

“What? No–I hope no one’s doing that” he frowns.

This is the moment you start panicking for real. 

“God, Dr. Robinavitch’s gonna kill me or worse,” you gasp. “He’s gonna fire me. Fuck–he’s gonna fire me and this is gonna be over before I even start my shift–“

“Whoa okay, no one’s getting killed or fired today. You just need to get out there, and focus on your work. Alright? Can you do that for me?”

That. Fucking. Tone. 

“Stop talking like that!” You whisper shout, knowing nurses could be nearby. “This is my first day, and I already have to convince everyone I’m not a complete disaster. So yes, I can do that for you. Happy? I’d like my band-aid now, please.”

“Okay, okay. You’ll get your band-aid,” he says calmly. “You just have to be more patient.”

You shoot him a glare, but he just smiles, still unbothered. He walks to a cabinet, pulling out a bright pink box of band-aids with a huge “My little pony” printed on it. 

“What is that?” 

“Best we have in triage,” he shrugs, amused. He looks back inside into the cabinet, before smirking at you. “We got Spongebob too.” 

“…My little pony is fine,” you mutter. 

“Alright,” he nods, invading your space again. “Look up for me.”

You’re grateful you’re not hooked to a heart monitor. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tilt your head up.

“Almost done, you’re doing great,” he drawls, smoothing the stupid band-aid over your life threatening injury with ridiculous care. “There,” Jack says, finally stepping back. “All done. You did so good for m–”

You snap upright from the bed so fast you almost cause yourself another injury by bumping into his big ass head. 

“I have to go,” you blurt, already making your way to the door. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I hope we never see each other again.”

He peels off his gloves with a laugh, tossing them into the bin. This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all week.

“No promises, doc,” he winks, “PTMC is not that big.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response or even to see the panic on your face. You practically launch yourself into the hallway, and start speed walking toward the ED with a My little pony bandaid on your forehead. 

Best sex of your life. 

Worst coincidence of your career.

And yet…you can’t wait till you see him again.

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated ✨

Pretty dividers by @uzmacchiato

[robbyology]

imagine bein’ loved by me

JACK ABBOT x F!READER

Summary: Jack Abbot is a tease and a bully and an overall menace to society, and you are utterly infatuated with him.

wc: 9.2k (what the fuck)

Warnings: f!reader, resident!reader, implied age gap, power imbalance, jack is a fucking tease, he is also a dummy, tension in the workplace, an almost bar fight, pining, explicit sexual content, brief oral (f!receiving), praise, p in v, finishing inside, oh no, they’re in love

A/N: not only did this get way longer than intended, it also got way softer than I had planned oops. Anyway, y’all are gonna roll your eyes at a certain scene when my clear bias toward Robby is put on full fucking display lmfao enjoy~

He notices it the first time you work a night shift with him. 

Jack has seen you in action before. Hell, Robby has even sung your praises (a rarity). You have sure hands, follow spot-on gut instincts, and you’re great with the patients. You’ve proved that you’re competent and confident here in the EC. 

However, as soon as Jack steps into any room you’re already in, that sugar-laced smile fades. You stutter, you hesitate, your hands start to tremble. 

Initially, he thought it was because he intimidated you. It wouldn’t be the first time, but usually, if a resident is scared of Jack, they’re downright terrified of Robby who’s known to be hypercritical and harsher in his corrections (a side effect of all the stress he’s under, Jack thinks). 

That doesn’t seem to be the case with you. He’s seen how you act around Robby, professional but relaxed. You grin, high five, and Jack is pretty sure he witnessed a warm, work-appropriate side hug shared after a particularly harrowing shift. 

He comes to the conclusion that this is an issue you have exclusively with Jack, and that doesn’t sit well with him. 

He isn’t angry, just curious. 

Also, he can’t have you freezing up whenever he’s even remotely close by; that’s just not good in this line of work. 

So, in the early morning hours of what Jack knows to be your last shift before you’re off for a few days, he catches your attention and jerks his chin to beckon you over to the nurse’s station. The manner in which you look around and over your shoulders, pointing to yourself in disbelief, makes his lips quirk up on one side. 

Jack mouths the word ‘you’ while nodding and watches as you shuffle toward him with wide eyes. 

“Um, what can I—” you clear your throat, “what can I do for you, Dr. Abbot?”

“You have a second to talk?” he asks, and you swallow, head moving up and down in slow, silent affirmation. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”

“Okay, do you… do you wanna talk here, or is it—I mean, is it a closed door conversation, or…?”

Jack just does not understand why you get so timid around him. Why is it you can laugh and joke and work with Robby and Shen, but you can’t with him? What has he done to make you so mousy? 

“Wherever you’re comfortable. We can step outside if you want, or we can stay right here,” he offers. You’re in control here. You have the choice. No wrong answers. 

“Outside?” you half suggest, half ask, and Jack motions for you to lead the way. 

It’s about three AM on a Tuesday morning. Not a whole lot of action right now, but you both know that can change on a dime. 

As soon as the doors slide shut behind him, you look at Jack in concern. “Is everything okay?” 

He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers it could come off as defensive or surly, so he drops them to his sides, except that feels awkward and wrong too. No fucking wonder Robby is always rubbing his face and holding the back of his neck. 

Eventually, Jack settles on sliding his hands into his pockets, relaxes his posture, tries not to look like a soldier standing at attention. 

“I wanted to ask you the same question.” 

You frown, not quite pouty, more like you’re having trouble solving a riddle, so Jack continues before you can catastrophize any further. 

“I get the feeling that I make you nervous sometimes,” all the time, “and I want you to know that you shouldn’t be. Nervous, I mean.”

No longer pinched together, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, your gaze repeatedly flicking to and away from his face. 

“See, that,” he chuckles, “you look like you just got caught stealing drugs.” Then, in an attempt to ease your discomfort, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial volume and adds, “have you… been stealing drugs?”

It does not make you laugh. It just makes you shake your head urgently, “no, I’d never—Dr. Abbot, s—”

“Hey, hey, calm down. I was just teasin’, kid,” he tries to reassure you while smiling how he usually does, subtle but amused. 

If he’s being honest, though, the deer in the headlights look is kind of endearing. Unnecessary, but endearing. 

Then, Jack sees that wide eyed stare move down to the slight curve of his mouth and remain there for a few whole seconds, more than enough time for you to see that previously subtle curve lift a little higher on one side until it’s more smirk than smile. 

So, that’s what it is. 

Jack tries to clear it from his face, but it’s kind of impossible, especially when you’re able to detect the mirth dancing in his eyes. 

“I should, uh—ya’ know, actually….” You start backing up toward the sliding doors, “you really don’t make me nervous, Dr. Abbot. I think you just… I mean, no offense, but I think maybe you got the wrong idea.”

A self-conscious laugh, then a little huff when you miss the doors and instead back up into the bricks beside them. 

“Right.” 

Jack moves closer, finding too much enjoyment in your tiny gasp when he reaches out and gives you a nudge to the side before placing his hands lightly on your shoulders. 

He turns you to face the pitt, guides you through the entrance as his footsteps echo directly behind yours. 

“Of course you’re not nervous—why would you be?”

You’re absolutely rigid in front of him, even curl forward a tiny bit when Jack gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go. 

You pivot to hide your face so fast, he’s surprised you don’t tear a goddamn ligament. 

It all makes sense now, he thinks. 

You’re not nervous; you’re smitten. 

How sweet. 

•

You consider begging Dr. Robby to let you come back to days early. It would be out of line and a little pathetic, but you’d much rather deal with that fallout over the very real threat of dropping dead in a trauma room any time Dr. Abbot so much as looks at you. 

A single glance is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and he is doing a bit more than that now, so you have a feeling that your time is about to be up. 

<< Hey, how many more weeks am I on nights? 

You type up some elaborate story about splattering spaghetti all over your dry erase calendar and having to clean it, wiping away your schedule, but the more details you give, the more suspicious Dr. Robby will get. 

>> Is it not on Teams?

Damn. 

<< Missed the window to change my password, so I’m locked out on my phone. 

That seems believable. 

It takes him a while to get back to you, but you almost wish he hadn’t when you read his response. 

>> You’ve still got another 3 weeks

There’s no way you’ll make it that long. You’ll be a nervous wreck by the time you return to the daylight hours of the EC. 

>> Miss day shift? 

<< Maybe. 

<< Yes. 

You also miss working under an attending who doesn’t make you shake like a chihuahua. 

>> I promise I won’t make you stay any longer than you have to, but Abbot and Shen need the help for now

Just reading his name is enough to make something jump in your stomach. 

Three more weeks of surviving Dr. Jack Abbot as he tries his damndest to kill you. 

And, you don’t even know why he’s doing it. You can understand why he’d want to suss out the reason you get so flustered around him, but now he has it. You know he knows because apparently you are incapable of concealing your feelings or even facial expressions when you see that barely-there smile of his. 

The exact moment—you witnessed the exact fucking moment that he figured it out. God, just thinking about it has you mortified all over again. And, then he held your shoulders and he teased you and you still had to work another four hours without passing out from embarrassment. 

From the very first day, or more accurately, the very first shift change, Dr. Abbot had too much of your attention. Something about his eyes and mouth and the salt and pepper stubble and silver curls and dexterous hands and really everything about him. 

He knows that now—maybe not all the details and areas of focus, but he definitely has the big picture. 

And, it amuses him. Entertains him. It’s almost like it brings him joy to make you squirm a little. 

He isn’t preying on you, you don’t think. It doesn’t feel malicious or coercive. Just inconvenient and confusing and really fucking distracting. 

In the shifts that followed shortly after his little discovery, Dr. Abbot just looked at you longer than he did before. Sometimes you’d see the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. Unnerving, but something you could cope with. Mostly. 

Now, he’s getting a little bolder, a little closer. Physically. Will come stand right next to you at the nurse’s station or sit at the computer nearest the one you’re using to chart. He doesn’t stare at you when he inflicts this torture. No, the gazes are always from a distance, probably with the purpose of making the back of your neck burn. Here, when he’s right beside you, he just smirks. You think he might try to hide it, but he’s not very good at it, even laughed once when you’d stood up as soon as he sat down. 

It’s just—it’s just rude. So rude. 

The worst part of it all, though, is that it’s helped steady you. You’ve stopped shaking in exam rooms, rarely stutter when giving reports. It’s like some kind of awful exposure therapy, and while it’s made you a more efficient doctor (still not as good as you are during the day), it leaves you in a constant state of mild discomfort, hot all over for twelve straight hours. 

It can’t get any worse, though. There’s no way that Dr. Abbot, revered and respected and selfless, would push things further. 

He wouldn’t. 

He wouldn’t. 

(He does.) 

•

The praise is genuine. Jack doesn’t say it to get a rise out of you; he wouldn’t do that. 

He’s watching over your shoulder as you prepare to put in a chest tube. Your hands are unwavering, nimble fingers counting ribs and controlled around the scalpel. 

In just a couple weeks your confidence in treatment has risen exponentially. He wishes he didn’t have to torture it out of you, but whatever works, works. 

Plus, it’s not like he’s not having some fun with it. You may be well balanced while performing procedures, but around Jack, you’re still wide eyed and restless. 

It’s cute, your little crush. 

Surprising, a little baffling, but mostly cute. 

Jack has been told that he has an… effect… on some women. More than he would’ve thought, and he still isn’t used to it. Fuck, he’s only just now started to notice it. 

Samira, bless her, was able to break it down for him, said he was a ‘silver fox’. Gray hair, fit, “think Anderson Cooper!”

Then, she’d let him in on another secret. 

“Your eyes are your best weapon, though.”

“My eyes?”

“Mhmm. It’s the way you stare. It makes it feel like nothing else exists. Very intense.”

She’s moved on to bigger and better things, as she should. Jack is glad she did, even if he misses having someone to explain the trends and lingo of the modern world. The pitt was never going to be big enough for Dr. Samira Mohan. 

It’s perfect for him, though. Exactly where he wants to be, especially right now as you secure the chest tube just fucking right. 

“Nicely done,” Jack tells you, still eyeing your work from behind you, catching the way your shoulders raise up close to your ears. 

He chuckles, you let out a frustrated, squeaky grunt, and then Jack gives you a little pat on the back and leaves. 

You avoid him as best you can for the rest of the night. 

Apparently, Jack has more going for him than his silver hair and ‘intense’ stares. 

Whether it’s proximity, his voice, or the words themselves, he isn’t sure. He’s more than willing to experiment to find out, though. 

The next chance he gets, Jack stands unnecessarily close to you again. It isn’t enough to raise eyebrows, really just looks like he’s keeping an eye on a fledgling doctor’s technique (which he is!). You’re a little stiff but not nearly as done with him as you were earlier. 

So, you’ve gotten used to him hovering. That’s good. 

“John got everyone lunch,” Jack says, coming to lean against the central hub beside you, voice dipped low and a tad rough. 

If you ask, he’ll just say he’s tired. It won’t be a lie. 

You don’t ask, however, just glance over at him, eyes landing on his mouth for a nanosecond before flicking back up. 

“What, did he lose a bet?” you eventually respond. 

Jack laughs quietly, “yeah, actually.”

“Typical,” you snort, “is gambling a hallmark of every EC or is it just ours?”  

He shrugs then straightens up, “no clue. Gotta find ways to entertain ourselves, right?” 

So far, you’ve seemed relatively unfazed, which is why Jack tosses you a quick wink as he backs away from the station. 

That gets a reaction, like a lightning strike that makes your spine go straight, makes you hide your face and whine, “oh my god, I hate you.”

You can’t see him, what with your head buried in your hands, so you don’t catch Jack’s smug grin as he turns around. 

“Me? What’d I ever do to you?”

He’s pretty sure he can feel your glare burning holes in the back of his skull. 

•

Robby’s birthday finds several faces of the pitt in the bar closest to the hospital. The man behind the counter knows many of you by name and therefore has a line of drinks prepared for you all without even having to be asked. 

You sip on your vodka Sprite—easy, decent taste, shouldn’t get you fucked up unless you really want to get irresponsible. 

And, irresponsible is the last thing you want to be when you can feel a heavy, hazel gaze on you wherever you go. You talk to Trinity, to Victoria, to Donny, and no matter where you move, those eyes follow you. 

It seems a little different tonight, though. Abbot usually watches you with the purpose of teasing. Now, it just feels like he’s watching to watch. 

With two drinks and little food in your system, a nice buzz settles in your head, stomach warm with alcohol and courage—not enough to talk to Abbot, but enough to make your way to the table he’s sharing with Robby so that you can wish the latter a happy birthday. 

“Unbelievable I made it through another year,” Robby says with a tired smile. He didn’t even work today, and the man looks exhausted. 

You grin sideways and tell him too honestly, “I’m glad you did,” then laugh around your straw when he blushes. 

Your eyes flit to Abbot who’s looking over at the other man, but as if sensing your attention, he redirects his to your face. 

“You can’t say stuff like that to Robby,” Abbot jokes, “one day he’s gonna get so red, his head will explode.”

“Shut the fuck up,” comes a groan from behind Robby’s hands, “aren’t you supposed to be nice to people on their birthday?”

“Sorry, were you expecting birthday kisses?” Abbot puckers his lips and acts like he’s really gonna plant them on Robby’s cheek, but he leans back when he’s swatted away, typical half-smile lifting his mouth when he winks at you as if the two of you are in cahoots. 

Robby isn’t the only one blushing now, your face hot as it always seems to be when you’re around Abbot. 

Thankfully, Cassie chooses that exact moment to slide up next to you to do exactly what you had come over here for, grabs the attention of both attendings, allowing you to slip away. 

An hour and two more drinks later finds you at the same booth. You ate the fries off Mel’s plate with the hopes of sopping up some of the alcohol, and while it probably helped, you’re still nice and fucking tipsy where you sit next to Robby, across from Abbot. With little room, you’re actually on Trinity’s lap, her cheek resting against your back as she chats with Robby, who has had enough beer to divulge a few fun stories about one Yolanda Garcia. Naturally, Trinity is eating it up. 

You listen and laugh, happy to be here, happy to see Robby actually relax, and, if you’re being honest, happy to be stared at. 

Eyes a little cloudy, you meet Abbot’s, and your stomach flips in a way that’s less to do with nerves and more to do with attraction. 

He tries and fails to hide a smirk, and you twist your own mouth to the side to keep your smile at bay, look down and laugh as you shake your head. 

You should probably put some distance between the two of you before you say or do something stupid. No way are you gonna let yourself flirt with Jack Abbot in public, especially not with Trinity and Robby so close by.

You slide from your friend's lap with the excuse of getting some water, which isn’t actually a lie. You could definitely use some, and that’s emphasized by how fucking good it tastes and feels when you gulp it down at the bartop. 

“Now, that’s impressive,” you hear from beside you, look to your right to see a man a few years younger than you who is blatantly checking you out. 

With a little frown, you tell him, “it’s not vodka or anything—just water,” immediately getting a bad vibe from this guy who’s probably named Chad or Brad or whatever frat boys go by these days.

“Shame,” he hums, “sober girls are so much harder to pick up, especially the cute ones like you.”

It’s possibly the grossest thing you’ve ever heard, shamelessly fucking predatory, but when you narrow your eyes at Chad, he just chuckles. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, either not recognizing your expression of distaste or ignoring it altogether. 

Hackles rising, you respond, “none of your business,” and turn to walk away. 

When Brad’s fingers wrap around your wrist, you round on him again, your free hand hot with the impulse to clock him right in the jaw. 

“You’re not even gonna talk to me?” he grins, “you should at least give me a chance.”

About to reply with a lecture full of expletives, Brandon lifts an eyebrow, suddenly focused on something or someone behind you. 

The way your neck prickles tells you exactly who’s just walked up, but that sixth sense does not prepare you for the strong arm that curls around your waist. 

“You need to let go before I fucking make you,” Abbot says, tone casual, his body anything but. You can feel the tension radiating from him, a loaded gun with his own finger on the trigger. 

Chadwick drops your wrist, and you flex your hand as if it’ll get rid of the residual sensation of his grip. 

“We were just talkin’, man.”

“Yeah?” Abbot’s fingers curl into the material of your shirt, and your heart starts beating faster for reasons unrelated to the cocky fucker in front of you. “You grab every woman you talk to like some kind of fuckin’ caveman?”

“Bro, chill, I didn’t mean anyth—”

Abbot cuts him off with a glare, “I’m not your fucking bro.” 

His volume doesn’t grow, voice still even, but there’s a certain strain to it, the same strain you see in the muscles of his neck, feel in the flex of his bicep. 

This shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, and you are no fucking damsel, but having Abbot stand up for you—get mad for you… 

“Old man lookin’ for a fight?” Brayden challenges, pushing his chest out in an over the top, alpha male way that would make you roll your eyes if it weren’t for the way Abbot’s hand twitches against your hip. 

You glance up at him, that sly smile nowhere to be found as he works his jaw, tongue sliding behind closed lips like he’s counting his teeth in some grounding exercise. 

You’re about to murmur to him that it’s okay. You’re okay. He can take a breath and calm down, but then you’re joined by yet another patron, this one much more level headed than the men staring each other down. 

“Walk away, man,” Robby says, “this guy may be old, but I guaran-fuckin’-tee you, he’ll drop you. You really want that?” Brown eyes are narrowed from the way he scrunches his face up, almost cringing on the other man’s behalf. “You really wanna get your shit kicked in, in front of her?”

Chandler’s eyes flit between Abbot and Robby before he raises his hands in surrender, grumbles something about, “no bitch is worth this bullshit.”

You hear something between a grunt and a growl resonate from Abbot’s throat, his arm around you growing tighter, and at the same time, Robby takes a single step forward, hands still in his pockets, his shoulders pulling back as he bows up on the guy. 

Abbot may be able to control his volume, but Robby sure can’t, basically barks at Broderick, “what the fuck did you just say?” and you look between all three men in complete disbelief. 

What is happening? You’ve got one of your attendings doing everything he can to keep you plastered to his side while another looks like he’s about to knock this guy’s teeth into the back of his throat. 

The sense of security is, admittedly, very nice and oddly endearing, but neither of these men can afford to, a) spend a night in jail, and b) fuck up their hands. 

“Okay, boys,” you call out, slipping out of Abbot’s grip only to grasp him by the forearm (his thick, thick forearm), your other hand reaching out and curling into the back of Robby’s hoodie, “that’s enough, time to go.”

Looking at Chad/Brad/whatever the fuck his name is, you advise, “if I were you, I’d make myself really fucking scarce right about now.”

He looks between all three of you, eyebrows pinching together as he shakes his head. Thankfully, he walks away, likely swearing the whole time. 

You drag both of your bosses out of the bar, claiming, “you two need some fresh air,” then nudging both of them to lean against the wall of the building. 

“While I appreciate the whole white knight thing, you guys did not have to do that. Like at all,” said wide eyed and serious. “I know I’m probably just some baby resident to both of you, but I promise I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

Robby laughs through his teeth, turning his head to look over at Abbot then back at you.

“I wasn’t saving you, sweetheart. I was saving him from stepping into some deep shit.”

“That fucker deserved to get his shit handed to him, and you know it,” Abbot spits back. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this, genuinely upset, and with that anger comes a different vocal inflection—his words are rough and colored with what you think might be a California drawl. 

Strange. You’ll have to ask him about that some time. 

“Not arguing that,” Robby sucks his teeth, “be really fucking inconvenient if you got hauled into the police station, though.”

Abbot releases a humorless laugh, “ever the pragmatist.”

“Someone’s gotta be.”

You watch their back and forth, caught off guard by how weird it is. You’ve only seen them interact during shift changes, and whenever they do you’re certainly not around—what, with your whole avoiding Abbot mission. 

That seems sort of impossible now. In fact, after that whole display, you don’t think you even want to avoid him anymore, and that poses an entirely new problem. 

•

Jack’s little game has backfired horribly. 

He really should’ve had the foresight to anticipate it happening, but he didn’t. Caught up in his own amusement as well as your flourishing in the EC. 

It’s all been harmless, and if you ever told him to back the fuck off, he would have. He still will. 

It’s just… it’s a lot harder to leave you alone now. 

And, he doesn’t have some savior complex, no unjustified possessiveness. The problem lies with the fact that Jack can’t fucking get your body out of his head, or really, the way it felt against his. What it felt like to hold you. What it felt like to have you let him. 

Sure, he’s had fun riling you up here and there. Watching you get all cute and flustered has brought him a little too much satisfaction, but the dynamic has changed. The rug has been pulled out from beneath him. 

The events that transpired at Robby’s birthday get-together (Jack almost strangling another human) caused a shift in you. You’re more comfortable around him, willing to engage and even banter with him, which is great except Jack experienced a shift within himself as well. 

The game has changed. The goalpost has been moved. He doesn’t care about working you up as much as he cares about making you laugh, seeing your smile, made even better if he’s the cause of it. 

He still stares, and you still catch him, but when you do his characteristic smirk is missing, replaced with a clenched jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows thickly. 

He still stands too close to you, and you still roll your eyes, but you also bite your lip. You don’t move away. Not even when Jack’s fingers brush your arm in a way that could be accidental if he didn’t do it so often. 

He does not come up behind you in the exam rooms, though. Despite having never been bothered by it before, the forced proximity that comes with most traumas lights his every nerve ending on fire—painful zaps that travel from his fingertips and spread through the rest of his body. 

He’d made the mistake only once, and it was during the shift that immediately followed that night at the bar. Jack moved close enough to look over your shoulder, ready to give feedback and praise for really any reason he could find, but an ultrasound machine getting rolled into the room and into his space had him leaning forward even more until his chest was flush with your back. 

Up until this point, you would’ve gone still, maybe curse him under your breath. Not anymore, though. No, this time, with Jack more or less on top of you, all you’d done was glance back at him, lip caught between your canines, then focus your attention back on the patient. 

He had to stay in that position for a solid five minutes, if not longer, and by the time he was able to move away from you, he’d gone through almost all of the breathing techniques his therapist had taught him. 

So, it goes without saying that this newfound desire is pretty inconvenient. 

Also, he’s fucking delusional to call it that—newfound. It’s not new at all, it just wasn’t so obvious, even to him. 

Jack has been kinda sorta really fixated on you for a while now. He’d been bothered enough to confront you about what he had thought was an issue of intimidation, then interested enough to play with you, for lack of a better term. 

Plus, he’s always found you attractive, cute when stuttering around him, beautiful when you intubate, crouched and squinting as you visualize vocal cords. Downright mouth watering when you scoff at Jack after he says or does something ridiculous (to get your attention), arms crossed with a hip cocked out. 

Enamored doe eyes can narrow into a glare in the flash of a second. Shaking hands can cut through flesh with both strength and precision. A frown can brighten into something that glows so brightly, Jack could swear he feels it in his chest. 

Long story short, he’s fucked, even more so when you ask him about it. 

“You’ve been weird the last couple weeks,” as you sidle up next to him at the central hub. 

Jack looks from the forms in his hands. “How so?”

“You haven’t been nearly as annoying lately,” you tell him with a snort. 

Feeling his mouth twitch into a smile, Jack looks back down at the papers. 

“Don’t tell me you miss it,” he teases, and there’s something oddly comforting about the way you shift on your feet beside him, a habit of yours from back when he could still give you butterflies (or so he assumes). 

“I am definitely not saying that,” you click your tongue, and Jack chuckles. 

“What are you saying then?” 

He signs the last of the paperwork, lines every sheet up then taps them on the counter, straightening them out to near perfection before turning to face you fully. 

“Does someone miss having my undivided attention?”

Your jaw falls open in offense, but a short laugh still bubbles out of you, so Jack isn’t too worried. 

“You, sir,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he burns at the tiny point of contact, “are just a little too bold, you know that?”

His mouth twists from one side to the other, and Jack can literally feel his eyes light up with mischief. 

He tries to keep it inside. Tries to stamp it down, but oh, he needs to see the look on your face when he tells you—

“You really think callin’ me sir is the best idea?”

And, it’s so fucking worth it when that stare grows into something wide, and your shoulders drop to open up your posture and your little hands fidget where they hang by your sides. 

You take a deep breath, then, without even meaning to, flip the script on him when you mumble his name—his first name— “Jack…” so, so quiet he almost misses it. 

But, he’s watching your mouth so he sees the way your lips form that single familiar syllable, and something is trying to escape his throat, a groan or a shout, he doesn’t know what. 

He can barely believe his fucking ears when you deliver the next line, just as quiet, timid as you used to be, “you have to stop teasing me if you’re not gonna follow through.”

You may sound like your former, mousy self, but you still manage to hold his gaze, meaning you see the way his mouth opens in surprise for just a moment before he quickly clamps it shut again. 

“At this point you’re just being kinda mean,” you continue. 

Jack has to exercise every ounce of his self control to keep from surging forward and catching your pouty lips with his. His hand flexes at his thigh, all five fingers stretched out then curled into a tight fist. 

“I didn’t know you were ready for me to start being nice,” he breathes. 

You’re speaking in innuendo, right? He isn’t reading this wrong? 

You make a self-deprecating sound and shake your head. “I’ve been ready for so long it’s humiliating.”

Jack doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but it is not an option right now, and because of that, because he can’t move to touch you, all the potential energy stored in his hands gets released through his mouth instead. 

“Sleep with me after work,” he blurts, and what the fuck—what is wrong with him? “I mean, shit,” Jack laughs at himself ‘cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna take the stairs two at a time to get up to the roof. “Come to my house and sleep in my bed,” he tries again.

It’s still not graceful, and definitely worthy of a good, long cringe, but it’s out there, and damn, when’s the last time he felt genuinely nervous? He’s survived fucking war zones, but right now, those pale in comparison to the threat of you laughing in his face. 

“I…”

“You can tell me to fuck off,” he quickly adds. “I probably deserve it after being such a pain in your ass.”

Your eyebrows are still high, but a smile smug enough to rival his own spreads across your face, “oh my god, wait… That’s what it is.”

“What?” He’s breathing too hard. 

“All that, everything you’ve been—” you fucking giggle, and the sound of it makes Jack dumb. “Was that just you, like, pullin’ on my pigtails?”

Jesus, that… yeah, that’s exactly what it was. A schoolboy with a crush, craving the attention of the prettiest girl in the class. 

He has to shut his eyes, clenches his teeth so hard, his molars might splinter under the pressure. 

“That’s one way to put it,” words coming out clipped, as if his jaw is wired shut. 

“And, how would you put it, Jack?”

“Me being a stupid son-of-bitch, something along those lines.”

You hum, hand by your face with your index finger curled against your bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree.”

A few beats of silence pass, and Jack spends every one of them trying not to shake. 

Then, his whole body relaxes when you add, “I guess I could go for a nap after work.”

Oh, Jesus Christ, thank God, praise him or her or whatever might be up there. This is truly a blessing.

“Yeah?” he asks, just to make sure. 

Your smile remains mirthful, but there’s also a softness to it as you nod, “yeah.”

•

Jack’s house is a small, one story not too far from the hospital. It’s about what you’d imagine for a single man in his forties. His military background can be seen in the tightly ordered bookshelves, the sponge and scrub brush by the sink being perfectly aligned, the containers of flour, sugar, and whatever else pressed against the wall from tallest to shortest. 

You thought you would be terrified if ever given the chance to see this very personal part of him. Hell, you’d been terrified of him in general not long ago. 

Now, though… Now you scan your surroundings with a tilt of your head, taking it all in and learning new things about the man you’ve been pining over for too long. 

“You’re making me nervous just staring like that,” he says with a quiet snort. 

When you look back to him, you raise an eyebrow, “nervous, you say? Welcome to my life for the last couple months.”

Jack curls his lip over the bottom row of his teeth, looks sheepish, which is not something you’re used to. On one hand, you feel oddly validated that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine, but you’re not entirely sure you like seeing him… ‘insecure’ isn’t the right word. At a loss, maybe. 

You sigh and step toward him, extend a timid hand to take his, and he lets you, watching as you play with his fingers. 

You’re ready to explode and ready to melt. Want to scream and want to cry in relief. Confused at how you got here but so relieved that you did.

All mixed up over him, like you’ve always been. 

“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” you admit, eyes flicking to his face before returning to calloused, freckled hands. “All I’ve seen is the Jack at the hospital. Dr. Abbot.”

He hums. “That guy’s alright, I guess.”

You grin, and he can probably hear it in your voice when you reply, “yeah, but he’s kind of a badass in the trauma room, which is super fucking annoying.”

“What a dick.”

Giggling in a way you’ve never actually allowed him to see, you find him looking a little dazed. Hazel clouding over, the side of his mouth keeps twitching, smile not quite forming almost like Jack can’t feel the muscles activating, like he’s no longer tethered to himself.

“Can I shower before we lay down?” 

He doesn’t answer at first but eventually blinks a few times. “Huh? Oh, right. Shower. Yes.”

His fingers curl around yours and as he leads you further into his home, you’re wrapped in a certain comfort. This is good. You are safe. He is right.  

Those are inside thoughts, though. No reason to let him know how far gone you are. He has enough of an idea as it is. 

“Let me grab you something to wear. Is—are you alright with one of my T-shirts? And, I have… basketball shorts that should—”

“If you just have a pair of boxers, those’ll work. I don’t like that athletic material.”

Jack stares at you with an intensity you haven’t seen in a couple weeks now. You watch his throat work over a gulp, and he takes a deep breath before croaking, “yeah. Boxers. Got it.”

It’s hard not to shoot him a mocking grin, able to recognize the struggle he’s going through, but you are much more merciful than he is, choose to simply squeeze the hand you’re still holding. 

You enjoy the shower alone, inhaling the familiar scent of Jack’s body wash, his shampoo, the conditioner that keeps those curls looking so soft, and you’re hit with the idea, the excitement, that you might actually be able to feel them, run your hands through his hair, feel his stubble against your palm. 

You didn’t necessarily come here to have sex. If that’s what ends up happening, then you definitely won’t be disappointed, but you mostly followed him home to spend time with him. To learn more. And, maybe you’d get to cuddle with him. Maybe. 

Friends, lovers—whatever this may turn into will be fine with you. Jack has always been attractive to you, even with his incessant teasing, but more than that, he’s always been admirable. 

The most capable person you’ve ever met, cool in a crisis, sturdy and sure. He is a pillar, a titan, a leader, but he’s also witty and goofy and mischievous. 

There’s a reason you fell for him and a reason you keep falling for him. 

The white t-shirt he left smells like him, soft and baggy, and the boxers fit okay once you roll the waistband a couple times. Your hair is wet, and your eyes are dark from fatigue. You don’t feel particularly pretty, but the open domesticity of this whole encounter encourages you to step out into the hallway. 

You’re not here to be pretty. You’re here to sleep. And stare a lot. 

Jack’s room is right across from the bathroom, and you walk into it you find him sitting on his bed wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He’s in the process of doffing his prosthesis, and you watch what seems like a ritual. His fingers move and massage scar tissue, and there is a voice at the back of your head, a want—to one day be the one to do this for him. To get the blood flowing again, to soothe any aches or chafed skin. 

Probably not quite there yet. You aren’t even sure he wants you to witness this, don’t know if he’s self-conscious about his leg or not. 

With this in mind, you step a little louder to announce your presence, and Jack looks up quickly, doesn’t say anything for a moment as his hands falter in their movements. 

“Uh… probably should have told you…”

You frown at him. “Did you—did you think I didn’t know?”

Mouth pulled downward in consideration, Jack shrugs, “it’s never come up in conversation, and it’s not like I’m using my crutches at the hospital.” He briefly changes the subject, nodding to the clothes in your hands, “you can toss those in the basket if you want.”

You do just that before approaching him, careful not to knock into what is likely very expensive hardware. 

“It didn’t have to come up in conversation. And, you didn’t have to use crutches for me to notice.” He regards you curiously, so you continue slowly, trying to choose all the right words. “You don’t have a limp. You don’t move awkwardly. But, there’s a certain… rhythm… to the way you walk. A kick, I guess, that one leg has that the other doesn’t. It’s really, um… it’s really subtle.”

Jack blushes, but he also smirks. You roll your eyes before he can open his mouth to poke fun. “Yes, I’ve stared a lot. Yes, I’ve watched you like a freak. Fucking sue me.”

“Do I need to file an HR complaint?” 

With narrowed eyes and extreme caution, you slowly slide into his lap, draping your arms over his shoulders, making sure not to put all your weight on him. 

He’s obviously taken aback, stifles a little cough, but his hands still settle on your waist without hesitation. 

“Do you want to file an HR complaint?” 

He’s comically quick to answer, “fuck no,” the words rough as they fall from lips you’re zeroed in on. When his tongue darts out to wet the corner of them, you shiver. 

Jack moves first, but you’re right behind him, meeting him halfway in a kiss that starts with a deep inhale. Your fingers rake through the hair at the back of his head, travel to finally, finally feel those curls, and when they’re just as soft as you imagined, you hum happily—a sound that turns desperate when Jack cups the back of your neck and somehow pulls you even closer than you already are. 

His stubble, though scratchy against your skin, is just long enough to keep from hurting, pleasurably stimulating rather than rubbing like sandpaper. 

You tilt your head, open your mouth, and Jack swiftly slides his tongue against yours, a deep grunt sounding from his chest and reverberating in yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Want to touch him everywhere, want to feel everything. He, however, knows exactly what he wants, keeps holding your nape while his other hand curls around your hip and guides you to fully sit in his lap, traps you there as he grinds against your core, and fuck, oh fuck—he’s hard. He’s hard and he’s big and he wants you. 

Jack swallows your little mewl, groans when you roll your hips, but breaks away from you before either of you can get carried away. 

“This isn’t,” he’s already so out of breath, and the fact that you’re the cause of it makes your body flush hot, makes your pussy ache. “It’s not why I asked you to come home with me… contrary to popular belief.”

You refuse to stop playing with his hair even as you speak, “well, I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it wasn’t my plan either.”

His thumb is stroking over your hip bone, very distracting as you try to keep yourself from shoving him back on his own bed. The hand that was previously on your neck is caressing your cheek, smoothing over the bone, moving to your jaw, the space right below the curve of your lip. 

“You are,” Jack swallows, huffs through his nose, “you’re incredible, you know that?” 

It takes you by surprise. Praise like that from someone like Jack Abbot is something people crave, whether they’re attracted to him or not. He’s never been one to hold back from encouraging younger doctors, one of the reasons everyone enjoys working under him, but… incredible?

“And, beautiful, obviously. Brilliant. Patient—”

“You don’t have to butter me up, you already have me in your bed,” you play, rolling your eyes as if you’re not eating this up. 

“I’m not buttering you up—I’m telling you everything I should’ve when I was too busy pullin’ on those pigtails.”

And, then, for whatever reason, he beams at you, a grin so wide and crooked that it spreads to every one of his features, changes the very shape of him. You see dazzling white teeth all the way back to his molars, and you sort of want to cry into his shoulder. 

He’s—he’s so fucking handsome, it hurts, and you can’t look at him any longer, holding his face in both hands as you kiss him again. 

And, again. 

And, again. 

And, Jack refuses to drop that damn smile, still wearing it even as he twists and turns to maneuver you onto your back. 

It’s finally happening, oh god, you’re finally getting—you finally have your hands on him, sliding under his shirt, lifting and pushing it off entirely. 

His arms, what the fuck, his arms, and his chest, his stomach, his freckles… freckles everywhere, dusting his body like one huge constellation. 

You’re so ready to worship him, only you can’t because Jack is too busy with you, mouthing down your neck to nip at your clavicle, fingers dancing at the hem of his shirt. 

Looking at you through unfairly pretty eyelashes, he questions, “may I?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod, “knock yourself out.”Jack laughs, helping you sit up so that he can tug the t-shirt from your body, and once it’s off he bites his lip hard enough for the flesh to redden. “Talk about a knockout.”

Part of you wants to ‘boo’ the cheesy line, but it’s hard to criticize when he’s staring at you the way he is, even harder when he leans down to pepper kisses over your chest, sucking on one of your nipples until it hardens on his tongue, then caring for the other in the same way. 

Your tits rise and fall with every breath you take, shiny with his spit by the time he begins his descent again. 

Jack leaves marks on your rib cage, a bruise sucked into the soft skin right below your belly-button, one on each hip as he hooks fingers into your waistband and pulls the material down little by little. 

The hickeys don’t stop, numerous dark spots littering your inner thighs, each one making your cunt pulse with arousal, and once the boxers are discarded and Jack is between your legs, he examines his handiwork—bruises first, then your dripping pussy. 

Warm breath cascades over you, a few short puffs followed by a languid lick from your entrance to your clit. 

“Haah—ah—Jack, oh…”

His resounding groan vibrates through you, and you immediately find purchase in those silver curls again. 

His facial hair scrapes your thighs so deliciously, stubble on his chin and around his lips making you gasp and writhe, and you would love to hold him still and ride his face, but you want something else even more. 

“Feels, fuck, feels so good, but—” your back arches when he nibbles on your clit, soothing it with his tongue afterward, “—I want, God, please, want you in-inside.”

And, with those words, Jack fucking whines for you, eyebrows pinched together as he works his jaw, stuck between a rock and a hard place (with a rock hard cock pressing into the mattress). 

He wants to fuck you, good God, he wants to bury himself in you, but your cunt is so sweet and so wet, drenching his face and fluttering just for him. He could do this for fucking ever, quit his job and eat your pussy for the rest of his life. 

But, your hands are urging him back up your body, and Jack really has no business or desire to deny you anything you want from him. 

As soon as he gets to a certain position, one that gives you enough force and leverage, you shove him onto his back and straddle his hips, crushing your lips against his and no doubt tasting yourself on his tongue. 

“Do we need… do we need a condom?” you question, follow with, “I’m clean, I had a—a physical a couple weeks ago—”

You’re asking if he can fuck you raw. Shit, Jack is not well enough equipped to deal with this, to deal with the increase in his heartrate and blood pressure as you start working his boxers off of him. 

You slide down him quickly, but stop at his legs, and when he feels you press what can only be described as a loving kiss to the scar tissue of his residual limb, Jack sucks in a breath so sharp it might lance him right open. 

It’s fleeting, not something you draw too much attention to, but the sensation and the care will stick with him until the day he dies. 

“Healthy as a horse,” his voice cracks when he finally responds to you, and he clears his throat in the vain hope that it’ll heal his grated tone. 

Both of you stripped of every garment and inhibition you slink back up his frame, another question glimmering in your eyes. Jack raises a hand to push hair out of your face and nods. Yes. Please. I’m entirely yours. 

Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping him and making Jack press his head back into his pillows when you run your thumb over his tip to smear the precum drooling from it. 

“Gonna kill me,” he whispers, gazing up at you in awe, his jaw dropping even further when you line him up with your entrance and begin sinking down. 

Your pussy is hot and tight around him, taking Jack deeper and deeper, and the feeling of you squeezing his cock paired with the way you’re moaning for him has his eyes rolling in his head. 

“Fuck, you’re too goddamn good for me,” he groans, and he means it. “Too fuckin’ good.”

But, you disagree with a laugh and a shake of your head right as you settle onto his pelvis. 

He is fully inside of you. Sheathed. Surrounded. Buried just like he wanted to be. 

The thought nearly does him in, and Jack bucks up into you, the action making you bounce, keen, then start your own rhythm. 

Lifting up over and over, you ride him like you were fucking born to, raising yourself and dropping on his cock, then falling to your forearms to work him at a different angle. Your ass bobs up and down, and if he cranes his neck just the right way Jack can see the jiggle of round cheeks. His fingers dig into your plush skin, groping and pulling and using his grip to move you up and down on his cock. 

He’s lost to you, lost in you, and he’s fucking ecstatic about it. Uncontrolled grunts and growls leave him without his knowledge, creating a cacophony of lewdness when mixed with your melodic moans and squelching pussy. 

You brace yourself on his chest and piston your hips, the pace growing into something frantic as his cock rubs against your g-spot. 

Head thrown back, tits pushed out, nails digging into his skin, you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. 

“That’s it, take what you need, baby, I’ve got you,” he tells you, though it’s really Jack who needs the reassurance. Needs to know you won’t disappear from his grasp, here one second then gone the next. He has you, he’s holding you, and just the idea of letting you go drives him insane.

No. No. 

He coats his thumb in spit before pressing it to your clit, holds it there to apply a steady pressure for you to control more than him. 

Mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, you cry while shifting on top of him, an endless dance that eventually has your muscles locking up, your pussy starting to spasm, and Jack can’t tear his eyes away as your orgasm builds, build, builds, his own right alongside it. 

You teeter on that edge for so fucking long, face stuck in the same expression of utter desperation as your body moves almost robotically, your lower half snapping to keep his cockhead against your g-spot, his thumb against your clit, and then, with a beautifully broken moan, your orgasm plows into you, taking Jack along with it. 

In hindsight, he should’ve asked if it was okay to finish inside of you, but he has no control as you milk it out of him, squeezing thick ropes of cum from his cock, his seed flooding your pussy until it starts leaking out around him, leaving a mess between your bodies. 

You take several deep breaths, fuck-drunk eyes heavy and locked on one another until you fall forward onto Jack’s chest. 

He wraps both of his arms around your back, fingers of one hand clasped around his opposite wrist. Your head hangs over his shoulder, face turned into his neck, and Jack angles to kiss your forehead before resting his cheek against it. 

“Mmm, that was… yes,” you say, still mindless. 

Jack chuckles, “yeah, it was.”

“Can we… is that something we can… hm,” you struggle to finish the thought, drowsiness sinking its claws into you. A 14 hour shift and earth-shattering orgasm will do that. 

Lucky for you, Jack knows what you’re trying to ask and answers, “we can do that however and whenever you want.”

He feels you smile into his neck. “Not a one-time-thing, then?”

“Do I seem like a one-time type of man?” 

You make that wordless ‘I don’t know’ sound, “how’m I supposed to know? You could just be teasing me again.”

His arms tighten enough to push some of the air from your lungs. 

“I may be a tease, but I am also” his lips brush the corner of your eye, “a selfish prick—one of my many charming personality traits.”

Instead of being put off by his half-joking, mostly serious confession, you nuzzle into him and gently suckle at a place on the side of his neck long enough to leave a bruise and make Jack’s very tired dick try to twitch back to life. 

“I really enjoy… hm, what am I trying to say? I like that—I like that you want me, I guess. And, I want you to be selfish. And, I wanna be selfish too.”

His chest rises with a short laugh. You could have anyone you set your sights on. Stunning, smart, funny, talented, Jack could go on and on. The fact that you have feelings for him, have had these feelings for longer than two seconds, is nothing short of a fucking miracle. 

“I’m yours for the taking, babe—your loyal dog. I’ll even sit at your feet if you ask me.”

He unlocks his hands from your back to rub his aching eyes, the toll of last night and this morning weighing heavy on his limbs. 

“Will you wear a collar too?” you tease, finger tracing over his Adam’s apple. 

“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me shower and sleep for a couple hours.”

You do, joining Jack under the spray where he leans against you, your arm looped around his torso to keep him stable, and if he weren’t so damn exhausted, he’d probably insist on independence, but he feels like maybe it’s safe to let his guard down. Maybe he doesn’t have to surround himself with trauma or distract himself with little games. Maybe he can just be. 

With you. 

As the morning sun shines through his curtains, Jack falls asleep with your head on his chest and a content smile on his face. 

[thatcorporategirlie]

Sometimes… The Distance Wins

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 9.7K Rating: E

Summary: You and Jack try to navigate this long-distance relationship that you’ve accidentally found yourselves in.

Warning: Smut (18+MDNI), romcom vibes, semi-established relationship (y’all still figuring it out), pet names, graphic descriptions of past smut (oral sex – f receiving), mentions of phone sex and masturbation, p in v sex (multiple times), size kink? (his dick is big - duh), jack abbot’s whore mouth (aka dirty talk), praise, smidge jealousy (both reader and jack), alcohol, language, mentions of death and loss, angst (yo, it surprisingly got angsty AF – im sorry), crying, insecurity, mel is your homie

A/N: I literally have been writing this all throughout the holiday break. I hope people enjoyed time off. I enjoyed my two weeks off, but now I have severe Sunday Scaries. BLESS YOU FOR THIS GIF found HERE by @lauraneedstochill. And so, this is my gift to you before Season 2 drops.

Masterlist | Part 1 l You’re reading Part 2 | Part 3

Brooklyn, New York

"You deleted your dating apps?" Mel’s voice came through the speaker, and you could practically hear her raising an eyebrow on the other end.

"Yeah," you answered slowly. "I just wasn’t using them anymore."

"Okay…" she hesitated. "But what does that mean?"

You let your head fall back against the couch cushion, staring up at the ceiling as if it might hand you the perfect answer.

"I mean… I wasn’t trying to make some big announcement. I just haven’t felt like talking to anyone else."

There was a beat of silence before Mel pounced.

"So… are you and Dr. Abbot together?" she asked, half‑teasing, half‑testing.

"I don’t know."

That was the truth.

It had been a little over 3 months since New Years Eve. It was middle of March.

Your mind drifted back to that night—he way he’d shown up unexpectedly and you’d brought him to the party in Tribeca and tried to play it cool. Your friends hadn’t bought it for a second. They’d pulled you aside one by one, eyebrows raised, champagne flutes in hand, whispering things like "So… who’s the guy?" and "Since when do you bring hot fucking doctors to parties?" and "Is this a thing? Should we be excited?"

The night had been innocent, really. A New Year’s kiss at midnight, and then you invited him back to your place for a 'night cap' even though you knew he had booked a hotel. You had intentionally chosen the skimpiest of pajamas, fully aware of the effect it could have on him. That night as you slid into bed beside him, clad in nothing more than your tiny shorts and a loose tank top. You had held your breath, waiting for him to finally take the plunge, to close the space between you and make the night just a little more than friendly. But Jack never did. Despite the unspoken tension that hung in the air, he just chose to wrap an arm around you and pull you close instead. It was maddening and sweet all at once.

The next day, he gave you a soft goodbye kiss at your door before he left for the airport. And, after that, he started texting. Little things at first—jokes, updates, random thoughts he probably didn’t have time to send but sent anyway. You knew how busy he was, which made every message feel so fucking special.

Then the texts turned into phone calls. Late‑night ones during a lull in his shift or early‑morning ones when he was getting off his shift. The kind of calls where you talked about everything and nothing. You found yourself telling him about your own travel schedule, keeping him in the loop without really knowing why. When you were in Miami recently… and okay, maybe you’d sent a bikini picture or two on purpose.

Which clearly worked… because the next time he visited you over a long weekend—he was more than happy to be more than friendly. That weekend, you were certain he had fucked you on every surface of your apartment. That morning before he left, Jack knelt before you, begging for 'breakfast', licking and sucking ruthlessly at your pussy on your dining room table, his tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit, punching moan after moan out of you. You realized that you were obsessed with the sound he made when your release tore through you. It almost seemed as if coming all over his face was more of a gift for him than it was for you.

Phone sex had definitely become a semi-regular occurrence with Jack whispering filth into the phone with your fingers stuffed inside your cunt. But no matter how much you tried (and oh did you fucking try)—your fingers and your toys no longer satisfied you. You were never able to get as deep or make yourself feel as good as Jack did.

The last time you saw him was a couple weeks ago, when he flew in for a conference. You hadn’t expected it to hit you so hard when he left, but it did—because each time he left, it hurt a little more than the time before. No matter how long he stayed, it was never enough. Your moments with him always felt borrowed. Like you were trying to hold on to something that kept slipping through your fingers the second he flew back to Pittsburgh.

"What do you mean you don’t know?" Mel challenged.

"Mel," you sighed, rubbing your forehead. "Because the situation sucks. I live here. He lives 370 miles away."

"Okay, but he clearly likes you. The man is flying back and forth to New York constantly."

"I guess," you muttered.

"You guess?" she shrieked. "That’s your takeaway?"

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. "I dunno, Mel… Maybe this is just casual to him. He only recently just stopped wearing his wedding ring."

Saying it out loud made your stomach twist. The second time he visited you, he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. You hadn’t pointed it out, hadn’t asked. Maybe he’d taken it off without thinking. Maybe he’d taken it off because he was thinking. Sometimes, you felt like 'the other woman' and it was a strange, disorienting kind of jealousy (or maybe it was insecurity), one you hated yourself for feeling. It felt like you were competing with a ghost—someone perfect, untouchable, and frozen in Jack’s memory.

Mel sighed, switching into her 'doctor' tone. "Widowers keeping their wedding rings on as long as he did is extremely common."

"Well… what if I’m just a rebound? Or maybe he’s just sowing his oats or whatever."

Jack had admitted to you that the reason he’d been too nervous to sleep with you on New Year’s was because he hadn’t had sex in five years. He also explained that an accident during his army days had taken his leg below the knee, and even though he spoke about it plainly, you could hear the strain beneath the words. No woman had seen that part of him since his wife and you were the first woman he’d been with since his wife died. The first person he’d let that close.

You swallowed hard. "Maybe I’m just the in‑between person. The temporary chapter until he finds a woman who makes more sense."

"Oh my God, will you listen to yourself for two seconds? He asked you to come stay with him in Pittsburgh next week. For a whole week. Do you know how many men invite a woman they’re 'not serious about' to basically move into their house for seven days?"

You opened your mouth, but she barreled on.

"And I’ve seen him at work," she added. "He rearranged his entire schedule so he could actually spend time with you. Four back‑to‑back days off. Four! And he requested day shifts for the rest of the days you are working remotely. Day shifts! That man loves the night shift."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped. Because she wasn’t wrong. For Jack to give up the night shift—even temporarily—it had to mean something.

Right?

You hated being vulnerable, even with Mel, so you did what you always did when emotions got too loud—you changed the subject.

"Are you excited to see me?" you asked, forcing your voice into something lighter.

"I don’t know," Mel said dramatically. "Will I actually see you, or will you just be having sex with Dr. Abbot the entire time?"

"Mel!" you yelped.

"What? You’re the one who said he’s the best sex you’ve ever had."

He was. No questions asked.

You groaned. "And I should have never told you that, because he’s your attending!"

"I can keep a secret," she teased. "But yes… I am excited to see you. Let’s grab dinner. And, you should swing by the hospital one day while you’re here, maybe come visit me during lunch."

"You won’t be too busy?"

"Oh, I’ll definitely be too busy," she said without missing a beat. “But that just means you’ll have plenty of time to wander around and have sex with Dr. Abbot in some supply closet or on-call room.

"MEL!"

She cackled so loudly you had to pull the phone away from your ear.

One Week Later – Pittsburgh

You were probably in Jack’s house for five minutes before he pounced on you.

Or did you pounce on him?

Honestly, it was all such a blur you couldn’t even remember who moved first. He’d shown up at arrivals holding flowers. Actual flowers. Who even fucking did that anymore?

And he didn’t stop there. After he kissed you hello (twice, because the first one clearly wasn’t enough for him), he insisted on carrying your suitcase and bag, opened the car door for you, and drove you straight to his favorite diner. It was this little hole‑in‑the‑wall place he’d told you about a dozen times. He ordered for you because he "knew what you’d like," and of course, he was right. Then he spent the entire meal looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were sitting across from him.

But the thing that really did it for you was that it was, ironically, the first time you were ever seeing him in scrubs.

They weren’t anything special—just black scrubs—but on Jack they looked unfairly good. The fabric clung in all the right places. The top stretched across his shoulders in a way that made it obvious how much time he spent working out, the seams pulling slightly every time he moved. And underneath, you could see the faint outline of a fitted white undershirt, clinging to the shape of his chest and making everything look even more defined. His forearms were the real distraction—strong and veined. It made you think about how easily he could lift you, pin you, and fuck you into a mattress.

Which was currently exactly what was happening.

"Oh, fuck. That’s it," he mumbled, hips stuttering against you, his name falling from your mouth over and over again as your second (and very violent) orgasm shamelessly ripped through you with tears springing to your eyes. He hummed low in his throat while you clenched tightly around his cock, and he kept fucking you through it while you dropped your head lazily into his pillow.

"Such—a—good—girl," Jack grunted between utterly obscene thrusts, his jaw locking as he closed in on his release. It was an unforgiving tempo—you felt like he was punching the air from your lungs. The thought of him using your cunt like a toy may have set feminism back a couple decades, but you couldn’t find yourself caring because it drove you wild seeing him so lost in his own fucking pleasure. And then, his body stilled abruptly, and he spilled into the condom with a loud, strangled groan.

He collapsed on you with a heavy sigh. Your bodies were sticky with sweat, and you knew you probably looked like an absolute mess and wreck.

"You good?" he asked after he caught his breath.

"Mhmm," you hummed.

He pulled out with a hiss, sliding his softening cock out of you and lifting himself up on his elbows to claim your mouth in a warm kiss, before he sauntered naked through his room to disappear into the bathroom to throw out the condom, and clean up. When he returned, he slid back under the sheets and pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you like he had no intention of letting go.

"I like your place," you teased, tracing a lazy line along his shoulder.

He kissed you again then brushed his nose against your cheek. "Ready for an actual tour now?"

"I guess," you sighed dramatically, earning another kiss for your theatrics.

Reluctantly, you both got up and dressed. Jack tugged on his boxers and T‑shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and gave you that sexy smile that always made your stomach flip. Then he took your hand and led you out of the bedroom. His house was calming, and you loved the large glass windows and doors bringing them outdoors into the home which helped create a natural and serene environment. It felt like a "tree house" with lots of light and greenery. Your favorite part was his cozy kitchen which popped out olive-green cabinets and white tile work. You loved how unapologetically not modern the house was. It wasn’t some sprawling, dramatic big-ass house you knew he could easily afford as a trauma surgeon, and that made you love it even more.

"Your house is so beautiful, Jack. I’m pretty sure my apartment is the size of your living room," you said with a laugh. You loved your place in New York—but square footage was… not something you had. At all.

"I moved here about four years ago. My sister-in-law helped a ton. I can’t take the credit."

Four years ago, would’ve meant he moved here about a year after his wife passed. You felt a pang in your chest at the realization. You couldn’t imagine trying to keep living in the same house you’d shared with a spouse, surrounded by memories in every corner. It made sense to you that he had gotten a new space.

You noticed their wedding picture sat on a side table in the living room, framed in simple wood. It was your first time seeing a picture of her. The two of them were caught mid‑laugh, smiling at something just out of frame. He hovered behind you, awkward and unsure, like he didn’t know whether to apologize for the photo or explain why it was still there. Of course, he would have pictures of his late wife in his house. You reached for his hand without thinking, giving it a gentle squeeze to let him know it was okay. That you understood. That she was stunning.

He kept your hand in his as he walked you down the hall, opening a small door. "Linen closet," he said, tapping the shelves. "Extra towels, sheets, blankets—whatever you need. And if you can’t find something, just yell."

Then he moved on to the extra bedrooms. One set up as a guest room. One as a work-out room.

Finally, he opened the last door.

"This is the office," he said casually.

But your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just an office.

It was your office?

The same second monitor you used at home. The same oversized headphones you swore by. A desk setup that mirrored yours almost exactly—down to the little laptop stand, the ergonomic chair you spent way too much money on, and the vertical mouse Mel had bullied you into buying to avoid developing carpal tunnel.

Your jaw dropped.

For a second, you just stood there, staring, your brain trying to catch up with what your eyes were seeing.

Jack shrugged a little, like this wasn’t a big deal. "This room’s mostly been empty. I only ever had a desk in here. And I know nothing about corporate America, but everyone keeps telling me people with desk jobs can’t function without a second monitor. So, I made sure to get things set up for you before you got here."

Your eyes began to sting, and tears started to blur your vision, so you quickly blinked them away hoping he didn’t notice. Because of course he’d say it casually like that—like he hadn’t just recreated your entire workspace from memory. Like he hadn’t been paying attention to every offhand comment you’d ever made about your very particular setup. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself.

"Jack… this is—this is too much. Seriously…you didn’t have to do this. I was planning on working at a coffee shop!"

He scoffed, stepping closer. "I don’t want you working at a coffee shop. I want you working here. I want you comfortable while you’re here."

"You have to let me pay you back for—"

He cut you off immediately—immediately—with one of those looks. The look he always gave you whenever you so much as reached for your wallet. You’d seen it every time you tried to pay for dinner, every time you tried to order an Uber, every time you so much as suggested splitting something.

You knew Jack made significantly more than you. This probably felt like a drop in the bucket to him. That wasn’t the point. This felt like… a lot. It was a gesture so intimate it made your chest ache.   

"But, Jack," you whined softly, overwhelmed.

"But what?" he said your name back in the exact same tone. You opened your mouth again, ready to argue, ready to insist, ready to list every reason why this was too much. But your shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of you all at once, replaced by something else.

"It’s just…n-no one’s ever done some—something like this for me," you stammered, suddenly feeling unbearable warm.

"Then I’m glad I get to be the first."

"Thank you. It's perfect," you breathed, looking back at your new temporary office set up. He shook his head like you were being ridiculous.

"Nothing to thank me for, sweetheart," he said quietly, before leaning down to give you a delicious kiss.

The next night, you and Jack went out for dinner.

What you loved most about being in Pittsburgh is that you didn’t have to play tourist. You didn’t have to cram in sights or pretend you didn’t already know the city. You’d grown up coming here on a few school field trips, and now, as an adult visiting Mel, the place felt familiar in a way.

You’d been meaning to try this new restaurant ever since you stumbled across a glowing review about it. It had only been open for about six months, but the write‑up made it sound like the kind of place that actually deserved the hype. You’d bookmarked it with a mental note to stop by someday, and tonight finally felt like the perfect excuse to see what all the fuss was about.

Jack opened the door for you as you entered the restaurant. You felt his hand at the small of your back, and his warm breath in your ear when he told you how gorgeous you looked—for the zillionth time. You gave the hostess you name, and the hostess smiled when she found your name on the list, then gestured for the two of you to follow her.  She led you through the softly lit dining room to a table tucked near a window—intimate without feeling hidden, close enough to the main part of the restaurant to feel alive, but private enough that you didn’t have to raise your voices.

Menus were placed in front of you, water poured, and before you could even settle into your seat, Jack leaned in slightly. "Cocktails?" he asked, like he already knew the answer. You ordered a dry martini; he went for something darker, bourbon‑forward. The drinks arrived quickly, and you clinked them together with dopey smiles on your faces.

The waiter appeared just as you were settling into your first sips. He was young—mid‑twenties maybe—with a too‑bright smile and the kind of confidence that suggested he’d been told he was charming one too many times. You noticed Jack’s eyes shift when the waiter rattled off the specials with way more enthusiasm than necessary. And every time he mentioned something particularly decadent, his attention drifted to you instead of Jack. A quick grin. A wink. A lifted brow. The slightest lean your way, like he couldn’t help himself.

You couldn’t help but feel like Jack had a tense expression on his face, but you didn’t think anything of it. Nodding politely, you asked a question about the sauce on the halibut, all while feeling Jack’s stare on you, even though you were turned toward the waiter.

When the waiter finally left, Jack let out a soft breath, almost a laugh.

"He was really laying it on thick."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Jack smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Just… I’m a lucky guy, that’s all. I’m sitting here with the most beautiful girl."

You rolled your eyes, but Jack just kept smiling at you.

"I’m serious," he said. "I don’t think you know the effect you have on people. You’re kind of impossible to ignore." You’d never been good at taking compliments—never knew where to look or what to do with your hands when someone said something kind about you. And the way Jack said it, so matter‑of‑fact and sincere, made a warmth creep up your neck before you could stop it.

"Thank you," you replied, your heart fluttering at the sight of his handsome face.

"I’m also so lucky you took a whole week to come visit me."

"Jack, you’ve been to New York three times. It only made sense."

Something in what you said made him pause. His fingers tapped once against his glass before he continued speaking.

"I’m really happy I met you."

Your chest warmed. "Me too, Jack."

He swallowed, like he was working up to something. You frowned as you watched Jack shift uncomfortably in his chair.

"Look… I’m not expecting you to put your dating life on hold… And…I know you live in a different city. I know this is… new. But I just want you to know—if it wasn’t painfully obvious… that I’m not seeing anybody else," he admitted shyly with a red tint to his cheeks.

For a moment, you just looked at him—at the way he was trying so hard to be careful with you, to not assume anything, to not ask for more than he felt he had the right to. You coyly bit your lip, enjoying how bashful he was being. He always had the ability to turn you into mush instantly.

"I’m not seeing anybody else either. I’m only seeing you."

Jack’s eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flickering across his face. "Really?" he asked, like he honestly needed the confirmation.

"Really. I haven’t even been on a date since I met you," you giggled, and a big smile stretched across his face. "Am I breaking the rules of not being subtle and maybe being a little too honest?"

Jack he reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours before gently curling around your hand. His thumb traced a slow line across your skin.

"So fuck it," he said, as he held your hand a little tighter. "Let’s just break the rules."

Dinner carried on as if nothing had changed. It was as tasty as the review had said. When the check was paid and you both stood to leave, Jack helped you into your coat like he always did. But this time, as he lifted the collar over your shoulders, he didn’t step back. He stayed close. Close enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek. Then, without hesitating, he leaned in, and his mouth hungrily found yours right there by the door, with his hands getting lost in your hair. Your heart did a ridiculous little flip because he wasn’t usually like this when you went out together. Jack tended to be a little more reserved in public.

You panted, tipping your head back to break the kiss.

"Let’s go back to mine," he whispered before he pressed a kiss behind your ear.

You were supposed to go to a jazz bar after dinner. But as you stood there with Jack’s hands still tangled in your hair and your pulse racing from the kiss, that plan felt like it belonged for another night.

"Okay," you exhaled shakily, eyelids fluttering as you continued to fall under the spell of those gorgeous hazel eyes. The pull between your legs was almost uncomfortable at this point, so you squirmed a bit, containing the urge to fucking straddle him.

He noticed.

"Now," he growled.

When you got back to his place, Jack guided you backward, his palm firm against your lower back as he eased you down onto his bed. The mattress creaked beneath your weight, the frame groaning softly as he followed, settling over you. Buttons slipped free one by one, between kisses. His shirt fell first, then yours, each layer peeled away with deliberate care. Suddenly, you were completely naked before him. So was he, and your lips parted as you watched his cock bob free.

You could tell that the conversation back at the restaurant did something to him. It did something to you, too. Who knew that confirming the two of you were only fucking each other could make the both of you so horny?

Jack cupped your breasts, groaning at how perfectly you fit in his palms. His head dipped to your right breast, taking the peak lightly in his mouth. He closed his mouth around the pebbled skin and bit down hard. You gasped, a mixture of pleasure and surprise shooting through you and tugged at his hair with an urgency. Heat radiated from your pussy, intensifying the desire pulsing through your veins. Jack’s mouth was warm and wet, and every flick of his tongue sent shivers straight to your core.

"Jack. Please. I need you," you begged and there was a hazy, dazed look in your eyes. You grabbed his hand and put it on your pussy so that he could feel how embarrassingly wet you were. He groaned against your chest. While you appreciated that Jack usually made you come (multiple times sometimes) with his fingers or tongue before burying himself inside of you, you were desperate for him tonight.

In the blink of an eye, his mouth abandoned your tortured nipple. "Need me that bad, huh?" he teased, with a shit-eating grin. "You want me to fuck that pretty pussy of yours, huh?"

You turned your face sideways, before murmuring out a quiet, 'yes.'

"So desperate for it." he cooed, looking down at you with a sly smile. "What? You sitting on my cock this morning wasn’t enough?" he goaded, staring at your soaked cunt.

You blinked widely at his filthy mouth. You loved it when he talked like this. His tongue working faster than his brain. He was usually so refined and composed.

"Please, Jack," you begged again, urgency colored in your tone. "Fuck me. I need it. Please—"

"Okay, baby," His lips traced a path from your shoulder down to your collarbone and then he slowly kissed a trail down your arm, his fingertips glided along your sides, sending shivers coursing through you. Then, he started reaching inside his bedside table to grab a condom.

You immediately grabbed his waist to keep him close.

"I have an IUD," you reminded him.

"You sure?" he rasped, his eyes dark.

You nodded.

He studied your face for a moment, searching for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, he leaned in closer, brushing his nose against yours. He positioned his thick cock at your entrance, his impressive size pressing gently against you, and coating himself with your arousal. "Tell me again," he commanded. "What do you need?"

"I need you to fuck me," you whined pathetically, hips lifting without thinking. You were aching for him to be inside, cunt pulsing for him to slip his cock in. You continued to be mess of incoherent pleas and Jack chuckled darkly as he watched your cunt clench around nothing. Thankfully, he wasn’t in a mood to tease. With a swift motion, he pushed into you, nice and slowly, filling you completely. A deep guttural sound tore from his chest, while a gasp escaped your lips as he fed you his cock.

"Jesus Christ," he bit out, leaning down slowly, hands braced in the pillows beside your head. "So damn tight." His chin tilted toward the ceiling, and you could tell he was fighting back the urge to aggressively pound into your core.

The stretch ached, and you whimpered at the fullness. It was a tight fit even for how wet you were, but your walls instinctively made space to wrap around him. He was so fucking big. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours, breathing heavily. The muscle in his jaw twitched, the cords in his neck straining. "Dreamt about feeling you like this for so long," he breathed against your lips, before sliding his tongue into your mouth.

That was the thing about Jack. No matter how fun and flirty the sex could be, he had a way of saying things that landed with unexpected tenderness. He rocked and moved and lingered at a steady pace. He was trying to make this last— was very honest and told you that the lack of condom made him feel like he was going to finish too quickly. He’d pause to kiss your forehead softly, then your cheek, and sometimes the corner of your mouth, whispering how beautiful you were. It made your heart race. His scent filled your nostrils. It was so warm and fucking masculine. Seconds stretched into minutes, and Jack’s pace gradually grew more urgent. Your body pulled him in greedily, clinging to the weight and the heat of him.

"Feels so fucking good," you whispered, voice trembling slightly.

He responded without hesitation. "Yeah, baby?" His pelvis started making a delicious loud smack each time it hit yours.

"Jack," you panted. "Need m-more."

He obliged, thrusting harder, and faster and you felt the pressure build deep inside of you. You started using your legs as leverage to meet him thrust for thrust. His eyes stayed trained on yours, his thick brows furrowing in intense concentration as his nostrils flared, watching his cock disappear into your cunt. You were blabbering incoherently as he talked you toward your orgasm with his words.

"Being such a good girl for me."

"That’s it sweetheart."

"You’re so perfect."

"Oh fuck, I’m— I'm c-close," you cried out as you clutched his shoulders, digging your fingernails painfully into his skin.

"Come for me again," he commanded, through clenched teeth. "I need to feel it. Think you can do that for me, sweetheart?" With one final deep thrust, you felt your body shudder at his words and reached your peak, cunt squeezing tight around him. The sensation consumed you, making you surrender completely to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body with your eyes rolling to the back of your head while your jaw stayed open in bliss. You could hear his praise somewhere underneath the blood rushing to your ears. The aftershocks were intense. You were certain you were having an out of body experience, floating up above yourself, looking down at a crazy sex-induced version of yourself that you didn’t recognize.

Jack groaned out an affirmative noise while he continued losing himself inside your cunt, his eyes burning into you as a string of obscenities flew out of his mouth.

"I’ve thought about this too," you admitted, hoping your words would help speed along his own orgasm. "How good you’d feel with nothing between us."

"Fuck, really?" he grunted, while fresh sweat formed along his forehead.

"Yes," you whined, high pitched and needy, "please come inside me."

"Yeah? Want me to come in this perfect little pussy?" he groaned looking completely wrecked. The raw need in his words sent a fresh wave of arousal washing over you.

"Yes," you gasped, swallowing a mouthful of air, "oh god, yes. Jack. I fucking want it."

Those were all the words he needed before Jack shouted out your name, bracing his hand against the headboard while he pumped you full of his hot spend. After he caught his breath, he draped his body over yours, placing soft kisses on your neck and shoulders. Your legs trembled slightly as you both laid there. You scraped your nails across his silvery curls, causing him to whimper. Slowly, he pulled out of you, making you wince, and you saw his eyes dart south to look at the mix of you and him trailing down your thighs.

After that night, Jack threw out his condoms.

As promised, you stopped by the hospital to visit Mel. It was toward the end of your trip, and Jack was working the day shift today, while you had been working in your 'office.' But you’d carved out time to meet Mel in the cafeteria for lunch today.

She was already there when you arrived, sitting with her elbows tucked in and her chart hugged lightly against her chest the way she did when she needed a moment of calm. The second she spotted you, her whole face brightened.

"You made it!" she said, scooting her tray aside so you could sit.

You sat across from her with a tray in front of you, staring down at what was allegedly chicken stir fry. One bite in and immediately, your expression betrayed you.

Mel’s eyes widened with concern. "Oh no. Is it that bad? I should’ve warned you. I forget sometimes because I’m usually too tired to taste anything."

You swallowed, barely. "Mel… this is—this is a crime."

"Okay, yes, it’s terrible. But look—" She tapped her fork against the plate. "It’s warm. And it’s technically food. And sometimes that’s enough."

"I’m genuinely concerned for your well‑being," you said, poking the chicken, half expecting it to fight back.

Mel laughed. Then, as if remembering something, she perked up. "Oh! I was texting your brother today."

"You were?"

"He was asking about apartments in the area. I didn’t realize he was moving to Pittsburgh."

"Yeah. He got a transfer request. They are being super flexible with his start date since they are desperate to have him here. He’s trying to get fully settled by end of July. But he’s down to sign a lease that starts in May or June."

Mel gave you a look. A very specific look.

"What?" you asked, eyebrows pinched together.

"You know, when you’re not traveling for work, you work from home."

"…Okay, and?"

"Which means you job is mostly remote."

You narrowed your eyes. "Mel."

She tilted her head, all innocence. "Have you ever considered moving here?"

"What? Because of Jack?" you shrieked, louder than intended. A nurse two tables over glanced your way.

Mel didn’t even flinch. "Well, sure, he would be part of the equation. But your brother is moving here. Your parents are in Cleveland. I live here. Not that I’m a reason to move," she added quickly, waving her fork. "And now this really great guy that you met lives here."

"Mel, that’s fucking crazy."

She blinked at you, genuinely confused. "Why is it crazy?"

"Because Jack and I just met! My life is in New York."

"Sure," she said, nodding slowly, like she was ticking off items on a list, "but you’ve always said you didn’t see yourself staying in New York forever. You complain about the rent every time I visit. And you’ve said more than once it’s not exactly the place you want to raise a family."

"Okay, yes, it’s crazy expensive. But not to be rude or anything—Pittsburgh is not exactly high on my list of places I want to end up in."

Mel’s eyebrows lifted, but not in offense—more like she was amused.

"But you’re in love with Jack."

You froze.

Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth. For a moment, your thoughts stalled, and you could only look at her, trying to understand what she’d just said.

"Mel. What are you talking about?"

She didn’t backpedal. She just watched you with those fucking perceptive eyes of hers. That was the thing about Mel—you had never been able to hide the truth from her. Not the big things, not the small things, and definitely not the things you hadn’t even admitted to yourself yet.

"I’m not saying you planned it," she said. "I’m just saying it happened."

You and Mel did your best to finish lunch—well, she finished hers, and you pushed yours around until it looked like you’d made an effort. Then her pager went off. She glanced at it, and you understood without words that this was your cue to leave. You both stood at the same time. She reached for you first, pulling you into a hug that was tighter than usual, like she understood exactly how close you were to unraveling. You held on, trying to breathe, but your eyes burned anyway. One tear slipped free before you could stop it, brushing against her shoulder. She didn’t comment, didn’t make it a thing—just held you until you were ready to let go.

Tomorrow night you’d be gone. The thought pressed against your ribs, heavy and fucking unwelcome. But you were grateful—grateful you’d gotten today with her, grateful for the other night at her place with Becca when you’d all eaten takeout straight from the containers and yelled at reality TV contestants.  

You walked back to Jack’s house afterward. He lived only fifteen minutes from the hospital, and halfway there, your phone buzzed.

A text from Jack: Hey, Dana said she saw you leave the hospital. I didn’t realize you came in. Are you okay?

Of course he’d jump straight to you being hurt. Once in New York, you’d gotten a pretty deep papercut, and he’d reacted like you’d nearly severed a limb. He’d taken your hand so gently, brows drawn together in that worried crease he got, and kissed the tiny cut like it was something that needed soothing. Then he’d insisted on putting a band aid on it himself, smoothing the edges down with this ridiculous tenderness that had made you want to suck his dick off until he passed out.

Grabbed lunch with Mel, you typed back.

His reply came fast: Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve said hi.

I didn’t want to bother you. I assumed you were in surgery

You never bother me. Tell me next time.

Next time.

The words stuck with you long after the screen dimmed. When was the next time you would be in Pittsburgh? Weeks from now? Months? Maybe longer. You felt the sadness start to creep in—but you shook it off. You weren’t going to spend the rest of the day spiraling about what came after. Not when you still had tonight and tomorrow.

So, you made a decision and veered toward the grocery store. Jack had been wining and dining you since the moment you arrived—restaurants, takeout, late-night drinks. You felt bad about it and you didn’t want your last night here to be another meal he paid for. The grocery store was on the way, and you moved through the aisles, grabbing everything you needed for your 'famous' lasagna—the one dish you could make in your sleep, the one everyone always asked for seconds of. By the time you reached Jack’s place, you set the groceries down and got to work.

At one point you went searching for a baking dish, opening cabinets you’d never bothered to look through before. One of them was packed tight, things shoved in without much thought. You reached in to move a stack of mismatched bowls, and something behind them caught your eye—a book with no title, no markings, just a worn, soft cover.

Curiosity tugged at you.

You pulled it out.

At first glance, you didn’t know what it was. But as you flipped through it, you realized it was a recipe book. And not just any recipe book.

It was theirs. Jack and his wife’s.

A recipe for the pasta Jack had cooked on their first date written in Jack’s handwriting, with a note from his wife underneath: You burned the garlic, but I didn’t tell you because you looked so hot.

A recipe for the blueberry pancakes she made for one of his birthdays and Jack’s note in the margin: You always steal the first one off the pan. I let you.

A recipe for the Shepards pie he’d made the night he met her parents—her handwriting looping beneath his: They loved you. I pretended not to notice how nervous you were.

A recipe for the curry they tried to recreate after a trip abroad with Jack’s handwriting cramped at the bottom: We got it wrong, but you said it tasted like us anyway.

A recipe for a soup she made when he got the flu one winter. Her handwriting soft and careful: You fell asleep in bed halfway through eating this. I tucked you in and watched you breathe.

Page after page, memory after memory. Meals tied to moments. Scribbled comments from both of them. Inside jokes you didn’t understand. Pictures slipped between pages—birthdays, anniversaries, quiet nights at home. You didn’t even know that Jack could cook. Had he stopped after his wife passed? You had so many questions.

The reality of his situation hit you hard. Jack had lived an entire life with his wife—long before you ever stepped into the picture. A life with someone beautiful, and that he fucking adored. He didn’t fall out of love with her. It wasn’t like this had been a divorce or a break-up where the relationship went to shit. She didn’t break his heart. There hadn’t been any infidelity or disrespect between them. If a drunk driver hadn’t run her off the road, things would be different. He lost the love of his life because of some asshole. It was so fucking unfair. He would still be with her, and maybe by now they’d have a couple of kids—kids who would’ve been perfect, carrying pieces of both of them.

You tried to push down the intrusive thought as you cried, wiping the tears from your cheeks, but you couldn’t:

How could you ever compete with what they had?

A sob tore out of you as you dropped your face into your hands, your cheeks hot and wet in your palms.

You were in 'your office', finishing the last few lines of an email to your editor, when you heard the front door open, followed by the soft thud of Jack’s shoes hitting the entryway mat. It was currently 6:08 PM. He was earlier than expected.

"Oh my god, it smells so good in here," you heard Jack say.

You froze for a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Baby, you upstairs?"

"Yeah. One sec, coming!"

You closed your laptop a little too quickly, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You turned in your chair, and your eyes landed on your suitcase you’d packed earlier—sitting by the wall, zipped and ready. On the desk, your phone screen was still lit with the Delta tab you hadn’t bothered to close. PIT  → LGA, 10:32 PM. The rebooked flight email sat open beneath it, the new bolded departure date of tonight staring back at you.

Downstairs, you heard Jack moving through the kitchen—keys hitting the counter. You stood slowly, forcing your expression into something neutral before stepping out of the office. When you stepped down the last stair, you found him standing at the kitchen counter, and in his hands was the recipe book.

He looked up the moment he heard you.

"I’m sorry," you blurted out before he could say anything. "I—I found it when I was cooking. I swear I wasn’t trying to snoop." You gestured vaguely toward the cabinet. "It was shoved all the way in the back, and I just… I don’t know. I figured it shouldn’t be hidden somewhere you can’t find it."

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the sting behind your eyes threatening to return. Jack looked down at the book again, thumb brushing the worn edge of the cover. He didn’t say anything. And after a while, you couldn’t take the silence—not with your pulse thudding in your ears.

"I should… check on the lasagna," you murmured, even though the timer hadn’t gone off yet.

You crossed the kitchen with a stiffness you hoped didn’t show, the heat from the oven washing over your face as you opened the door. A wave of steam rolled out—fogging your vision for a second. The lasagna was bubbling at the edges, cheese browned just enough on top. You grabbed the oven mitts with hands that weren’t entirely steady and slid the dish out, setting it on the stovetop with a soft clatter. You focused on turning off the oven, adjusting the pan so it cooled evenly, brushing a stray bit of sauce from the rim. Anything to keep your back to him. Anything to keep your breathing even.

"I know I don’t talk about her a lot," he suddenly said.

You pressed your lips together for a split second. It was true. He’d only ever shared the high-level details—her name, that they’d met through Robby, how she died. You’d never wanted to push for more. Asking for the details felt like crossing a line you weren’t sure you had the right to cross. You’d never dated a widower before, and you constantly second‑guessed how to navigate that part of his life, afraid of fucking up on accident and offending him.

"It’s not that I don’t want to talk about her," he continued.

Your eyes stayed on the stovetop a moment longer, fussing with the pan even though it didn’t need it. A slow breath left your chest before you finally turned—just a small, reluctant pivot, as if some part of you wasn’t convinced you were ready to face him. You wiped your palms on a dish towel even though they weren’t wet, buying yourself one last second before you lifted your gaze.

You saw the anguish in his eyes.

"It’s just… talking about her still feels really hard sometimes," he swallowed, bottom lip quivering. "I’m sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," you said, wrapping your arms around yourself.

"I have to be honest with you," Jack said, glancing away for a moment before meeting your eyes again. "I’m figuring this out as I go," his eyes turned all watery and wide. "Missing her and wanting you. Half the time I feel so damn guilty for wanting you, and the other half I feel guilty for feeling guilty about moving on." His hand trembled as he picked up the recipe book. "I feel all these things for you. It makes me question everything. And sometimes… sometimes it makes me wonder if maybe—" his voice cracked "—I didn’t love my wife enough."

You looked at him, tears already streaming down your face. "Oh Jack, of course you loved her enough. More than enough. I felt guilty reading it," you pointed at the book. "I know those notes were private. But it was also… really beautiful. It was so… full of love. You weren’t just following her recipes—you were trying to make them perfect for her. The way you wrote about her, it was clear how much she meant to you. How much you both meant to each other." You were growing more and more nervous with every passing second because he still hadn’t said anything, but you continued. "You clearly loved her very deeply. You loved her so much… it’s written into every page."

His chest stilled, breath caught in his throat as he processed your words. Then, his arm darted out to grab your wrist and pull you to him. You were weak and went into his arms as he dug his fingers into your back to hold you against him, resting his cheek on the top of your head, trying to wrap himself around you in every possible way.

You weren’t angry at him. You were angry at yourself. You’d let yourself fall too hard, too fast, for someone who was still unavailable. It wasn’t his past that scared you—you never resented that he had loved someone before you. You knew a piece of his heart would always belong to her. You could live with that.

What you couldn’t live with was that he hadn’t really dealt with losing her. Not fully. Not deeply enough to make room for something new.

And because of that, he didn’t have space for a future with you.

Maybe not for a long time. Maybe not ever.

He heard you sniffle against his scrubs.

"I should go," you said quietly.

"What?" he asked in utter disbelief. He brought his hands up to pull you back and cradle your jaw.

"Yeah, I rebooked my flight to leave tonight."

"Why?"

"You know why," you said, gazing up at him, his hands still gripping your face. "This might be moving too fast, and you’ve been through a lot these last few years."

"Please don't do this," Jack’s grip on your face tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. "I want to be with you," he finally managed, voice breaking on the last word. "You’re all I think about. I wake up thinking about you. I go to bed thinking about you. I’m—I don’t know how to stop," he let out a broken laugh, the sound sharp and painful. "I think about your laugh when my day goes to fucking shit. I think about your face when something good happens. I miss you even when you’re standing right in front of me. I look for you in every room. I feel calmer when you’re near me. I feel… lost when you’re not. Please don’t feel like you need to give me an out. I’m— I—I’m in lo—"

You knew exactly what he was about to say. And hearing it now, in this moment, would shatter you. So you cut him off with the softest whisper.

"Me too."

His froze.

"But, I think I finally understand what people mean when they say something can end without it being a bad thing. Maybe we were only meant to meet to show each other what’s still possible. And maybe…that’s okay."

"Is that what’s happening? Is this ending? It barley even fucking started." Jack pinched the bridge of his nose while he tried to steady his breathing.

"Jack… before you, I’d honestly given up on men. I’ve dealt with so many shitty guys over the years— I was convinced the universe was sending me nothing but walking red flags," Jack made a frustrated sound at your comment. "But then I met you. And suddenly I remembered what it felt like to be cared for. To be listened to. To feel… special. I’m so lucky I met you. You showed me what I deserve. You showed me that I don’t have to settle and marry my bodega guy’s son who needs a green card."

Jack let out a startled laugh—an actual laugh, cracked and wet around the edges. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head as the sound slipped out of him.

"Oh my god," he said, voice muffled against your neck. "Not him."

You let out a watery laugh. "Hey, don’t judge. I could have a free lifetime supply of bacon‑egg‑and‑cheeses."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes shining, and guided your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heartbeat like he wanted you to feel how hard it was racing

"But let’s be real," you said softly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. "This isn’t the ideal situation. You’re still… grieving. You're realistically still unavailable. And a long‑distance relationship?" You shook your head, tears gathering again. "Maybe I’m being selfish, but I also need to protect my heart. I don’t think I can handle the pain of the back and forth. And it must be hurting you too. It’s a lot. It’s too much for where we both are right now."

"Maybe in a few months—"

You cut him off before he could finish. "I care about you too much to drag this out. Please… let's not make this harder than it already is."

He dragged the back of his hand across his cheek, wiping at tears he clearly hadn’t meant for you to see. Another slipped free anyway, and he brushed that one away too, almost impatiently, like he was frustrated with himself for crying at all. His breath shook as he exhaled, eyes dropping to where your hand still rested against his chest.

"Okay. If you think this is what’s best."

You nodded weakly, your lips pressed into a thin line.

"Can I at least drive you to the airport?"

"Is it okay if I say no?"

He huffed in frustration.

"I'm sorry," you whimpered, a salty tear trickling down your cheek. You quickly reached up to wipe it away.

"No, don’t be sorry.” he said, but his voice was tense. "It’s fine," he finally said after a few moments, his voice a little shaky as he locked eyes with you.

"I don’t need to order my Uber right this second. If you want… we could eat some lasagna together before I go?"

He shook his head. "I’m not hungry right now."

"Oh." You nodded, even though the answer stung more than you expected. "Okay. Let me grab my suitcase and backpack from the office."

You turned to go, but Jack stepped forward.

"No—let me do it."

Before you could respond, he stroked your cheek with his fingertips, dragging them tenderly to your chin and lifted you to meet his lips for a soft kiss. The kind he’d given you a hundred times without thinking. You weren’t even sure he realized he’d done it. By the time your brain caught up, he was already heading up the staircase. He came back down a minute later, your suitcase rolling behind him and your backpack slung over his shoulder. You stood there, feeling a lump in your throat, and swallowed it thickly as you stared into his beautiful hazel eyes.

"Here," he said quietly, setting your things by the door.

You slipped your shoes on, fingers fumbling with the laces more than they should have. You cleared your throat, grasping for something—anything—that felt normal. "Um… the lasagna. If you get hungry later, just heat it at three-fifty. Twenty minutes should be enough. Maybe twenty‑five if you want the top crispy."

Jack nodded, eyes fixed on your hands as you tied your second shoe. "Okay."

"And, um… cover it with foil first," you added, rubbing your eyes tiredly, "otherwise the cheese will burn."

"Okay," he repeated, stoically.

You stood, brushing your palms against your jeans, feeling nauseous. The phone felt heavier than it should have as it came out of your back pocket. Your fingers trembled over the screen for a moment making the simple act of tapping the app feel clumsy. Whether Jack saw it or not, you couldn’t tell, though it wouldn’t have surprised you if he had. You finally opened the Uber app. Your thumb slipped the first time. You pretended it didn’t. The nausea in your stomach twisted tighter as you scrolled to the VIP option. It cost more, but it meant the car would be here in one minute.

You hit Confirm.

A tiny vibration buzzed in your palm—Pamela is arriving in 1 minute—and for a moment you just stared at the screen, your reflection faint in the glass, eyes red, breath uneven.

You locked your phone and swallowed hard, forcing your hands to still even though they wouldn’t.

One minute. Sixty seconds. That was all the time left.

You reached for your coat on the hook by the door. Slipping your arms into the sleeves felt strange, like your body was moving on autopilot while your mind lagged behind. You sucked in a deep breath and forced yourself to look at him once the coat was on. Neither of you spoke.

A buzz in your pocket broke the moment.

You flinched, pulling out your phone with stiff fingers. The screen lit up.

Pamela is here.

"My Uber is here."

"Text me," Jack offered, but he didn’t move from his spot. "At least..let me know when you’re home safe."

There was a part of you that wondered if he really meant that or if he was just saying it.

Would he actually open the message? Would he read it and respond?

"I will," you whispered. The next words tangled on your tongue, and you had no idea what to say. "Good… um… night," you managed, stumbling over it. He echoed the words back to you. As you opened the door, the cool air from outside brushed against your face, and you walked towards Pamela’s Toyota Camry, opened the door, and slid into the back seat.

You said goodnight? What the fuck was wrong with you.

"Delta Terminal?" she asked.

You nodded. Your voice didn’t feel reliable.

The ride blurred by—streetlights smearing into long streaks, your reflection faint in the window, eyes tired and swollen. You didn’t cry. You didn’t think. You just… existed.

At the terminal, you moved through TSA PreCheck like you’d done it a thousand times. Shoes stayed on, laptop stayed in your bag, and you answered the agent’s questions with a voice that didn’t sound like yours. Everything felt strangely distant, like you were watching yourself from a few feet away.

You were early. So, you found a lounge, scanned your boarding pass, and sank into a chair near a window. The city lights glittered outside, and you stared at them without really seeing anything. You sipped lukewarm tea. Checked the time. Scrolled aimlessly. Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to Jack.

Eventually, your flight boarded. You took your seat, buckled in, and closed your eyes the moment the plane lifted off the ground.

Hours later, Laguardia greeted you with its usual chaos. You grabbed an Uber home, watching familiar streets roll by until your building came into view.

Your bodega was still open. It closed at 3 AM. The perks of living in New York City. Without thinking, you ducked inside.

"Hey! I haven’t seen you all week. Another one of your work trips?" your usual guy (perhaps your future father-in-law) behind the counter asked.

"Something like that," you murmured.

You ordered a bacon egg and cheese. The sandwich was warm in your hands as you walked the few steps to your apartment. Inside, you dropped your bags, kicked off your shoes, and sat on the edge of your bed. You snapped a picture of the sandwich and sent it to Jack.

Safe and sound.

The message delivered instantly. But…the little 'read' receipt never appeared.

Days passed.

No reply.

Just silence—exactly what you’d expected, but somehow it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Masterlist | Part 1 l You’re reading Part 2 | Part 3

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love Sometimes…One Day is Enough. I never would have thought this would accidentally become a series, but there’s just so much going on in my brain. When I saw how long part 2 was getting... I decided to split it up. And your girl was feeling angsty AF, so I do apologize for the cliffhanger. Therefore, next part(s?) will come out as season 2 airs.

[docrobinavitch]

i'm your summer girl

dr. robby x f!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, swearing, alcohol, age gap, established mohabbot, other character cameos, robby has tattoos based on this quote from noah, um idk u guys this one is pretty light for once nothing too scary i don't think!! summer romance baby words: 18.6K synopsis: (based on these two prompts: one, two) reader and samira have been best friends since they did their undergrad together nearly ten years ago and have been in constant contact since graduation. which is why you already knew plenty about her grumpy senior attending even before you met him. but you're surprised to find when you do actually meet him that he's a lot softer than anyone has given him credit for. and hotter. so when samira invites you to a week long getaway to the poconos a year later, you can't stop yourself from asking if robby will be there. little do you know, robby's asked jack the same question about you. a/n: thank you to @dancingtruffle for the prompt! and another thank you to @gemmahale (ah sry, tag isn't working!) for suggesting the poconos as our vacation spot <3. is it realistic that this many doctors can get this amount of time off at the same time? probably not but we are doing it anyway because it’s Fun. similarly, do not ask me what year it is that's literally none of my business. alright um anyway... i am asking the age old question... is this anything?? i hope u like it but if u hate it don't tell me i am rejection sensitive ok bye <3 syd

Robby still remembered the smell of your cherry perfume, the way it settled heavy in his nose with the humid August air. Whenever he was in a crowded place afterwards, he thought he’d catch a whiff and his head would follow after, but it was never you.

It was pathetic, really, the way he still thought about you when nothing special had even happened that night. Just a single conversation over beer on a porch swing before it got to be too much. Before he started noticing how your tongue darted out between your lips when you were thinking or the way you avoided eye contact when you were embarrassed. And noticing too many of these things was going to get him in a lot of fucking trouble.

Which was why he disengaged from the conversation and went home without asking for your number. There were a few moments he thought about asking Samira for it, but he knew he’d never hear the end of that. Then, he thought about asking Jack to ask Samira and by the time that thought popped into his head he realized he was being insane.

You had been sitting on the porch swing by yourself, beer in hand and the blue glow of your phone lighting up your face. He had told himself he would only come for a single beer, mostly because Jack had asked him to.

Samira was having—not a party, exactly—but she had invited anyone who was available for a few drinks and pizza at the house she was renting. He guessed it was more of a way for her to spend time with Jack without having to ask him directly. They were both still dancing around whatever thing was going on between them, pretending it was more casual than it was.

And you were sitting alone on the porch swing, the only face Robby didn’t recognize from the Pitt. Thinking maybe you were a new hire he had missed, he made his way over to you, “This seat taken?” He asked, gesturing to the empty spot on the swing next to you.

Slowly, you raised your eyes from your phone to look up at him, and then you peered around him, as if you were wondering if it were possible he was speaking to someone else.

Finally, you shrugged, “Nope.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, “I don’t want to bother you, I can sit somewhere else if you want to be alone—“

“No, sorry—“ You sighed and shook your head, “Sit, please. I should really stop being an unapproachable loner.”

He huffed a laugh as he sat down, “This is going to sound terrible, probably, but, uh… Are you… Did you start recently? At the Pitt? I don’t recognize you, so—“

“Oh—No,” You laughed, “No, I don’t work at the hospital. Samira and I did our undergrad together, we used to be roommates. I’m just visiting.”

“Ah,” He said and hung his head, “Well, that would explain it. Where are you visiting from?”

“Los Angeles.”

He let out a low whistle, “You from there?”

“Born and raised.”

“And you went to undergrad here?”

You nodded, “Yeah,” You looked up at the moon, “I miss the east coast.”

“Why’d you go back to California?”

You sighed, “Um, things just didn’t pan out here. The pandemic. Ran out of money. Had to go back to live with my parents.”

He nodded, “I’m sure you’ll end up back here. If it’s what you really want.”

He felt your eyes on him, the way they paved a path down his face to his hands, that were lazily tearing at the label on his beer bottle, “You must be Robby.”

He raised his eyebrows as he looked back up at you, “How’d you figure that out?”

You gave him a lopsided smirk and took a sip from your beer, “Samira talks about you a lot. It’s not hard to put the pieces together.”

He looked back down at his beer bottle. Fighting the disappointment that coursed through him, he rubbed at his beard, “Well, I imagine your perception of me isn’t all that favorable, then.”

You hummed, “She really looks up to you, you know?” You leaned a bit closer to him, close enough that he could smell the beer on your breath as it tangled with your cherry perfume in a way that made him dizzy. You whispered conspiratorily, “But as her friend, you think you could ease up on her?”

He turned his head to look at you and found that you looked almost surprised at how close your faces were, although it was you that had closed the distance. You bit your lip and in the moonlight he saw the way your pupils dilated as you looked at him. And then quickly, your eyes darted away from his and he knew he was fucked.

He cleared his throat, “I’m hard on her because she’s so good. I want her to be the best.”

“You ever hear of this thing called positive reinforcement?” 

He chuckled, “Yeah, okay, if it’s that important to you, I’ll try to be nicer to her.”

You raised your eyebrows, “Damn, it was that easy?” You shook your head, “She didn’t say you were such a softie.”

Robby sighed, “I’m not, normally.” He turned his head to look at you, “You must bring it out of me.”

You blinked a few times and then quickly broke eye contact, looking down at your hands. The movement got him a whiff of your shampoo and fuck if he wasn’t like a moth to a goddamn flame. It took all of his self control not to lean into you, not to push his knee against yours, just to see what you would do. 

But you were Samira’s friend. And you were far, far, too young for him. It would create mess and he hated mess. So he cleared his throat and stood, “Thank you for the conversation, I should be going.”

You opened your mouth as if to say something else, but he was already gone, disappeared into the house, leaving you dumbfounded.

“‘Thank you for the conversation…?’” You repeated and then laughed to yourself.

Later that night as you were relaying the interaction to Samira, she informed you that he had been flirting.

You raised your eyebrows and scoffed, “Right, yeah. He didn’t even ask for my name.”

Jack came up behind Samira and twined an arm around her waist and you watched as she flushed. It was sweet, seeing her like this. In the ten years you had been friends, you had never seen a man so casually fluster her.

“He was flirting.” Jack confirmed as he scooped Cheez Itz out of the plastic bowl between you, “He’s just a little rusty.”

Samira shrugged, “Doesn’t matter, you’re going back to LA soon anyway. But, it would have been nice to get Robby laid.” She sighed mournfully, “I bet he’s much nicer after a good fuck.”

Jack began to choke on a Cheez It and you chuckled as Samira banged on his back until it came back up, “Please… don’t talk about him like that in front of me, alright?” He said, rubbing at his throat.

Samira gave him a half hearted apology and then turned back to you, smirking once he had left, “He’s not really your type anyway, is he?”

He wasn’t. Not the usual guy you went for. You were into older, but usually not that much older. You were also into unstable and mean and heavily tattooed, which Robby appeared to be none of the above. But there had been a moment, fleeting, where you had wanted to kiss him. Where you had thought he wanted to kiss you. 

“Nope,” You sighed, “Not my type.”

Samira scrutinized you for a few moments and then sighed, “A shame. So I can’t give him your number if he asks?”

You laughed, “He won’t ask, but sure, you can give it to him.”

You were right. He didn’t ask. But not because he didn’t want to, because he didn’t think he should. He did, at least, manage to get your name from Samira. It ran laps around his brain for weeks after, and then it slowed, only reappearing every so often. And even though he knew you had gone back to LA, he found himself looking for you occasionally throughout the next year.

Until Jack told him you were back in Pittsburgh as a way to convince him to go to the Poconos getaway Samira was planning.

“She’s going?” Robby asked, eyebrows raised. They were on the roof, genuinely just getting some air. Robby hadn’t found Jack on the wrong side of the railing since he had started seeing Samira. The shifts were still hard, but he had someone to go home to after. And that seemed to make the difference.

Jack turned to him and smirked, “Oh, so now you wanna come, huh?”

Robby shook his head, “I didn’t say that.”

Almost all of his residents and Jack were going to the Poconos in August at Mohan’s invitation and Robby felt he had no business there. Jack was only going because of Samira. What excuse did he have? He would just make them all uncomfortable by being there. Who wanted their boss on their vacation?

“Samira said she asked if you were coming.”

Robby turned his head at that and then scoffed, “Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not.” Jack said, but had a self satisfied smirk on his face, “Honest to God.”

“And she lives here now.”

Jack nodded, “Started a new job here a month ago.”

Robby leaned over the railing on his forearms. He still wondered about you, still thought about whatever magnetism that existed between you that night. If it was just alcohol induced or if it really was something. And yes, you were way too fucking young for him. But Samira and Jack seemed to be happy. Maybe… Maybe he could at least try. You had asked after him, that had to mean something. That you still thought of him, too. 

And so that was how Robby ended up pulling into the driveway of the house on the edge of the lake a few weeks later.

After Samira had informed him of what room was his and he had set all his things down, he followed her and Jack out to the patio overlooking the lake, “Is she here yet?”

Samira smirked and looked down at her phone, “Should be pulling up any minute according to her location.” Just then, the distant roar of a car in distress grew louder and louder and Samira’s grin widened, “Yeah, that’s her.”

Robby raised his eyebrows, “Does she drive a fucking Ferrari?”

Samira frowned, “I don’t know what that means to you, but no, she drives a Yaris.”

He laughed, “A Yaris? Making all that racket? Jesus Christ.” And with that, he was heading to the driveway.

Sure enough, a bright red, ancient looking Yaris was idling in the driveway. You pushed your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you turned your car off and then looked up to see Robby standing a few feet away from your car. Frowning, you opened the door and stepped out, “...Hi.”

“Are you aware that your car sounds like the engine is about to explode?”

Your frown deepened, “I don’t know, sounds fine to me.” 

Robby circled your car, looking for other sources of the noise, until he got to the back of your car. Bending down, he saw your muffler was badly corroded, and was that… Chicken wire securing it to your car? He laughed softly to himself and stood again, “Do you know your muffler’s completely rusted out?”

You stared at him for a moment, pulling your bags out of the backseat of the car, “Uhh, no? Is that bad?”

He scratched the back of his head, “Someone wrapped some wire around it to try to keep it on, but it mostly fell off.”

“Oh,” You said slowly, “Yeah, I think my roommate did that for me.”

“You think?” Finally, he approached you to help with your bags, slinging one of your duffels over his shoulder.

You shrugged, “I don’t know, I know he said something was wrong with the car and that he fixed it temporarily. I can’t afford a mechanic right now. It’s okay to drive, though?”

“Well, yes.” They began walking towards the house, “It’ll just be… loud.”

“Okay,” You smiled at him, “I can handle loud.” 

He held the door of the house open awkwardly with one arm, which you ducked under to get in.

“I could, um,” He sighed, “I could fix it for you. Order you a new muffler and attach it when we’re back in Pittsburgh.”

“Oh, I—That’s really nice, but I couldn’t pay you—“

“For free, I meant.”

You paused in the entryway and took off your backpack, “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged and lowered your duffel to the floor, “Why not?”

You stared at him a moment longer, perplexed, before you turned to see Samira in the entryway, smirking.

Within seconds, you were both squealing and your arms were wrapped tightly around each other, “This place is insane,” You said to her, “How did you afford this?”

Samira opened and closed her mouth and then blushed, “Um… Jack and Robby split it, actually.”

When you spun to look at Robby, he smiled in confirmation, a hand on the back of his neck, “Oh. Cool. Thanks.” You turned back to Samira, “Where should I put my things…?”

“Yeah, about that, so… I ran into Trevor last week…”

You tilted your head to the side in question. Trevor, your ex roommate from when you and Samira were in undergrad, Trevor? Your years-long situationship, Trevor? The same Trevor whom you had ghosted once you moved back to LA?

“And…” You could read the fear on Samira’s face as she continued, “Jack may have, not knowing the situation, invited Trevor to come?”

“Mira,” You whined, “Seriously?”

“I know, I know,” She said quickly, “And unfortunately, Jack also invited him without considering that we were already out of rooms… So…”

She allowed you to fill in the blanks and your brain was beginning to short circuit, “Okay,” You laughed, “This is a joke, right? Are you saying I’m sharing a bed with him?”

“No, no. Separate beds, same room.”

You covered your face with your hands, “I think…” You sighed, “I think I might just drive home.”

“What? No, come on. It’ll be fine, I thought you and Trevor were good? You don’t even have to be in the room that much, just to sleep–”

“You could stay in my room.” You both started at Robby’s voice behind you, having forgotten he was still there. He cleared his throat, “I could stay in the room with… Trevor, is it?”

You sighed, “That’s… sweet of you, but Trevor snores. And besides, you paid for this place, I’m not going to kick you out of your own room–”

“Really, I don’t mind. Besides, it’ll be dark soon anyway and it’s a long drive back to Pittsburgh.”

He was looking at you almost a little desperately and you started to wonder if the only reason he had come in the first place was to see you. But that was insane, right? You didn’t even know each other.

And yeah, maybe the only reason you had come was because Samira assured you Robby would be here. Maybe that one interaction had played on a loop in your mind for the whole year until you started wondering if he had really looked at you with lust and awe that night or if it was just a trick of the light.

You bit your lip and then turned back to Samira, “I’m mad at you.” You said as you bent to pick up your backpack.

“But… You’re staying?”

Samira knew you could never stay mad at her. And she had never been able to stay mad at you, either. The few times you had had disagreements you had always been able to resolve them peacefully. It was part of the reason you adored being her friend, there was never any drama and always a shoulder to cry on if you needed it.

So you bit your lip and gave her a knowing look, “Yes, under duress.”

Robby slung your duffel back over his shoulder, “C’mon, I’ll show you the room.”

You trailed after him and up the stairs, still a bit apprehensive about this whole set up. He led you to a room with a king sized bed. The room was large with big windows on one wall and a long, brown leather couch that took up almost the entire wall opposite the bed. 

You stood in the threshold of the door, stunned, but Robby didn’t seem to notice. He placed your duffel on the floor and moved his bags from where he had put them on the bed.

“There’s an en suite bathroom over there,” He gestured to the door next to the couch, “So you don’t need to share with anyone.” 

“Robby,” You said breathlessly and then started shaking your head, “This is too much. You paid for this and it’s your vacation too, you shouldn’t have to share a room with Trevor—“

“What’s your deal with this guy? Trevor?”

You smirked and tilted your head a bit. Was that jealousy? “I don’t know if that’s your business.”

He shrugged, “Well, I just thought, since you’re feeling so guilty about taking my room this could be my payment.” He said lightly, the corners of his lips beginning to tug up into a grin.

“Ah,” You laughed, “Well, if you must know, he was mine and Samira’s roommate for about three years and then we slept together on and off for a few years afterward. Until I moved back to Los Angeles.”

He stared at you for a few moments, “Okay, so you occasionally slept together, but he’s not an ex boyfriend or anything?”

You shook your head, “Nope. But not for lack of trying on his end.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Oh? So you were the heartbreaker then?”

You smirked, “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m sure he was just fine.”

“Why wasn’t he good enough for you?” Oh, so it was jealousy.

Good. You liked playing. Maybe this vacation wouldn’t be a total wash. “You worried you might make the same mistakes?”

His grin widened, and then he shook his head, “That wasn’t an answer.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for today.” You picked up his duffel from where it sat in front of him and pushed it into his arms.

“Are you kicking me out of my room?” He asked, still with that teasing lilt in his voice.

You moved close enough to him that he finally caught a whiff of your perfume. Still cherries. He thought his knees might buckle. “I thought it wasn’t your room anymore?” You said softly.

You pushed gently on his chest until he was out of the doorway and closed the door.

Robby stood out in the hallway for a moment, staring at the door with a stupid grin on his face. He had just given up his room to share one with some loser kid who had made the catastrophic mistake of fumbling you, and he had the toothiest smile on his face.

Maybe he’d end this vacation sleeping in that king sized bed with you.

***

Robby was trying very hard not to seem too desperate, but Trevor had arrived hours ago and you were still in your room.

The rest of his residents wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, most of them having had to work a shift today, so it would just be you, Trevor, him, Mohan, and Abbot.

He had sized Trevor up immediately when he got here and, well, Robby was confused to say the least. The kid was scrawny, almost every inch of skin tatted up, and was a tattoo artist. He had long and dark hair that curled around his ears. He had a nose ring and a mustache.

It was mind boggling. If this is what you were into, why had you been flirting with him? You had been flirting with him, right? There’s no way that was your fucking baseline.

Samira was across the patio with Trevor and Robby sat with Abbot in front of the fire pit. One of Robby’s hands stroked his beard absently while he watched Trevor.

“Why’re you looking at that guy like you wish he’d give you a reason?”

Robby dragged his gaze away from Trevor and back to Jack who was fucking smirking, “This is your fault.”

He shrugged, “I didn’t know they had history, okay? Samira never mentioned.”

Before, Robby had been confident he’d win you over by the end of this week. Now, there was a roughly 5’10 problem that you were avoiding so diligently you were spending your first night of vacation hiding away.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.” He said finally, standing.

And that’s how he ended up back at your bedroom door, knuckles rapping gently against the wood.

A moment or two passed and then he heard the sound of feet padding across the floor. Then the door began to crack open, “Mira, I told you already, I don’t feel like seeing him ton–” You froze when you saw Robby standing there, “Oh. You’re not Mira.”

Robby’s mouth was slightly agape and he was, unfortunately staring at your bare legs and then back up to the skimpy sleep set you were wearing. A flowy pastel flowered camisole that fluttered just above your belly button and matching shorts that were so tiny, they may as well have been panties.

By some miracle between him and God himself, he managed to tear his eyes back up to yours. And you looked very smug right about now. He felt a flush begin to work his way up his neck and he cleared his throat, as if to push it back down, “Is it me you’re avoiding or Trevor?”

You hummed, “Why would I be avoiding you?”

He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, “My irresistible charm and rogueish good looks?”

You choked out a laugh, “No, no, it’s Trevor I’m avoiding.”

“That’s a shame,” He sighed, “It’s really beautiful outside.”

You crossed your arms and smirked, “It’s the first night and you’re already trying to guilt me into having a drink with you?”

He scoffed, affronted, “I’m doing no such thing–”

“Fine, fine,” You said dramatically, “Twist my arm, why don’t you? Just let me change into something more… appropriate.”

A tragedy, really. He could stare at you for hours in that sleep set and never get tired of the view. Luckily, you closed the door before he said something stupid.

Five minutes later you were following him out onto the patio, a spiked seltzer in your hand.

Trevor immediately stood and made a big show of greeting you. Robby watched with some apprehension as his arms slid lower and lower down your back as he hugged you— Until you slapped his hands away, scowling at him.

Robby ran a hand over his mouth and beard to cover his smirk.

“What?” Trevor asked, laughing, “I can’t touch you now, either? I can’t text or call you? Had to find out from Mira’s boyfriend that you were back in town. Are we even friends anymore?”

“Trevor,” Samira inserted herself between you both, “You said you wouldn’t do this.”

“We were never friends,” You sneered, “You were always just biding your time until you could fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered softly from next to Robby.

“Really? And who led on who in the end?” 

“That’s enough!” Samira said sharply, looking back and forth between her friends, “Look,” She said, softer now, “We’re all adults here, okay? We used to have fun, the three of us. Can’t we just… put all that shit aside for one week so we can have fun? Like old times?”

You sighed heavily and looked at Trevor, “I have no problem with you as long as you keep it platonic.” 

He huffed a laugh and ran a hand over his jaw, “Don’t worry, message was received loud and clear when you ghosted me when you left.”

“Guys…” Samira said lowly in warning, still between them.

But you couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that burst from your throat, “You waited until I flew across the country to text me—text! Not even call!—that you were in love with me and you think that warranted a response?”

Robby and Jack shared a look, attempted to hide their faces behind their respective drinks, and Samira grimaced before turning to Trevor, “Seriously? That’s kinda embarrassing.” She said softly.

You shook your head and started to walk over to sit near Robby.

“You don’t exactly make it easy for people to tell you what they’re feeling.” Trevor said, flushed.

“Yeah,” You took a sip from your drink as you settled next to Robby, “Or maybe you’re just a pussy.”

Samira sighed and looked at you, “Really?” 

But you only shrugged your shoulders. 

“Whatever, I don’t have to listen to this,” Trevor grumbled, “I’m going to bed.”

He muttered a goodnight to Samira and you waited for him to close the sliding door behind him before you gestured after him, “See? Pussy behavior.”

Jack and Robby were both fighting grins, but Samira frowned at you, “Can’t you try to be nicer?”

“That was me being nice. And he’s the one who started it, trying to fucking grab my ass like it hasn’t been, like, three years since we last spoke.”

Samira raised her eyebrows, “He tried to grab you?”

“He did,” Robby affirmed, “I saw it.”

“Well that’s not acceptable,” Samira looked towards the door that Trevor had disappeared into, “I’m gonna ask him to leave—“

“No,” You said immediately, “No, it’ll just create more of a mess. It’s fine.”

Samira stared at you for a moment longer, “Are you sure? Look, I’m sorry we invited him I didn’t realize— You’ll always come first for me. I will kick him out.”

The smile you gave Samira was adoring and tender. “I know,” You said softly, “It’s alright, I promise.”

Finally, she nodded, and went to sit next to Jack, sighing as she did. 

“The two of you ever fight like that?” Jack nodded to you and Samira.

You met Samira’s eyes over your drink and you both broke out into smiles, “No,” You said, “I think our biggest fight was when she took the last spot in the orgo class we were both trying to take sophomore year.”

Samira grinned at you, “Yeah and to make it up to you, you made me give you all my study materials the next semester, so I think it worked out for you.”

“What about you two,” You nodded towards Jack and Robby, “You guys seem like you’ve been friends for a long time. Any brawls?”

Robby chuckled, “No, definitely not.”

“Yeah, because he knows he’d lose.” Jack teased.

“Yeah, right,” Robby said and shook his head as he tossed back the rest of his beer, “Love you  brother, but I don’t think so.”

“Oh, really?” Jack chuckled and turned to Samira, “What d’you think? Who’d win?”

“Oh, come on,” Robby bemoaned, “Of course she’s gonna pick you.”

Samira looked affronted, “I resent the fact that you think I’m incapable of being objective just because we’re together.”

Robby raised his eyebrows, “Alright then, what’s the verdict?”

Samira’s eyes traveled back and forth between Jack’s wide pleading ones and Robby’s expecting ones until she sighed, “Jack. But only because he was in the military.”

“He was a medic.” Robby complained as Jack kissed on Samira’s neck in victory, causing her to squeal.

“Still went through basic training, brother.” Jack managed, adoring eyes still on Samira.

“And what about you?” Robby asked, turning to you.

“What about me?” 

“Who do you think would win, me or Jack?”

“Oh,” You laughed, “I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever weird hypermasculine competition you’ve got going on here.”

“That’s code for she doesn’t wanna hurt your feelings, Robby.” Jack said.

You scoffed, “That is not true,” Your eyes darted to Robby’s, “I have no problem hurting his feelings.”

A lie. You looked at the crinkles by his eyes, the flush in his cheeks when he smiled at you, and those big brown eyes that looked as warm as tree bark that had baked in the summer heat all day and your immediate thought was you’d rather drown yourself in this lake than hurt his feelings. 

Alternatively, you’d also rather drown in this lake than admit that that was true.

So where did that leave you?

You swallowed and looked at Samira, “I think Jack would win.”

Jack laughed loudly and Robby eyed you with disappointment as he shook his head.

It was teasing disappointment, but you were surprised by how much it bothered you. You were realizing quickly how desperately you wanted him to like you. 

“What?” You said to Robby, “He was in the military and he carries around a knife for fun. What’re you gonna do, hm? Blink your pretty doe eyes up at him and hope it distracts him long enough for you to run away?”

Slowly, a smile stretched across Robby’s face and he nudged his knee playfully against yours as he leaned his face down close to you. Your breath hitched in your throat at his closeness and he casually reached out to push a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

When he spoke, lowly enough for just you to hear, his voice was husky and it sent chills across your arms, “You think my eyes are pretty?”

The laugh that escaped you was breathless and nervous and you quickly tore your eyes from his and looked down at your hands, trying not to think about the way his fingers, cold and wet from his beer bottle, felt against the shell of your ear or the way they dragged against the sensitive skin of your neck before he pulled away.

What the fuck was this guy doing to you? A man had never made you a giggly mess like this. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

“As if you didn’t know.” You said finally, as casually as you could manage, avoiding looking at him.

“You’re pretty hard to read, actually.”

Normally, that would be true. But with him, it felt different. It felt like you were shouting it at him with every lilt of your voice, every smile, every laugh. Every time he looked at you, you felt your skin heat. 

You looked over at Samira and Jack for a moment, thought about your friendship with Samira. Everything seemed to tumble forward, all the moments you were so painfully proud of her, but also envious. How you had both wanted the same things, once. She had gotten everything and you had tripped four hundred meters out from the finish line. She was incredible, intelligent, beautiful, ambitious. The whole package. It was no wonder Jack was so obsessed with her. 

Your eyes flitted back to Robby, who was no longer looking at you, but silently staring ahead. His knee was still touching yours. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d wanted someone this badly. Someone smart and capable, someone who seemed like he could take care of you if the conversation about your dumb muffler was any indicator, someone who would be good for you.

He deserved better than you, though, he deserved someone like Samira. And even if you just slept with him, you had the faintest inclination that he might ruin you for other men for good.

You cleared your throat, “I, um, I should go to bed.”

When you stood, he followed, “Are you okay?” He asked softly, blocking your exit with his broad chest.

Christ, you were going to fold so quickly if he kept this up, “I’m fine,” You forced a smile, “Just tired.”

You stepped around him, but still he followed, steps soft and careful as he traced your path up the stairs, “Did I say something wrong?” He asked once you were at the bedroom door.

“No,” You said and almost laughed as you turned to him, “No, it’s not you.”

“Then what?” His eyes carefully searched your face, “Because I can be patient if you’re just not ready, but–”

You shook your head, “I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

He scoffed, “You see what I mean about being hard to read?” He tilted his head as he narrowed his eyes at you, “Is it… because I’m old?”

You smiled and bit your lip, “No, I think I actually really like that bit.”

He shook his head, “Can you just tell me what it is that’s bothering you? I’m pretty good at problem solving.”

You laughed again, “I don’t think I’m a problem that’s solvable, unfortunately.”

He watched you for a while longer before sighing heavily, “Okay, just to be clear, we’re not done with this conversation. But I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight.” He said softly and began to walk away, down the hall to where you assumed Trevor was.

You watched after him, fought an internal battle with yourself, and then sighed, “Robby, wait.”

He froze and turned back towards you. The look of hope on his face absolutely wrecked you, “I wasn’t kidding about Trevor,” You said, “He really does snore. Very loudly. You should stay in here. I’ll sleep on the couch,” You added quickly.

He shook his head, “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

You threw up your hands in exasperation, “Fine. You sleep on the couch, then. You’ll get more sleep than sleeping in the same room as Trevor.”

And so that’s how the two of you ended up awkwardly dancing around each other as you got ready for bed.

You were unable to tear your eyes away as he pulled his shirt over his head and you were granted a full view of his chest. Your mouth dried out as you stared. He was so large, but everything about him was soft, the tufts of hair that grew on his chest and by his belly button, the gentle curve of his stomach. All of this turned your yearning from a gentle smolder to a raging inferno.

But what your eyes snagged on were the two tattoos over the planes of his chest. On the right side of his chest read MEMENTO MORI and on the left side AMORI FATI.

When your eyes traveled back up, Robby was looking at you with a smug look on his face.

You cleared your throat and looked away, conscious of the way heat burned in your cheeks, “Your tattoos,” You gestured to your own chest, “You’re a fan of Stoicism?”

A slow smile stretched across his face, “You know what they mean?”

You nodded, “Memento mori: remember that you will die and amor fati: love thy fate.” You were a bit ashamed by how pleased with yourself you were when an impressed smile flitted across his face, “I took a few philosophy classes in undergrad.”

“And what did you think?”

You shrugged, embarrassed now and not wanting to seem like you were showing off, “I liked them. Once, I took an ancient Greek literature class at the same time and they tended to overlap a lot.” You nodded towards his tattoos, “Memento mori and amori fati always reminded me of my favorite line from the Iliad.”

“Which is?”

You hesitated, and then, shyly, you lifted your shirt just slightly so he could see the tattoo that decorated the side of your ribcage. 

An intricate tracing of Icarus and his infamous fall, a hand still stretching out towards the sun. On either side of his falling form, in delicate scrawl read:

Everything is more beautiful 

because we are doomed

Robby was close to you now, so he could better see your ink, and when he reached out his fingers and ghosted them over the skin of your ribcage. Your breath stuttered as goosebumps rose across your flesh.

Noting the way your breathing faltered he looked up at you and pulled his hand away, straightening. He cleared his throat, “It’s beautiful.”

You dropped your shirt, covering up the tattoo again, “Thank you.”

“What was your major in college anyway?”

“Biology.”

He frowned at that, “And you took classes for philosophy and ancient Greek lit?”

You dug through your duffel, looking for your toiletry bag, “At first, they were just electives, but then I took enough of them to grab a minor. My counselor said it would diversify me for med school or whatever,” You sighed, “Fat load of good that did me.”

Finally locating your toiletry bag, you pulled it out and turned back around to see Robby eyeing you curiously, “What?” 

“I—“ He scratched the back of his head, “Samira didn’t mention you went to med school.”

You hummed, “That’s because I didn’t.” You dug your toothbrush out of the bag, “I didn’t get in.”

When you looked up at him again, he was still staring at you, frowning. You could almost hear the glass breaking in his head. Whatever shiny impression he had of you shattering on impact. You weren’t good enough for med school, why would you be good enough for him?

“Well—“

“I’d really rather not talk about this right now, or ever, if you don’t mind.” You said softly and brushed past him to get into the bathroom.

Or, you meant to just brush past him. But he tried to brush past you at the same time, you assumed to allow you space to get into the bathroom. You both tried to shimmy sideways through the bathroom doorway and ended up chest to chest, stuck for a moment too long.

He had, in the time you had been talking, put a shirt back on. Still, as your breasts slid across his chest, you felt your nipples peak in response. 

Through the thin fabric of your shirt, it wasn’t hard to notice, even if he hadn’t already been hardwired to notice everything about you since he first saw you alone on that porch swing a year ago. You let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a moan as you desperately tried to sidle past him. 

Used to this sort of thing happening at work, he instinctually settled a firm hand on your hip to try to help you get by, but this only seemed to panic you further. In your rush to move away from him, you inadvertently pushed yourself harder against him, your other hip gliding over his crotch and causing him to hiss.

“Sorry, fuck–” You cursed and finally slid by him, breathing hard as if you had been running for miles instead of having just moved through a doorway. 

The moment passed. You were at the sink, putting toothpaste on your toothbrush with the focus of a surgeon. If you weren't desperately avoiding eye contact and trying to level your breathing, he might have assumed you weren’t affected at all.

And fuck him if his brain wasn’t immediately rushing to calculate all the ways he could get your body to react like that again. He thought of your pupils dilating in the moonlight the first time you met, the way you shivered whenever his fingers brushed across your skin earlier, the way you got flustered sometimes just when he looked at you intently enough, and now this. He wondered what sort of touches would make you writhe beneath him, cry out his name, rake your nails across his skin, beg him to go faster, harder.

Oh, he had been thinking for too long if the aching sensation in his pants was any indication. He cleared his throat and with a hand on the back of his neck he left the bathroom.

***

Robby was tracing the tattoo on your ribcage again, this time with his tongue. Your back arched up off the mattress and you were moaning his name. He kissed up until he reached your breasts, first taking a sensitive nipple between his fingers and pinching lightly until you gasped. He took it in his mouth, then, swirling the bud around his tongue.

His hard cock was pressed to your slick folds, sliding back and forth against you, his tip nudging your entrance, but never fully sinking in. You were begging now, a single tear escaped from your eye as you looked up at him. The only reason he was able to stop himself from fully sinking inside you was because he loved the sight of you like this, absolutely drenched and fucking ruined, at his mercy. No more coy looks, no more avoiding his gaze so you could pretend not to want him, no more pulling away from his touch in fear it would give you away.

No, you were completely, fully, his now and he needed to make sure you knew it. You would only cum if he decided you could. If you asked nicely, if you did what he asked, if you were the good girl he told you to be.

He slipped his fingers between your thighs and sank two of his digits into your hole, watched as you bit down on your lip to stop the moan from crawling out. Just as quickly as he started, he pulled out his fingers and ignored your whine at their absence, sliding his cock against you again.

He brought his fingers, now drenched in your juices, up to your face and gently pressed his thumb to your chin, “Open.” He commanded. You hesitated for just a moment before obeying, taking his fingers into your mouth. You looked up at him as you sucked the way he imagined you’d take his cock. He hadn’t even had you fully yet, but he thought he might cum just like this, with you humming against his fingers. He rutted his hips faster, barely registering it when you reached a hand between you to hold your folds tighter around him, creating more friction and Jesus fucking Christ he was going to cum–

Robby awoke to the sound of the box fan in the window. The sun hadn’t yet fully risen and he could hear your soft snores from the bed, less than ten feet away from him. As consciousness returned to him and he shifted on the couch, he registered the sticky dampness between his legs and his eyes flew open.

No fucking way. There was no fucking way he had– He pulled the blanket he had been using off and was confronted with an absolute mess in his boxers. He ran a hand down his face in frustration. What sort of fucking grown man came in their pants like that and over a woman sleeping not ten feet away that was at least two decades younger than him? 

He tried to quietly get up from the couch and escape to the bathroom, but the couch was leather and creaked loudly with his movement. He froze and waited, eyes closed, and sure enough, you stirred.

“Robby?” Your voice was heavy and rough with sleep and he tried to ignore how much he liked the sound of it, “S’that you?”

“Just going to the bathroom,” He said softly, “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

The endearment slipped from him without his permission and he hung his head when his brain caught up with his mouth. But you hadn’t seemed to register it, or perhaps didn’t mind, as you silently settled back against your pillow. He sighed quietly in relief and then headed to the bathroom to clean up.

If this was how it was going to be, if just seeing an inch of your skin and brushing up against you on the way to the bathroom was going to prompt wet dreams that had him coming in his pants, he had no idea how he was going to make it through this week without convincing you to let him in your bed.

And now his residents would be getting here today, would be witnessing him desperately trying to get laid by a girl who they’d played beer pong with once. Humiliating.

But as he stood in the bathroom and rolled that dream over in his head again, he thought it’d probably be worth it. If he could have you even once, just a taste, maybe it would satiate him long enough to move on when they got back to Pittsburgh. Maybe. 

Or maybe it would never be enough. Maybe there was something about you that would keep him coming back, keep trying to find new ways to make you laugh so you’d let him in, like a stray at the door looking for scraps.

There was only one way to find out.

***

“You slept with Robby last night?” Samira’s voice had you turning your head from the paperback in your hand.

The two of you were laying on the dock, sunbathing, along with Trevor. You and Trevor had called a truce that morning and so far, he had been abiding by the conditions. Of which, there was really only one: not to touch you in a way that wasn’t strictly platonic. 

Jack had gotten a new prosthetic extension that allowed him to swim properly (thoroughly researched and recommended by Samira) and was in the lake with Robby.

Trinity, Dennis, Victoria, and Parker had all arrived a couple of hours ago. Parker had set up a volleyball net nearby and the four of them were attempting to play a match.

“No,” You scoffed, “He slept on the couch because I knew this one would keep him up with all his snoring.” You playfully shoved Trevor’s shoulder next to you.

“Ow,” Trevor murmured, rubbing at his shoulder. Then he turned on his side to face you, “Mira, are you trying to set her up with your boss?”

Samira scoffed, “Didn’t have to try, they’ve been obsessed with each other since they met, but neither of them will admit it.”

You felt your cheeks heat up again and attempted to cover your face with your paperback, “I am not obsessed with him, I just think that… he’s kinda cool… and we… vibe.”

Samira and Trevor both looked at you blankly, “You are hearing yourself, right?” Samira said eventually.

You groaned, “Whatever! I’m not gonna sleep with him, it’s a bad idea.”

“And, pray tell, why is that?”

“I–” You quickly looked to see if anyone else was around, but Jack and Robby were still in the water and the other residents still preoccupied, “Because I’m not good with relationships, Trevor can attest.”

Trevor pursed his lips, “This feels like a trap,” He looked at Samira, “No comment.”

“Look, you don’t even know if he wants a relationship. At least sleep with him, just once. I know you’re dying to.” You rolled your eyes and didn’t respond. But you were dying to, especially after accidentally rubbing up against him like that last night and seeing him shirtless. “I don’t know what you said to him that first night you met him, but he was so nice to me, for like, weeks after. And you spoke to him for what? Five minutes? If you won’t do it for yourself, think of me! Do you know how nice he would be if he got to actually sleep with you?”

You sighed, “I will… consider it.”

Samira smiled, “Excellent.”

Just then, Jack swam up to the dock, to Samira, and rested his arms on the edge as he floated, “Samira, come swim with me.”

Samira wrinkled her nose as she considered, “It’s cold in there.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” He said lowly, leaning up to kiss her. Samira smiled against his mouth, laughed when he wrapped his arms around her middle and pulled her down into the water with him. They continued kissing, Samira’s legs wrapped around Jack’s waist.

You sighed and turned back to your book, “Gross.” You muttered to Trevor.

“You know, we could make out in the lake.” He said in a voice you knew to mean he was trying to be seductive. It used to work on you, but now it only grossed you out, “Give your new boyfriend something to worry about.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” You said, voice bored, “And I’m not interested.”

You heard splashes coming from the ladder and looked up in time to see Robby pulling himself out of the water and onto the dock. Your stomach flipped again, seeing him shirtless. The water had weighed down his bathing suit so that it hung dangerously low on his hips. You were shocked when the first thought that came into your mind was that you longed to bite his hips and you cleared your throat as if it would cleanse your impure thoughts. You turned back to your book.

A moment later, a giant shadow in the shape of a man was blocking your sun and you felt the cold lake water dripping all over your body, “You’re getting my book wet.” You said, trying to sound bored as you looked up at him.

He had a boyish grin on his face as he ran a hand through his hair, shaking it like a wet dog and causing more droplets to splatter all over you, “Sorry,” He said, sounding anything but.

It was such a childish thing to do, but he looked stupid handsome as he smirked at you and you wondered if this was the type of thing he used to pull when he was your age. How many girls had he gotten into bed with that gorgeous smile and big brown eyes?

“You can swim, right?”

You watched him for a moment before looking back down at your book, “Of course I can swim, I grew up in Los Angeles.”

“Come in the water with me.” He said, still blocking your sun.

“No thanks,” You turned the page of your book, “It’s too cold.”

“Oh, come on,” He whined, “It’s not so bad once you’re in. It’s not the Pacific Ocean, I’ll give you, that, but it’s still nice. Have some fun.”

It was certainly not the Pacific Ocean, but you were more so worried about being able to keep your hands to yourself once you were in the water with him. Once no one would be able to see your hands on his waist, or better yet, in his shorts–

You were determined to keep your eyes on your book, “No thank you.”

He let the silence hang there for a moment, then finally he sighed, “Fine. Could you hand me my towel, then?”

You placed your book down on your towel and leaned over Samira’s now empty one to grab one of the dry towels meant for Robby and Jack. 

In retrospect, you probably should’ve realized what he was about to do. It was the oldest trick in the book. But you also hadn’t been a teenager in many years and so hadn’t had to worry about boys pulling goofy shit to flirt with a girl.

So for half a second, when you reached out the towel to him and his hand clamped around your wrist rather than the towel, you were just confused. But then in the next moment, he had pulled the towel from your hand, and dropped it back down to the dock and it was then that you realized how you had fucked up.

You tried to wrench your wrist back, “Robby–”

Smirking, he pulled you by the wrist and with a bend of his knees, had thrown you over his shoulder and began walking.

You squealed, “Put me down.”

He stopped walking, “Okay,” You heard the smirk in his voice, and again realized your fatal error too late.

“Don’t you dare–”

You were suspended in the air for a moment, before you hit the water, cold and unforgiving. Your head plunged beneath the surface for a second before you got your bearings and broke the surface again. The water was shallow enough that you could stand and while you gasped for air, you saw that Robby had jumped back in and was wading over to you, smirk still on his face.

“See? Not so bad.” He said smugly.

You scowled at him, “I’m very upset with you.”

Even as you said it, you had to fight a smile. Jesus fucking Christ, it was pathetic the levels of infatuated you had achieved because if this were any other man, if it was, say, Trevor who had pulled this shit, you wouldn’t have spoken to him for the rest of the night. Maybe not even for the rest of the vacation.

But Robby had thrown you in the lake and with just a smile, you were on the verge of giggling again. Oh, you were so fucked. 

“Really?” He was close to you now, close enough to touch, “You don’t seem that upset.”

“Yeah, well, I’m furious.” You said mildly. It was dangerous to be this close, so you moved to take a step back, but your foot landed on a particularly slimy rock and you slipped—

“Woah—“ Robby secured an arm around your waist before you could slip under the water and pulled you flush to his chest, “Careful, it’s slippery right there.” He said, teasing.

You huffed and looked up at him, conscious of every place your bodies touched. He had draped your arms around his neck and was now looking at you innocently, like he hadn’t fully manufactured this.

Your tongue darted between your lips and you ran your hands through his wet hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, “You can let me go, now,” You said softly, “I won’t slip again.”

His eyes were heady with desire, “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” He lowered his hands until they gripped the back of your thighs and then hiked you up until you were straddling his waist, ankles tangled behind his back. Like this, your face was level with his, and his jaw was clenched as he watched you. As if he was restraining himself from something. From you.

“What’re you doing?”

He smirked and nudged his nose into yours, your breaths intertwined in the minimal space between you. Even drenched in lake water, you still smelled faintly of cherries.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He whispered.

He leaned towards you, mouth searching for yours, and you pulled back slightly, “C’mon sweetheart,” He said softly, “Enough of the games. Let me in.”

It wasn’t a game, not to you. And that’s what was so scary. Because it had always been a game to you. There had never been anyone you had wanted more seriously than that. With Trevor he only wanted something more when he realized you didn’t want him like that. He didn’t really love you and you had never loved him. But now you were staring at Robby, shivering in the frigid water and you thought maybe you could love him.

Nearly thirty, you had started to wonder if maybe you just weren’t capable of feeling that deeply for someone else. And still, you didn’t know if you were. But Robby was the first man that made you curious to find out.

“You might not like what you find.” Your voice wavered.

He tilted his head slightly, “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

Let me worry about that. You thought about his offer yesterday to fix your car. Thought about his willingness to swap beds with you so you could be comfortable. Let me worry about that. What would it be like to have someone else to help take care of things? To lighten the load, even just a little?

So when he leaned in to kiss you again, this time you didn’t stop him. It felt like relief, with his mouth finally on yours. When you sighed into him, he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth and your nails dug into his shoulders in response.

You felt his hands tighten their grip on your legs under the water. He seemed torn between keeping you wrapped around his waist like this or dropping you so his hands could wander.

Before he could make a decision, a wolf whistle split the air and the both of you froze. Robby broke his mouth away from yours, turning his head to follow the sound and saw Jack smirking at the two of you, Samira also looking smug from behind him with her arms draped over his shoulders. A moment later, there was whooping coming from the rest of the residents who were playing volleyball near the shore.

Feeling your cheeks heat, you buried your face in Robby’s shoulder.

“Ignore them,” Robby said softly, “Do you want to go inside?”

You pulled your head back from his shoulder so you could see his face. He looked like he was seconds away from devouring you here, in the lake, with everyone watching. Seemingly so desperate for you, he didn’t mind all of his coworkers and subordinates watching. 

“Is that what you want?”

He gave you a knowing look, “I want you in whatever capacity you’ll allow. So, do you want to go inside?”

He had to know that now, having tasted him, you wouldn’t be able to deny yourself any longer. The dam you had built between you had sprung a leak. Several, in fact. It was only a matter of time before it was completely eviscerated.

“Yes.” You said eventually.

A giddy smile transformed Robby’s face and he leaned in to give you another quick kiss, “Get on my back.” He murmured against your mouth.

You laughed, “What?”

Rather than explain further, he shifted your weight, spinning you until you understood he wanted you on piggyback.

“You know,” You laughed, pressing kisses up the side of his neck, “I told you I can swim.”

“I know,” He said as he began wading to the shore, “But isn’t this more fun?”

It was a bit embarrassing, if you were honest, drawing more stares and attention from the others. Once close enough to the shore, Robby seemed to give the residents a look you couldn’t see, but must have been scathing as they all abruptly returned their attention back to their volleyball game.

Robby let you off his back and grabbed a dry towel for you, wrapping it around your shoulders and rubbing his hands over it to help dry you before grabbing his own towel.

“You kids be safe now,” Jack was leaning on the edge of the dock, Samira doing the same next to him, both of them smirking at you, “Wrap it before you tap it and all that.”

Robby sighed heavily, “She’s gonna change her mind if you don’t be quiet.”

“No she won’t.” Samira said, “I’ve never seen her this obsessed with anyone. Not even Trevor, whom she slept with for years.”

“Mira!” You hissed indignantly.

“Heard that,” Trevor called, “Hurtful and unnecessary.”

“Let’s go,” Robby draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side and beginning to walk towards the house, “You’re obsessed with me, huh?” He said quietly.

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever. As if you’re not obsessed with me.”

“Of course I am,” He opened the back door of the house for you, waited for you to walk inside before following, “But I’m not ashamed of it.”

He blew past you as his words stopped you in your tracks. For the first time, it struck you what it all must’ve looked like to him. How you had been flirting with him, but then pushing him away, over and over. 

You trailed after him up the stairs, “I’m not—I’m not ashamed.”

At the top of the stairs, he turned to face you, “I don’t particularly want to have this conversation right now, when I’m finally about to have you naked in my bed—“

“My bed,” You teased, smirking, “Remember?”

He huffed a short laugh and shook his head, “You’re impossible.”

You pressed your lips together firmly, your eyes transfixed by his mouth, “Do you think you’ll still want me?” You asked quietly, your voice small, “After you’ve had me?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, “Is that what this is about? You’re worried I won’t like you after?”

It hadn’t been something you had thought about before, with other partners, because usually you didn’t care enough. You liked being desired, of course, who didn’t? But more often than not if partners disappeared afterwards, you shrugged it off and moved on to the next one. 

But with Robby… You had only really known each other for a day or so, but there was something that seemed to pull you to him. The chemistry was easy, effortless as it seemingly flowed back and forth, infinite. With him, you also had a desire to impress, to prove yourself. Like with the tattoos last night. You wanted him to think you were more than just someone to fuck. Another new feeling, one you weren’t used to. You wondered how badly it would hurt if he carelessly let you slip through his fingers and crash back to earth. 

He was looking at you now with the patience of a saint, never mind the fact that he had finally convinced you to let him touch you and you were making him wait again. It made you feel stupid, so you quickly shook your head. 

“Nothing, forget it. Forget I said anything. Kiss me, please.”

For a second, you thought he might refuse, might make you talk to him, but then he was kissing you again, hard and sloppy as he pushed you through the doorway of your shared room. Never taking his mouth off yours, he half carried, half pushed you towards the bathroom.

With his tongue in your mouth, you were desperate to feel him, to see how needy he was so you ran your hands down his chest and past his waist. When you palmed him over his bathing suit, he groaned and took your lip between his teeth, biting hard enough that you thought maybe he had drawn blood. He was big in your hand. You had thought he was probably packing just from the size of him, but he was bigger than you had imagined.

You swallowed hard as he reached behind you to turn on the shower with one hand and pulled your other hand off his cock, “You can’t be touching me like that yet,” He said, voice gravelly.

You smirked, “Worried you might… ejaculate prematurely?” You teased.

He stared at the warm spray from the shower as he temperature checked it with one hand, “Yeah, actually. And I plan to make you come at least twice before I even consider fucking you properly. I want you crying and begging me to stop because you’re too sensitive before I fill you up.” His eyes slowly looked back at yours, “Is that what you want? Because if not, you should probably tell me now. So we can stop.”

Your breathing faltered hearing him talk like that. Your stomach flipped and you felt yourself beginning to drip into your bathing suit. You swallowed and then nodded, “That’s what I want.”

He offered you a slow smile and then his gaze travelled down your body. He was just looking at you, but it felt filthy. Like he was already thinking about all the compromising positions he could put you in. 

You started to take off your bikini, but he stopped you, “Wait.” He said, and his voice dipped, “Haven’t gotten a proper look at you in it yet. Seems like a waste.”

You smirked, “You want me to do a quick spin for you?”

You had mostly been teasing, but he nodded, and so you obliged. Once your back was facing him, his hands came up to touch you. Warm and calloused, they ran down your waist to your ass, which he squeezed appreciatively before giving it a firm smack.

It didn’t hurt, but you gasped and he ran a soothing hand over the skin, “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. S’that okay?”

“Yes,” You said breathlessly.

He brushed the hair off the back of your neck and you automatically tilted your head to allow him access to kiss and suck on it, letting out a soft moan at the scratch of his beard against your skin. As he kissed you, he untied the top of your bathing suit and you felt him sigh as he peered over your shoulder at your bare tits.

“Fuck,” He cursed so softly, you didn’t know if it was even meant for you to hear. He brought his hands up to feel them, his rough palms immediately causing your nipples to harden. He pinched and pulled at them lightly and you moaned in earnest, pushing yourself further into his body behind you.

Your skin felt like it was on fire. Every touch and every kiss had you wondering what you wouldn’t do to keep his attention on you like this. To keep this burning low in your belly. He was so attentive, soft and rough at the same time, watching your reactions to everything so carefully. Just having his eyes on you alone felt like you were a supernova, on the edge of self destruction. You thought you would likely damn yourself to Hell if it meant he would keep touching you like this.

He guided you into the shower and you stepped out of your bottoms. It was a large walk in shower and easily fit the two of you without much effort. Immediately, he got on his knees in front of you. He gripped the backs of your thighs and kissed your stomach, and then made a path down. The way your hips pushed up into him was an involuntary reaction, really, but then he suddenly pulled his mouth away and you pouted.

When you looked down at him, he was grinning, “What’s this?” 

He ran a finger over a small tattoo on your upper hip that you tended to forget about a lot. It was almost always completely covered by panties or, in today’s case, a bathing suit. 

In messy, loopy cursive, it read bon appétit. 

You sighed, embarrassed, “It’s stupid, I got it when I was, like, twenty.”

He looked down at it again, ran his thumb over it, “Did… Did Trevor give you this?”

It felt like the wrong time to talk about this, which was why you hadn’t mentioned, but now that he was asking… “Yeah. He was practicing,” You gulped, “Do you hate it?”

“Hm?” He looked back up at you and then frowned, “Oh, no. No, of course not. I was just…” He sighed, “The juvenile answer is just that I hate that he’s seen you like this.”

You ran a hand over his hair, “If it makes you feel any better, the irony of him giving me this tattoo is that he never really liked eating me out anyway. I almost always had to ask for it, and even then he’d get frustrated if I didn’t come within a couple of minutes.”

He gave a short laugh, “Makes it worse, actually. That you slept with someone like that for years. You didn’t think you deserved better than that?”

You were shocked when you felt the beginning pinpricks of tears at the backs of your eyes. No, you didn’t, actually. It was why the more time you spent with Robby you realized it was him who was out of your league and not the other way around. Why you suspected he’d probably bolt after he slept with you. You thought you probably didn’t deserve someone better than Trevor and so you had resigned yourself to being alone instead.

You swallowed, “Can we stop talking about Trevor, please?”

He must’ve heard the tears in your voice because he looked up and immediately rose back up to standing, “Hey,” He cradled your face in his hands, tenderly kissed your cheeks and forehead, before pressing a long kiss to your mouth, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He kept kissing you, deepened it again until you couldn’t think about anything other than the man in front of you, drunk on the taste of him. He kissed his way down your body until he was on his knees again, kissing and biting at your hips.

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder and kissed your inner thigh, up until you felt him lapping at your folds. He was being so gentle and slow, avoiding your throbbing clit where you wanted him most, teasing on purpose you suspected. Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you grabbed at his hair and rutted your hips into him. He groaned into you and his nose rubbed against your clit exactly where you needed, but he was pulling away, securing his arms around your thighs to keep you still.

“Be good for me,” He said, looking up at you, “Let me take my time, taste you properly first, hm? Can you do that for me, baby?”

It didn’t seem like much of a choice, but you nodded eagerly anyway. He didn’t waste time beginning his assault on you again. It felt like minutes were passing and still, he purposely seemed to neglect the one place you were most needy for him. Tears were collecting at the corners of your eyes, “Please, Robby.” You whined, “Please, please, I’ve been so good, please.”

He took his mouth off you for a moment and looked up at you. When he saw the tears beginning to fall from your eyes, the smugness emanated from him in waves. “What do you want, sweetheart? You wanna cum on my tongue?” 

You nodded desperately, “Please.” It was the only word you seemed capable of saying.

He turned his attention back to your pussy, pushed a finger inside you and curled it upwards, slowly stroking that spongy spot that had your knees going weak. You thought your legs may have given out if it wasn’t for Robby holding you up. He added a finger and you were dizzy, the muscles tightening in your abdomen. Finally, he began swirling his tongue around your sensitive bud until you cried out, grinded yourself against him, let the sensation of his beard and mouth push you through your orgasm.

He left his fingers inside you as he rose to standing again, slowly pushing them in and out of you even as you came down. “You taste even better than I thought you would.” He said in your ear as his fingers kept slowly fucking you, pushing you into the wall behind you.

“Robby, I don’t,” You paused, wetting your lips. The slow movement of his fingers inside you was stirring that sensation inside you again, coiling like a spring, “I’m gonna cum again,” You said, shocked you were still able to string full sentences together, “If you keep going I’m gonna–”

He pressed a thumb to your clit and kissed up your neck to your earlobe, which he lightly took between his teeth. All coherent thought ceased, there was just the feeling of his mouth on your skin, his fingers inside you, his rough voice asking you to cum, “Go on then, cum all over my fingers like a good girl, you can do it.” The whine you let out sounded pathetic to your own ears as he moved his hand marginally faster until you were coming apart in his arms again, tears streaming down your cheeks in earnest now, “There you go,” He cooed, bringing his face back so he could see your tearstained cheeks.

Still, his fingers kept moving inside you and you whimpered, using your hands to push at his wrist uselessly. He stayed anchored inside you. You were so sensitive now, the pleasure was almost painful. “Oh, come on, baby,” He said, “You can give me one more, can’t you? You said this is what you wanted. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”

You hiccupped and shook your head, no. He brought his other hand up to play with your nipples and the broken moan you let out sounded like a sob as you again felt yourself being pushed incrementally towards the edge of a cliff. “Kiss me,” You sighed desperately, “Kiss me, please.”

He hesitated for a moment before he kissed you and you wondered idly if maybe he knew you better, if this wasn’t the first time you were together like this, if he would’ve denied the request. If he was enjoying being a little mean and denying you what you wanted. The thought had you longing for more. You couldn’t take it now, you didn’t think, but the idea of doing this again with him was enough to get you to the precipice again. Your walls tightened around his fingers and he moaned into your mouth, “Go on, sweetheart. Can feel you’re there, give me one more.”

You thought you might black out when your orgasm ripped through you again. You shook in his arms, nails digging deep into the skin of his arms in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. He murmured praises in your ear as you came down, gently pulled his fingers out of you and wiped away your tears.

He turned the shower off, dried you off, and in your fucked out haze he had to guide you to the bed. 

“You okay?” He asked gently, crawling over you, “We can stop.”

You shook your head slowly, a silent command, don’t stop. You looked down to see him putting a condom on himself as he watched you.

He swallowed, “You’re sure?” You nodded, and he chuckled, “Think you can use your words for me?”

You slid your tongue over your lips, “Yes,” You said slowly, “I’m sure.”

He lined up his tip with your soaked entrance and pushed in just an inch, “You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” He asked.

“Robby,” You laughed, “Are you gonna fuck me, or what?”

He fought a smirk and nodded before slowly easing himself inside you. You both sighed in relief when he filled you, “Jesus fucking Christ,” He moaned.

At first he was slow, gentle. He watched you carefully, as if he thought you were in danger of breaking. It would’ve made you laugh if it wasn’t so fucking sweet. When it was clear you were okay, were enjoying yourself even, he seemed to lose a bit of the careful restraint he’d been showing. 

He brought one of your legs up to his shoulder, pressed a kiss to your ankle before pressing into you again. His pace became relentless as he gripped your hips and he was so, so deep, you could feel him everywhere. Obscene, wet slapping sounds filled the space along with his pants and moans. 

“Harder,” You breathed and his eyes snapped to yours, surprised, “Please, I won’t break.”

“Oh, fuck,” He groaned and let your ankle fall back down, opting to fold himself over you instead to be closer. He kissed you sloppily, sucking your tongue into his mouth as he pounded into you, sucking up your moans like water. “Gonna cum,” He panted into your mouth.

You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into skin. He was beautiful like this, you thought, on the verge of coming apart. If he hadn’t absolutely ruined you earlier, you would’ve liked to ride him yourself or make him come with your mouth. But this was a dream, more than you could have asked for, being able to see him like this. It felt like a gift, being allowed this peek into who he was when he was vulnerable. 

He buried his face in your neck when he came, groaning and breathless. His hips moved sporadically as his orgasm stuttered through him. You stroked a hand down the back of his head and kissed his cheek.

Still out of breath, he pulled his face back enough to kiss you again and you sighed contentedly into his mouth. 

“Still okay?” He asked.

You nodded, “Never better. You?”

He nodded and swallowed, “Yeah.”

After a moment, he pulled out of you and stood to rid himself of the condom. When he came back, he rolled back into bed and pulled you to him, pressing kisses on whatever bare skin he could reach.

He pressed a finger lightly into your cheek furthest from him to turn your head back to him. His eyes searched yours for just a moment before he kissed you on the mouth, long and slow. It made your toes curl. 

“I was thinking,” He said, “That we could shower again and then go watch the sunset on the shore. Share a bottle of wine. How does that sound?”

You smiled sleepily, “That sounds lovely.”

***

A little while later, you were sitting between Robby’s legs, your back pressed to his chest. It had cooled considerably since you had last been out here and Robby let you use one of his hoodies. 

You were still sleepy from the sex and the wine only made your limbs feel more languid and heavy as you passed the bottle back and forth.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Robby said eventually, “And I don’t want you to get mad when I do.”

You frowned, “Okay…?”

“You were premed? In undergrad?”

You sighed, “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go to med school?”

You could feel yourself growing prickly and defensive, jaw clenching, “I applied twice within a couple of years. I didn’t get in. The pandemic hit, I lost my job, I ran out of money, I moved back home with my parents.” You shrugged, “I don’t know, I just… I didn’t see the point in trying again.”

It was more than that. The second time you didn’t get in, the failure had felt so visceral, you didn’t tell anyone for weeks. When you were forced into moving back to Los Angeles in the middle of the pandemic, the next year or so had felt unbearable with your failure seeming to loom above you, inescapable. Thinking back on it, you felt it was a wonder you had survived it at all.

“Do you still want to be a doctor?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. It doesn’t matter though, it’s too late.”

“Too late?” You felt Robby’s chest rumble with a laugh behind you, “How old are you? Twenty seven? Twenty eight?”

“Twenty nine.” 

He laughed again, “You’re a baby. It’s not too late for anything.”

Annoyed, you pushed off his chest and rose on your knees to face him, “I’m not doing it again, okay? So just drop it.”

He shook his head, “Why? Because you’re scared? I didn’t take you for a coward.”

You nodded and rubbed at your eyes, tried not to feel the punch to the gut his words were, “Yeah, well, you don’t really know me, do you?”

For a moment, there’s just his breathing and the gentle lap of the lake on the shore.

“I feel like I do.” He said softly, “And the girl who tattooed an Iliad quote on her body about how life is both beautiful and fragile strikes me as brave.”

Your eyes wandered back up to his and he had a tender look in his eyes as he met your gaze. 

You didn’t believe in love at first sight. You didn’t believe in love at first fuck, either. Whatever this was, whatever was causing your pulse to thrum erratically under your skin when he looked at you like that had to just be simple infatuation. It would pass. And Robby should have known better because he was in his damn fifties. You tore your gaze from his and stared at the tree line stubbornly. 

“I think,” Robby said after a few moments of silence, “That it’s never too late to do anything. And the worst that could happen is you try again and it doesn’t work out. You’re no worse off than when you started. What’s the harm?”

Your ego, for one. Not to mention the couple of thousands of dollars it would cost to retake the MCATs, order your transcripts, pay for each school’s application fee. Money you didn’t have. 

You shook your head slightly and crawled back over to him, placing a hand on the back of his neck to pull his face to yours. You kissed him hungrily and the surprised moan he let out sent chills down your spine.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” You murmured and slipped your free hand underneath the waist band of his shorts.

You watched as his eyes rolled back into his head when you touched him, felt him begin to swell against your palm, “You can’t–” He let out a pained groan, “There’s only so many times… I’ll let you fuck me to get out of a difficult conversation…”

You hummed, “What I’m hearing,” You said, leaning close to his ear, “is that it’s working.”

He cursed and slipped a hand behind your back before deftly flipping you so that you laid flat on the blanket you had been sitting on just moments earlier. 

“I’ll fuck you as many times as you need,” He said roughly, “But we will be finishing this conversation later.”

You were smirking up at him smugly and you could tell it was pissing him off with the way his jaw clenched and he tilted his head above you. 

“Now, open your mouth,” He said, and pressed his thumb to your chin.

***

It went like that for a couple of days. Robby would try discussing med school, where did you apply, where would you want to go now, did you have a specialty in mind, you should volunteer at the Pitt, he could write you a letter of recommendation, he could help you study for the MCATS, and on and on and on. 

Every time you would get increasingly more agitated and your attempts to distract him with sex were becoming less and less effective which only served to piss you off more.

You had spent the day on a boat outing, drinking in the sun, Robby’s hands all over you whenever he thought nobody was looking. Filthy mouth in your ear whispering all the things he was going to do to you once you got back to the house. 

He had fulfilled those promises and now you were fucked out and tired from being in the sun all day. Also you were a little grumpy that the group had planned to go out for drinks that night at a local bar. All you really wanted was to curl back up into Robby in bed and listen to the lull of the AC and Robby’s voice as he read aloud from the novel he had brought with him.

But you were here to be with friends, not just Robby. And you really enjoyed the company of the others as well, having met them a couple of times after moving back to Pittsburgh. They were always so sweet and welcoming to you, never making you feel like an outsider, even when the envy seemed to overtake you when they began telling stories about med school rotations or their latest shift.

So now you and Robby were in the shower, about to begin the task of getting ready for a night out when he brought it up again.

“You know, I know one of the professors at UPitt, I could get you an introduction, maybe a coffee even–”

“Robby,” You said sharply, “I don’t know how many fucking times I have to tell you, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not going to apply to med school again. I’ve moved on.”

“Yeah, to some dead end job at a biotech company that some giant corporation will probably buy out in a couple of years.” He said it offhandedly, like he genuinely didn’t think it would hurt you. He didn’t even look up as he said it, just continued lathering his legs up with soap.

“Wow,” You scoffed, “Didn’t realize you thought I was such a loser. Thanks for clearing that up.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, you thought perhaps realizing his mistake too late, “That’s not what I meant–”

“Well what the fuck did you mean, then, hm?” You stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around yourself, desperate to create space and distance, “Why don’t you just fucking admit it?”

He stared at you through the glass, perplexed, “Admit what?”

“That you won’t fucking want me when we get back to Pittsburgh and I continue to be some loser who works at a ‘dead end’ job?”

He shook his head, “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I don’t care what you do, what I care about is that you feel happy and fulfilled and I’ve seen enough doctors in my life to recognize the… hunger, the drive. The need to be needed, the desire to fix and heal. And I see it in you and you’re fucking wasting it.”

You scoffed and turned away, “You’re still talking like you know me, but we only really met a few days ago.”

“Okay, so, fuck, the last few days count for nothing then? I’ve spent nearly every goddamn minute with you since we got here. You think I don’t know you because you won’t talk to me, but you don’t have to say anything. I see the way you look at Samira. You love her, but there’s a sadness behind it, like you’re mourning something. I see the way you deflate around my residents when they talk shop in front of you, like a fucking kid left out at the lunch table. You’re not that fucking difficult to understand.”

You braced your hands on the bathroom sink, “It seems like all you’ve found out is that I’m insecure, not exactly the discovery of the century.”

You heard him scoff, “No, what I found out is that you’re so fucking scared of maybe being a little uncomfortable that you’d rather be miserable your whole life than try.”

“I’m not scared.” 

The shower turned off and you heard him get out, wrap a towel around his waist, “You are, kid, and it’s making a coward out of you.”

You shook your head and started throwing your products back into your makeup bag, “Fuck you.” You said quietly and stormed out of the bathroom.

“And now you’re acting like a child,” he said, following you into the bedroom, “instead of having an adult conversation.”

“You’re not trying to have a conversation, you’re just being a condescending asshole.” You grabbed the outfit you planned on wearing tonight and all your makeup, “I’m going to get ready elsewhere.”

He ran a hand over the back of his head in frustration, “Yeah, keep running from it,” He murmured, “I’m sure that’ll solve it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and walked out of the room, towel wrapped around you and all your makeup and clothes clutched to your chest.

When you knocked on Samira’s door, Jack answered, frowning down at you, “Are you… okay?”

“Who is it, Jack?”

Jack let the door open fully and you saw Samira sitting on the ground in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, makeup brush in hand, “Oh. Hi.”

You took a deep breath, “Can I get ready in here?”

Samira smiled and scooted to the side to make room for you in front of the mirror and you brushed past Jack to sit with her.

“What happened?” Samira asked as you got settled next to her.

You frowned, “Nothing, I just wanted to get ready with you. Like we used to.” You inhaled sharply and clapped your hands together, “You know, maybe we should do shots.”

She was still smiling at you, but watching you carefully, “Come on, I know you.” She said softly, “It’s always been easy to see when you’re upset.”

You swallowed and glanced at her out of the corner of your eye, starting to dot your tinted moisturizer onto your face with fingers.

“Robby and I had a fight.” You said finally.

Samira nodded, “About?”

Slowly, you both turned to look at Jack who was seated at the edge of the bed on his phone, pretending not to eavesdrop.

He looked up when he felt you both staring at him, “What?” You both raised your eyebrows and he sighed, standing, “Fine, I’ll go, but I’m hurt that you don’t consider me one of the girls.”

Samira smirked, “If Robby wasn’t your best friend, I’d let you stay.”

Jack shook his head as he left the room, “That guy’s always ruining things for me.” 

You and Samira both turned back to the mirror, “Continue.” Samira said.

You sighed as you blended out the moisturizer with your beauty blender, “He kept pushing and pushing about med school and I told him I wasn’t going to apply again and he basically implied that I was a loser at a dead end job and wasting my life.”

Samira frowned, “Surely he didn’t say it like that?”

You blinked and watched her face in the mirror, “Does it matter how he said it?”

She didn’t say anything for a few moments and you scoffed, “Oh my God,” You said slowly, “You agree with him.”

Samira shook her head, “No, it’s not—“ She sighed, “I definitely don’t think that you’re a loser. And I don’t think that you’re wasting your life… If you’re happy, but you’re not. I know you’re not.”

You didn’t say anything, picked up your concealer and did your best to blink away the burning in your eyes. It was annoying and hurtful to hear from Robby, but from Samira, your best friend of almost ten years, it made you nauseous.

“I just, I remember how badly you wanted it once. It was all we talked about. And now it’s like you’ve convinced yourself you never actually wanted it because you don’t want to get hurt again.” Samira said gently, “But you could still do it. You can do anything.”

She sounded so earnest, you wanted to believe her.

You sniffled and blended out your concealer, “I’m really proud of you, you know. I know sometimes I seem jealous, but—“

“I know that,” Samira said quickly, smiling at you in the mirror, “If the roles were reversed I’d be the same way. It doesn’t make you a bad friend.”

You gave her a watery smile, “You’re a really great friend for putting up with me all these years.”

Samira laughed and gently tugged at her waterline to apply eyeliner, “Please, I wouldn’t have survived med school without you.” She stopped smudging the eyeliner and met your eyes, “And when you get into med school, I’ll do the same for you.”

You inhaled slowly and purposefully, “When,” You murmured softly.

And for the first time in a long time, you allowed the hope to bloom in your chest.

***

The bar was crowded and loud. The back of your hand was sticky from the lime and salt you had put there when you, Samira, Parker, and Trinity had done tequila shots. Javadi and Whitaker had had to drive back to Pittsburgh the day before, not able to get as many days off as the rest of you. Trevor had also headed out once you got back from the boating trip. He said he had work, but Samira had suspected he was just tired of watching you make out with Robby, which had gratified you a little bit.

“Another round?” Trinity asked, eyebrows raised.

“Slow your roll, Santos,” Parker put a hand on her shoulder, “I think we could do with a little break.”

“Robby’s been staring at you for the last twenty minutes.” Samira said, smirking. Robby was across the room behind you, you knew. Samira stood in front of you and could see him over your shoulder, “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

You had done about three or four tequila shots since arriving (you’d already lost count) and to say you were feeling it would be putting it mildly. You were starting to feel mildly apologetic for how you’d been handling your conversations with Robby the last couple of days, especially after talking to Samira earlier. But you weren’t ready to admit that yet. And, besides, you were having fun hanging out with the girls.

You shrugged your shoulders, “I’m having fun over here.”

Just then, the opening chords of Earth, Wind & Fire’s September started blaring through the speakers and you and Samira locked eyes.

“No way.” Samira giggled, shaking her head.

This song was very intrinsic to your friendship. It had played at a freshman orientation mixer and the two of you had been the only ones to sing along, embarrassingly loud and off key. It had bonded you. And from then on, it had become a siren song of sorts. Whenever you had been bickering (it was only natural after years of living together) one of you would play the song over the house speakers when you were ready to apologize. You had both been very studious in undergrad, but every so often after you turned twenty one, you could both be convinced to go out dancing and September was always requested of the DJ. So many of your happiest moments with Samira could be traced back to this song.

So you grabbed her hand, “Let’s go,” and dragged her to the dance floor.

Laughing, hands on each other’s shoulders, you danced badly and sang the lyrics loudly and ignored everyone else. You were often happiest when you were with Samira and the last couple of years back in California, you had forgotten that. She was your person, your lighthouse, the sister you never had, but always wanted. 

When the song was over, breathlessly and arms wrapped around each other still, you walked back over to Trinity and Parker. In your absence, Jack had joined them, sipping a whiskey and looked at both you and Samira with amusement on his face.

Samira detached from you as you got closer and slid into Jack’s arms instead. You watched as he pressed his mouth to her ear, whispering something only she could hear and the smile on her face widened.

With Jack here, you couldn’t help but wonder what Robby was up to now and turned your head towards the direction you last saw him. He was still there, leaning against the bar and sipping a drink–

But there was a woman next to him, now, smiling at him with her hand on his forearm. You were drunk, and so there was a part of your brain that registered whatever you were feeling watching another woman touching him was overblown. But it didn’t soothe the twisting feeling you felt in your chest when you saw him laugh at something she had said. And he hadn’t removed his arm from her touch. 

She was older than you, you could see that much. Probably around forty or so, someone more acceptable for him. Someone people wouldn’t look at and wonder if he was her father or not. She was gorgeous in a red dress that hugged her curves tightly and curly hair that fell past her shoulders. It was likely she had her life together, knew what she wanted to do with it and didn’t let childish insecurities get in the way. She probably knew how to be vulnerable with someone else without feeling like they were attacking her.

You couldn’t say how long you were staring before you heard Jack call your name. When you turned, he had a sympathetic look on his face, “Don’t let that get to you, alright?” He said, eyes following your gaze, “If you just go talk to him, he’s yours, I promise.”

Samira was still in his arms, her brow furrowed with worry as she watched you.

You looked back at Robby and the older woman and saw he had covered her hand on his forearm with his own, thumb stroking back and forth over her skin.

There was a roaring in your ears when you turned back to the table, “Mira, I think I’m gonna throw up.” You said as you braced your hands on the high top table you were all gathered around.

Immediately, you felt her hand on your back and she lowered her head until she met your gaze, “Do you want some ice?” You shook your head, no.

“You know what I would do if I were you?” Trinity said, tossing the ice from her now empty drink into her mouth.

“She’s about to give the most unhinged advice you’ve ever heard.” Samira said, sighing.

Trinity seemed unfazed by Samira’s criticism and barrelled ahead anyway, “I would go in the bathroom, take an awesome picture of my tits, and text it to him. He goes to check his phone: boom, breasts. Instant boner.” She shrugged, “It works on sapphic women, anyway.”

Parker nodded behind her, “Yeah, that would work on me.”

You blinked blankly at them and looked at Samira, who, frighteningly, was not shooting down the idea.

Jack sighed, “If you just talk to him instead of playing these games–”

“Girls,” You said, standing up straight, “Let’s take a trip to the bathroom.”

***

Robby was trying to make you jealous. He realized the immaturity of it, that he was resorting to tactics he suspected you would employ yourself, but he couldn’t help it. Something about you made him feel like a college kid again, pining after the prettiest sorority girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. 

He just wanted to talk to you. He had pushed too hard, like he tended to do. Giving tough love for a situation that maybe required gentler hands and a more receptive headspace. He didn’t think what he said had been wrong, exactly, but maybe it had been a bit harsher than he intended. And he would apologize for that. Once you admitted he was right.

But in the meantime, he couldn’t stand by any longer watching you dance around drunk in a too short dress that cupped your breasts just right and left your bare back exposed to the humid August air.

The fact that the woman was older, more age appropriate perhaps, truly hadn’t even crossed his mind. He hadn't intended to hurt you when he indulged her flirting, just maybe make you a little territorial so that you’d finally stop pretending like he wasn’t in the same room as you.

When he felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out, he honestly thought it was probably someone at the Pitt, asking some obscure admin related question.

It was a number outside of his contacts and he frowned at that before swiping it open–

And being absolutely blown away by the sight of your tits on his screen. It looked like you had taken it in the bathroom, the straps from your dress pushed down your shoulders so the fabric pooled at your waist. Your nipples were hardened, likely from the cold air of the AC in the bathroom.

Underneath the picture you had typed: do you wanna lick them? also open to some light nibbling if ur in the mood

He barked out a laugh and locked his phone, cracking his neck from side to side as he turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, apologizing for the interruption. He would not be won over so easily, despite the way he felt the blood rushing south and between his legs at the thought of your tits in his mouth. 

He was tired of you using sex to avoid deep conversation. He hadn’t been sure what he wanted from you when he got here, but he had decided since that it was more than just fucking. He wouldn’t settle for just easing the ache between your legs whenever you felt like it.

A few moments later, his phone buzzed again. Robby wanted to ignore it. If you wanted him, you could come over here and say so. But in the end, you won, and he picked up his phone again.

I’m not wearing any panties.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed deeply as he locked his phone.

“Is everything alright?”

He opened his eyes and looked at the woman in front of him, “Yeah, sorry, I, uh–” He lifted his phone, “I just have to take care of something, would you excuse me?”

Robby was already walking towards where he last saw you before the woman could reply. You were still there, looking smug as you bit on the straw of a long empty drink and stared at him. When he got to you, he wordlessly took the drink from your hand, dropped it on the table, and then secured a hand around your wrist before he began walking again, you trailing behind.

Once outside the bar, he checked for people before backing you against the wall, relishing in your little gasp when your back hit the brick. He kissed you hard and with all the annoyance he felt, sucking your lower lip into his mouth and biting down until you yelped. He began to pull away, to see if he had actually hurt you, but before he could get more than a few centimeters away, you crashed your mouth back into his.

He palmed your breast through the fabric of your dress and sighed when he felt the peak of your nipple. He needed to know if you had been serious about not wearing panties. The dress was fairly short, and it was loose and flowy from your waist down, so it would have been quite the risk. 

Robby spread your legs with his knee before reaching one of his hands between your thighs and up your dress. You were soaked and there was not a scrap of fabric to be found. He groaned into your mouth as he ran a finger down your folds, sucking your whimpers into his mouth like oxygen. 

He was so enamored, he nearly forgot that he was absolutely under no circumstances supposed to be doing this until the two of you could have a real conversation–

It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. That’s right, he wasn’t supposed to be doing this.

He pulled away from you so abruptly, that when your mouth moved to chase his, you leaned over so far you lost your balance and he had to steady you.

“Too much to drink?” He asked, hands on your arms to keep you upright.

“What the fuck?” You whined.

When he thought there was no longer any danger of you falling over, he leaned away and shoved his hands in his pockets, “I told you, there are only so many times I’ll allow you to use sex to avoid having an actual conversation.”

You pouted, “Then why did you come out here?”

He shrugged, “Temporary breach of sanity,” His eyes wandered down to your chest and he swallowed, “Provoked by a perfect pair of tits.”

You poked your tongue out between your teeth, “You think they’re perfect?”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, “Is this all you want from me? Because if it is, I need to know now.”

You frowned, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is this just fucking to you?” He gestured to the space between you, “Is that all I am, just a good fuck?”

You felt your cheeks heat, “I–I don’t know, isn’t that what you want?”

“No,” He shook his head, “No, I–” He ran a hand over the back of his head, “I think I want more than that. I want–I want you. All of you. Not just a piece.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and shook your head slightly, “What about that woman at the bar?”

“I was just trying to make you jealous.”

You worried your lower lip between your teeth, “But she’s older and probably better at this whole thing and won’t send you a picture of her tits instead of apologizing.” 

You said it all in a rush and he gave you a small smile, “There are worse ways to apologize.”

“It’s not funny, Robby, I’m not good at this,” You threw up your hands in exasperation, “You’re right, I avoid anything that’s difficult, anything I’m worried I’ll fail at and–” You blinked rapidly, your eyes glinting wet with unshed tears, “And I’m terrified of disappointing you.”

He tilted his head and took a step to you, reaching a hand out to gently cradle your cheek in his palm, “Sweetheart, as long as you’re actually trying, you’re never going to disappoint me.”

Your breathing wavered slightly and you turned your head to kiss his palm, “I want to go to med school.” You said softly. It was a small concession, not quite an apology, but close enough.

“I know.” He pulled you to his chest and kissed the top of your head. His hands slid to either side of your neck and he tilted your head up so he could kiss you properly, the taste of tequila still on your tongue, “You ready to go back inside?”

You nodded and let him lead you back by the hand, smiling to yourself when his thumb stroked reassuring circles on the back of your hand. He kept a hand on you, whether it was on your hand, arm, hip, or thigh, for the rest of the night. The woman at the bar looked a bit miffed when she finally left, but Robby didn’t notice. He was too busy watching you.

***

The humidity was suffocating as you packed your bags in the back of your Yaris. You were dripping with sweat just from the walk from the house to the car. It was likely even hotter in Pittsburgh, a thought that had you second guessing why you had left Los Angeles in the first place. It may have been a desert, but at least it didn’t feel like you were drowning when you were outside.

“You got everything?” Robby came up behind you as you were closing your trunk, hands settling on your hips.

“Yep,” You spun in his arms once the trunk was shut. His face was red from the heat as well, skin damp with sweat, “You?”

“Think I’m just missing my… What do the kids call it? Passenger princess?” He leaned into you and pressed kisses to the side of your neck, making you giggle and push him away when he playfully bit the sensitive skin there.

“I told you,” You laughed, “I’m driving my own car.”

“Baby, it’s gonna be so loud with that useless muffler. You’re gonna hate it. Just let me call someone to tow it–”

“No,” You shook your head adamantly, “Thank you for offering, but no thank you.”

He sighed, “What if I said I just don’t want to drive back to Pittsburgh by myself?”

You smiled and kissed him. You didn’t think you’d ever tire of the taste of him, the feel of his beard against your skin, “We have plans to see each other two days from now. Aren’t you sick of me?”

He shook his head, “Not even close.” He kissed your forehead, “But, fine. Enjoy your drive, don’t come crying to me for an ENT referral when you rupture your eardrums.”

You laughed as he turned away from you, “That’s a bit dramatic, I think.”

He only shrugged as he headed to his own car and you headed to your driver’s side. Sliding into the hot seat, you put your key in the ignition and turned– There was a whine from the car, but no turnover. Frowning, you tried again. And again. And–

“Oh no,” Robby opened your driver’s side, “Looks like your car won’t start.”

You turned to scowl at him, “Did you do this?”

He laughed, “Of course not. But I can’t say I’m not a little pleased.”

You leaned your head against the steering wheel, “I can’t afford this.” You murmured. And it was true. Even after working at the new job for a while, you were still regaining your footing from all the moving costs.

“It’s probably just a dead battery or bad alternator. I’ll fix it when we get back.”

You looked up at him, “That’s too much.”

But he was already shaking his head, “I like doing it. Both working with cars and helping you. Now get in my car, please, so we can go home.”

It was strange, this feeling you got now when looking at him. When he was kind and generous with you, but had no ulterior motive. You had never met anyone like him. It had only been a week, and you had never been in love before, but you thought this must be what it felt like. When you were just on the precipice of it.

You got out of your car and rose on your toes to kiss him, “Thank you,” You whispered in his mouth.

“Get a room,” Jack teased as he walked outside, Samira in tow.

When you saw her you broke from Robby and went to wrap her up in a hug instead, “Thank you for inviting me, Mira.” You said into her shoulder.

Her arms tightened around you, “I’m just glad to have you back on the east coast.” She looked over your shoulder towards Robby, “And I’m glad that I’m such a good matchmaker.”

You laughed, “Yeah, if he’s ever mean to you again, you let me know.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” She pulled away, “You’re on speed dial.”

Robby kept a hand on your thigh for most of the ride back to Pittsburgh, stroking a soothing pattern with his thumb until you were half asleep. The subtle smell of cherries was in his nose the entire drive back and when he occasionally looked back over at you, asleep in his passenger seat, he thought he finally understood what Jack had said to him when he started dating Samira.

It’s like I’ve been asleep at the wheel and she took it from my hands. I don’t wonder why I keep going anymore, I know it’s because she’s keeping me from veering off the road.

He certainly was no expert at relationships, but you made him want to try if it meant it would extend this feeling in his chest when he looked at you. Like everything would be okay as long as you were happy and breathing next to him.

He wasn’t sure if he loved you yet, but he was sure that he desperately wanted to find out. 

[docrobinavitch]

penance

dr. robby x f!attending!reader masterlist

sacraments masterlist content: 18+ mdni, ANGST, sexually explicit content, swearing, mentions of family trauma, complicated mother/daughter dynamic, sibling death, grief, age gap words: 5.6K synopsis: reader has worked too many goddamn shifts on the opposite shift as robby and they both take out their frustrations on one another. this takes place in the same universe as sacraments of healing, roughly a year and a half later. i think they can be read separately for the most part, you just might miss out on the full context of the fucked up family dynamics going on in the background here. a/n: well!! this was quite literally requested but for some reason i still get the feeling nobody wants to read this. kdfhgkdjhg perhaps because sacraments and now this one the reader is soooo much like me it feels like self harm at times when i write her ksdfhgkjdfg anyway i hope you guys like it!! i don't think i'll be writing anything else for these two but i am really so so grateful for all the love you've given sacraments. it is still a shock to me. as always thank you for reading.

Your eyelid was twitching. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept for more than three hours uninterrupted. You had worked seven night shifts back to back with a double thrown in the middle and you swore you could still hear the beep of the heart monitors even when you were at home. It was keeping you awake. It was also keeping you awake that you and Robby were on opposite schedules. You never slept well if he wasn’t in bed with you.

Your neck ached and you stretched it to one side as you held your phone a couple of inches away from your ear. Your back was pressed against the wall in the ambulance bay and your mother was shouting at you through the phone.

“If they repossess his car he’ll have no way to get to work and he’ll lose his job and he’ll be back at square one.”

“Well, Tommy should’ve thought of that before he financed a car when he had only had his new job a fuckin’ week.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, “I mean, Christ, does he ever think things through for more than five seconds?”

“We can’t all be perfect like you, Ace.”

“That’s not what I said—“

“Both our credit scores will be in the fucking toilet if they repossess, is that what you want?”

You paused and then scoffed, “You cosigned the loan?”

“He’s my baby and he needed help, of course I did,” You rolled your eyes, “I would do the same for you if you asked!”

“Well he shouldn’t have fucking asked is the point! He’s a grown man!” You sighed heavily, “How much does he need?”

Your mom’s quiet for a moment, “Fifteen thousand.”

You banged the back of your head into the brick wall behind you, squeezing your eyes shut tight. The throbbing in your neck had extended to your head. You were so fucking tired. “I can’t do this right now, I’m at work. I’ll call you back.”

“I know they pay you well at that hospital—“

“Do you have any idea how much debt I’m still in from medical school? You’re asking for the entirety of my emergency fund. Everything I’ve fucking saved.”

“He’s your baby brother. You would’ve done it for Benji.“

You balked, the back of your head bouncing off the wall. She could be so fucking cruel sometimes in an effort to get what she wanted, it still managed to shock you, to steal the air from your lungs. 

Just then, Robby walked through the ambulance bay doors, backpack slung over his shoulder. He was heading home, sunglasses perched on his head to compete with the sun that was setting low in the sky.

Ever since he had come home with you that Christmas, he had become like a watchdog of sorts. His hackles would always raise whenever he heard you on the phone with someone in your family or you said you were going to see your parents. Despite it all, you still went every now and then, though you had taken to meeting them only in public where you could guarantee they wouldn’t make a scene.

The last thing you needed right now was for Robby to hear any of this conversation. He’d probably take the phone from you and tell your mom exactly where she could shove it.

You cleared your throat, swallowed down the bile of her words. “I really have to go, I’m at work. I’ll talk to you later.” You hung up without waiting for her reply, knowing you would get hell for that later.

“Hey,” Robby smiled at you, trapping you between himself and the wall, “Who was that?”

You sighed, “My mother.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Do I want to know?”

“No.” You rested your forehead against his, “You really, really don’t.”

“I miss you,” He whispered and caught your lips with his own. 

You both loved Robby a criminal amount and missed him terribly considering you had been on opposite schedules for almost two weeks now, but with the call from your mom, the lack of sleep, and impending headache when you were just starting your shift, you couldn’t handle being touched right now. You felt like you were one inconvenience away from crawling out of your skin.

You pulled away, leaning your head back against the wall, “Sorry, I can’t right now.”

Robby shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away from you. It was clear to you he was trying to cover up his hurt and frustration at your rejection. It wasn’t the first time. You had been overwhelmed and overstimulated for days on end. The few times you’d run into each other you could barely tolerate a kiss on the cheek.

“Have you been sleeping?” He asked.

“Not really. Have you?”

He shrugged, “Enough. But going out of my goddamn mind from not being able to touch you for something like three weeks now.”

“Well then maybe you should tell Gloria to get me off the fucking night shift, like I asked you to three days ago.” You snapped. 

He laughed shortly and ran a hand over his beard, “You know it’s not that simple. They were short an attending, you were asked to pick up the slack—“

“I wasn’t asked, I was told.”

“Fucking semantics. You get a week off after today, okay? Could you just be a team player?”

You laughed, “Have I not worked 80+ hours this week without complaint, including a fucking double? Or is this just because I won’t get on my knees and suck you off right now? Is that the kind of team player you’re looking for?”

“Wow,” He stared at you, shaking his head, “That was mean even by your standards. What did your mom say to you to provoke such vitriol, hm?”

You scoffed, “I’m fucking out of my mind with exhaustion, Robby, alright? Not everything is about her.”

“What did she say?” He repeated.

The ambulance bay doors slid open again and Abbot called out your name, “Incoming OD in five, we need you.”

You turned back to Robby, “Fuck off,” You said firmly and pushed yourself off the wall, skirting around him to get back inside.

“See you in the morning!” Robby called after you, anger lodged in every word, “Enjoy your shift!”

You raised your middle finger over your head as you walked back into the ED.

“Something going on with you and Robby?” Abbot asked. Immediately, you turned to scowl at him, “What? I can’t be concerned about my friends? You’re both tense as fuck lately, it’s killing the vibe.”

You raised your eyebrows, “The ‘vibe’?”

He stared at you, “Do you not know what it means? Because I can get Sarah to explain it to you, she’s like, fuckin’, fresh out of nursing school or something—“

“I know what it means, Jack, thank you.” Your eyelid was twitching again and you kneaded a finger against it as if you would find a reset button there, “Robby and I are fine, okay? Nothing to worry about.”

Ellis appeared behind the two of them, “She’s lying, they haven’t fucked in weeks.” Ellis hissed to Jack.

“Parker!” You whirled on her, “What the hell, I told you that in confidence!”

Jack was laughing, “It’s fine, I already knew. Robby told me.”

You scoffed and felt your face redden, “Oh, that’s fantastic, so the whole ER knows I’m going through a dry spell?”

Jack shrugged, a smirk on his face, “You know, if you want to get him back here I can make sure no one goes in the on call room—“

You raised a finger to quiet him, “Not another word.” You sighed and stretched your neck again, “Bunch of animals, all of you. I hate the night shift.”

“The night shift doesn’t like you either,” Ellis said, “You’re harshing the vibe.”

You and Jack made eye contact, and though you shook your head in exasperation, you were finally, mercifully, smiling.

***

Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was past midnight and she was still hounding you. Text after text after missed call after voicemail.

If he doesn’t pay the 15k within 24 hours the car will get repo’d

if it was you, we’d all help you, Ace

But that was just it, wasn’t it. It would never be you because you had learned to be so fucking Type A from an early age so as not to be a burden. So you wouldn’t have to need anyone. You only ever needed Benji, and he was gone. And you loved Tommy, truly, but everything had always been handed to him. No one had ever told him no. It was why they were in this situation to begin with. He took and took and took and didn’t care who he hurt in the process. You had given him money more times than you could count, even when you really didn’t have it to give. And always, you’d regret it when he never suddenly became more responsible.

“Dr. Y/N?” It was Ellis in front of you when you looked up from your phone.

“Hi, sorry.” You shook the thoughts from your head, “What d’you need?”

Her eyes narrowed, tracing a path from your face to your phone and back again, “You good?”

You smiled, “Just tired.” You nodded to the iPad in her hand, “Is that South 17’s labs?”

“Yeah.” She handed you the iPad and you listened to her as she reported the results and her recommended course of treatment. 

You nodded, “That all sounds good. Great work, Dr. Ellis.”

Ellis took the iPad back from you, but then looking over your shoulder, she paused, “Dr. Robby?”

You turned, and Robby was standing there in sweats and a hoodie. Immediately, your head went in a million different places at once as you rushed over to him, “What are you doing here, baby?” You looked him over, panic beginning to set in, “Are you hurt?”

“Oh, it’s ‘baby’ now, is it?” He looked tired as he looked down at you, “After the way you spoke to me earlier?”

You opened and closed your mouth, then sighed, “I’m—I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m so tired.” Tears pin pricked the backs of your eyes.

He nodded, “Can we talk for a minute?”

You followed him out to the ambulance bay, your anxiety a living thing in your chest. He was upset. He showed up at work in the middle of the night. This was it, wasn’t it? He’d finally had enough. He was leaving. You were always too much, always too much of a burden. You both needed too much and too little. There had always been an expiration date on the two of you, but somehow you’d thought maybe you could extend it further and further.

Robby turned to you and put his hands together in front of his mouth, looking down towards the ground, “I want to preface this by saying I did not go snooping looking for this information. Your iPad would not stop fucking dinging and I couldn’t sleep.”

You frowned, completely thrown off by this turn in the conversation, “My iPad? What about my iPad?”

“It kept ringing whenever you got a call or text from your mother. I went to go turn it off, but I saw the texts.”

You sighed, “Oh…” Then you shook your head, “I’m sorry, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

“You’re not going to give Tommy fifteen grand, are you?”

Oh. He was here because he was worried about you. Not leaving. He wasn’t leaving. Suddenly, his protective behavior seemed like a relief. You felt the bizarre urge to laugh, then. But he was still looking at you, “Um, I—I don’t know.” You said finally.

He sighed, “Honey, I know you don’t have that kind of money. I’ve seen what you pay monthly for student loans.”

“I have fifteen thousand in my savings account.”

“That’s for emergencies.”

You huffed impatiently, “Can’t this wait until I get home? You should be sleeping.”

“No, because I need to know that you understand you don’t owe them anything.” He said fiercely.

“Robby—“

“No, don’t tell me it’s none of my business or, or I don’t understand. Every time you talk to them I watch them knock you down a peg. Make you believe you don’t deserve what you have or that you owe them for it. And still, you give and give and give, and it’s breaking my heart. You tear yourself open again and again hoping this time they’ll love you like you deserve,” He shook his head, “You don’t need them to. Baby, I promise, you don’t need them to.”

You shook your head marginally, eyes filling with tears. It was both frustrating and incredibly soothing to be known so well. “There’s still six hours left of my shift, I really don’t want to do this right now.”

“Too bad. I’ll tell Jack you’re leaving early.”

It was the wrong thing to say. You could tell he was genuinely concerned for you and that was all well and good, but you weren’t a child to be ordered around at his whim. Besides which, you had begged him to get you off the night shift days ago and he had simply shrugged his shoulders and said it was out of his hands. But now, suddenly, you could go home, when it suited him. Now he would do something about it with just six hours left.

Any progress he may have just made quickly evaporated and you carefully padlocked him out.

You shook your head at him, “I don’t need daddy to intervene on my behalf, I’m a big girl—“

“That’s not what I meant—“

“—Go home, Robby. We’ll talk later.”

You walked back inside without waiting for his reply.

What you didn’t notice was five minutes later when he followed you back inside. You were busy with a head injury on a two year old who had tried to climb out of his crib and hit his head on a dresser on his way down. You didn’t see him follow Abbot and pull him into an empty patient room.

Afterwards, you grabbed a Snickers bar from the break room and headed to the hub to see how bad of a mess the board was looking. As you tore a bite from the candy bar, Abbot walked up to you.

“You okay?” He asked softly.

You frowned and turned to look at him. He was regarding you with a soft intensity you had only seen him look at his residents with. The underdogs who needed a bit more encouragement to gain their footing. He was assessing you, you realized.

You shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and looked back up at the board, “M’fine. Stop looking at me like that, it’s giving me hives.”

He sighed next to you, “Why don’t you go home? Get some sleep? You’ve worked eight days straight, you must be exhausted.”

Your jaw paused mid chew and you turned back to him before swallowing, “Where is he?”

“Hm?”

Your eyes flitted around the emergency room, “Don’t play dumb, Abbot. Robby, where is he? He told you to send me home? After I asked him not to?”

Jack sighed, “He’s worried about you.”

You laughed, “Right. And do you think if I came in during one of his shifts and said he should go home early because I was worried about him that he’d listen?”

He tilted his head to force you to look at him, “Come on, kid. You don’t wanna be here anyway, I can tell. Don’t be stubborn.”

You shook your head and scoffed, “The two of you are fucking insufferable.”

“Oh, don’t be like that—“

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving.” You said, walking off towards the lockers.

When you got to the lockers, you stopped and scowled when you saw Robby leaning against them. He pocketed his phone and eyed you as you opened your locker and grabbed your things.

You slammed your locker shut and started walking without waiting to see if he followed.

***

Of course, he followed. Long and even strides just behind your furious and frantic gate.

And it made you angrier that he was so calm, no doubt relishing in the fact that he had won.

Once inside your apartment, you dropped your backpack and kicked off your sneakers with an attitude so adolescent like, Robby had to fight a smirk.

You headed to the fridge, grabbed an IPA and cracked the can open before taking a long drink. Robby followed as you made your way to the bathroom, beginning to strip. Still ignoring him.

“You’re not going to invite me to share your shower beer?” He asked, leaning in the doorway. 

The truth was, you were nearly buzzing with anxiety and frustration. With him, with your family, with Abbot. The feeling of failure at not being able to finish your shift. The exhaustion that infected you to your very bones. The thought that if you didn’t come through for Tommy he would lose his job and your mother’s credit would be fucked. You thought if he touched you then you might start yelling, or worse, sobbing.

You said nothing, turned on the shower and faced away from him as you waited for the water to warm. You tapped your fingers erratically against your beer can and stretched your still aching neck. 

“Your neck bothering you again?” You continued to ignore him, but stopped stretching. You heard him sigh behind you, “I could give you a massage in the shower. If you agree to a truce. You were really mean earlier. I was overbearing and controlling just now. What d’you say we call it even?”

Your neck really did hurt and it had spread to your shoulders and upper back as well as causing a throbbing headache. And the last time Robby had gently kneaded at the knots there, the relief had been almost instant.

“Fine.” You said softly and climbed into the shower, perching your beer precariously in the shower caddy that hung from the shower head. 

You heard him undress and then the sound of the curtain rustling as he climbed in behind you.

He rested his hands on your hips first, leaning his head down to kiss your shoulders. His touch was soft and tender and everything today and this week had not been. You had to remind yourself to breathe so you wouldn’t cry.

“Too much?” He murmured against your skin.

You were afraid to speak, so you pushed yourself back into him instead. He twined his arms fully around your waist, your back flush to his chest. You felt his chest heave with a sigh of contentment and suddenly you felt guilty of depriving him of your touch for so long. 

In silent apology, you passed the beer can to him and kissed the palm of the hand he wasn’t using.

“I thought you were breaking up with me. When you showed up at the ER.” You said softly.

You felt him tense behind you, “Why would you think that?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “I don’t know. I was mean earlier.”

He’s quiet a moment, trying to find the right words to say, how to reassure you that it had never even crossed his mind, “We can both be… difficult at times. You worked too much this week, you should’ve never even been working that shift today. I was dismissive. You were exhausted. I know you didn’t mean it. That you wouldn’t have said it under any other circumstances. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

After passing the beer back to you, he raised his hands to the back of your neck, kneading gentle circles with his thumbs deep into your muscles. It took only a few moments of this before you were whimpering. You swore you heard Robby chuckle behind you at the sounds.

He moved his hands lower, to your shoulders, and hissed as he felt the knots beneath your skin, “Fuck, sweetheart, how did you get so tense?” He pressed a kiss to your hair, “Am I not taking good enough care of you?”

You turned in his arms so you could see his face, bringing your hands up to cup his cheeks, “If anything you take too good care of me.” You said softly, eyes searching him. He closed his eyes at your touch, inhaling deeply. “C’mere.” You wrapped your arms around him, pulling until his head rested on your shoulder as you lightly scratched his back. “I’m sorry.”

Under the warm spray of the shower and the beer starting to hit, the frantic energy was beginning to leave you.

“I’m sorry too.” He pulled away slightly to bend your foreheads together, “I still don’t think you should hand off your emergency fund to your brother, though.”

You ran your hands up and down his chest, eyes snagging on the chain around his neck. It had, tragically, been a long time since you had seen him shirtless. With the anxiety beginning to drain from you, the sight of him naked in front of you like this had your blood beginning to pound, “Can we talk about that in the morning, please?”

He must’ve heard the hitch in your voice because you saw the beginnings of a smirk on his face, “Was there something else you wanted to do tonight?”

You licked your lips and swallowed, watched as his eyes traced the bob of your throat, “Perhaps.”

His eyes darted back up to yours and he brushed a thumb across your lower lip, “It’s okay?” He asked, breathless, and it sent a pang through you. That he was worried maybe you didn’t want him.

You nodded eagerly and then his mouth was on yours. It was deep and imploring the way he kissed you. Slow and patient, even though he had been waiting, begging, to taste you like this for weeks. But Robby had never been a frantic lover, he always longed for deep and slow so he could really feel you, commit every touch and taste to memory to be dissected later when you weren’t around. When all he had to satisfy himself was the thought of you.

He was capable of doing it fast and rough, if that was what you needed, but he would choose this every time. Still kissing you, he reached behind you to turn off the shower.

“No shower sex?” You teased.

“Absolutely not,” He grabbed a towel and wrapped it as much as he could around both of you, drying quickly, “Not with the way I need to have you right now.” 

Your stomach flipped as he guided you back to the bedroom, lips never leaving yours. When the backs of your legs hit the bed, you stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“You first,” You said, gesturing to the bed.

He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing more as he sat on the edge of the bed. You stood between his thighs, hand still pressed to his chest. Robby put his hand over yours, face tilted up just a bit so he could watch you.

You pushed gently until he was flat on the bed crawling over him until you were perched above him. Teasingly, you ground down, rubbing your folds against his erection and watched with satisfaction as his eyes rolled back.

“Fuck,” He swore, and then reached a hand to the back of your neck, pulling you back down so he could muffle his desperate whines with your mouth. 

You kept grinding as you kissed him, sucking on his tongue as you slid against him, almost, almost allowing him to slip inside, but not quite. Over and over and over until he felt delirious and a little insane.

“This is fucking cruel,” He panted desperately after a few minutes of your teasing, “If I knew you were going to do this I never would have let you get on top.”

“Oh?” You smirked, “I thought you liked it slow?”

Again, you teased his tip with your entrance, and he made a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh when you slipped away again, “Oh, sweetheart, if you don’t ride me right fucking now, I will make you regret how much of a brat you’re being.”

As enticing as that sounded to you, you decided to put him out of his misery. Pushing a hand between the two of you, you guided him to your entrance before fully taking him. Your head instantly fell to his shoulder, gasping as he stretched you out.

“That’s it,” He sighed, his hips bucking into you. As you adjusted to the stretch of him, whining into his neck, he gripped your hips with his fingers and started rolling them himself, “Come on, sweetheart, this is what you wanted, right? Push that pretty head of yours up, wanna see your eyes on me when you ride me.”

You did as you were told. Pushed yourself up with your hands flat to his chest, he hit a different spot now and it had you gasping, how deep he hit. 

“You can take it,” He encouraged, rolling your hips again with his hands. For a moment, the feel of him inside you was so intense, spots clouded your vision, “That’s it,” He said when he felt you begin to bounce on him without his assistance, “Good girl. Keep your eyes on me.”

He reached a hand to the apex of your thighs, circling your clit, and you very nearly folded in half at the sensation, but Robby caught you with his other hand, “Keep moving those hips or I’ll stop.”

It was supposed to be you who was in control, but as soon as he had filled you up, all ability to think had left you. The effect he had on you was all consuming. It was unfair, really. Whimpering, you continued rolling your hips, the two of you moaning in sync as you did.

Eventually, Robby sat up, his hands coming to your back to keep you in his lap, “I think it’s time I take over, hm?” He asked softly and kissed you when you nodded, breathless.

You lifted off of him, both of you hissing at the loss and then Robby directed you to lie flat on your stomach. “Up just a little?” He murmured, using a hand to pull your hips up just slightly at an angle, “There you go, good girl.”

Fisting his cock, he leaned down so he could taste you, licking long stripes from your clit to the ends of your folds and you moaned, fisting the bed sheets. 

Your breathing caught when he pushed a finger into you and you heard him sigh from behind you. “Fuck me,” He murmured more to himself than to you.

Finally, he pushed himself into you and then leaned over you, pushing you both flat against the mattress. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, not to choke, but the suggestion that he could was there and your stomach tightened.

“I want you to come first,” He whispered in your ear as he started to rock back and forth, effortlessly hitting that spot that made you dizzy with pleasure. The movement created friction from the bed sheets to your clit and you moaned, “Think you can do that for me, angel?”

You hummed in response, “Already close.” You managed.

He quickened his pace only slightly, but enough that the rhythm had every one of your muscles tightening, coiling for release, “Oh, I can feel how close you are,” He groaned, your walls tightening around him, “Come on, sweetheart, just a little more.”

You rutted your hips further into the mattress as he rocked into you, creating as much friction as possible, and then you were coming undone. Robby’s arms tightened around you as if to anchor you as your muscles contracted repeatedly and he whispered how good you are, how pretty, all the while still rocking his hips into you.

As you came down from your orgasm, he quickened his thrusts, pushing into you harder and faster until he was quickly pulling out of you, ropes of cum releasing on your ass and back.

He collapsed to the side of you, both of you breathing hard as you turned to look at each other. You smiled softly at him, eyes drooping with exhaustion now that the rush of your climax had begun to fade.

He threaded a hand through the hair at the nape of your neck and pulled you to him, kissing you tenderly, “Don’t move.”

Once he had cleaned you up, he guided you back to the shower. Back under the water, he silently turned you so he could resume massaging your shoulders and neck.

“Gonna put me to sleep,” You said after a few minutes under the gentle assault of his fingers.

“That’s the idea.”

You whined, “But it’s been so long, don’t you want a round two?”

He chuckled behind you, “You need to sleep first, you’re running on fumes and spite.”

You smirked, “I have enough of both to make you come again.”

“Tempting,” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, “But no.” He turned off the shower and grabbed a towel to wrap around you, “Bed. Now.”

“Buzzkill.” You teased as you dried yourself off, slipping into a clean t-shirt and panties before sliding between the sheets. 

Robby joined you shortly after and the two of you faced each other in bed. Your eyes were closed and you listened to the sound of his breathing, he took a deep inhale before speaking again, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I have a feeling your phone’s gonna start ringing very early tomorrow. I don’t want you talking to them before we’ve had a chance to talk.”

You sighed and blinked your eyes open again. The room was dark, but you could make out the shape of him, the soft glint of his eyes as they watched you. His hand rested on your hip, his thumb rubbing circles at the bare skin between your panties and t-shirt.

“What would you have me do?” You asked softly, “Tell them to get fucked?”

“You should tell them you don’t have the money.”

“But I do have the money.”

“When was the last time you gave Tommy money, hm?”

You sighed, “Last year.”

“How much?”

“Three grand.”

“And what did he do with it?” You were quiet, so he answered for you, “He gambled it all away in two weeks, if I remember correctly.”

“This is different, it’s for a solid, tangible item that he needs—“

“Yeah, a car he fucking needs and that he hasn’t been taking care of. He has no fucking reason to because he knows you’ll swoop in to save him whenever he needs it.”

Your chin wobbled and you were thankful the darkness must have covered the hurt look on your face, “You do realize,” You said slowly, focusing on making sure your voice didn’t shake, “That this is all I have? That I have no worth to them if I can’t… If I can’t be the one to fix things?”

“Baby, what I’m trying to tell you is that you’ll never win them that way.” He said gently, “You’ve been cleaning up their messes for, what? Twenty years now? Have you gotten what you want yet? Do they respect you? Love you? Are they gentle with you or do they keep trying to see how many pieces they can break you into?”

You flinched, “That’s a fucked up thing to say to me.” You said quietly.

You heard him sigh and he pulled you closer to him, a silent apology. He didn’t want to hurt you, but it was frankly exhausting watching the way your family continued to take advantage of you.

“What was it your therapist said? About your mom? About your brother?”

You took a shaky inhale, “That they’ve been like this their whole lives and have never tried to change. So my continued efforts to help them change are not only in vein they just end up damaging me instead.” 

Robby said nothing, but rubbed your back as he waited. Waited for you to hear what you’d just said, what your therapist had been saying, what he had been saying all day. You deserved better than this from them, God knew, but you would never get it. And it would destroy you the more you kept trying.

You bit your lip, “Fuck.” He heard the tears in the back of your throat as you said it. The realization hitting you all at once, the one you knew but had been trying your best to avoid confronting 

He kissed your hair, “Don’t give him that money,” He murmured, “Take care of yourself for once.”

You pushed your face into his neck and sighed, “Okay.”

“I’ll talk to them if you need me to.”

“No,” You said quickly, “No, I can do it.”

He tenderly kissed all over your face, and then finally, kissed your lips, long and slow and he hoped full of as much love as he felt, “You’re very brave, you know?” He said softly.

You smiled, “Thank you.”

Robby pressed one last kiss to your mouth before tucking you under his chin, “Now, get some sleep, sweetheart.”

[rr-after-dark]

"human resources" - dr. michael "robby" robinavitch x reader

kinktober 2025 day 18: size kink

Summary: After finding Dr. Robby’s Tinder profile with a suspiciously large outline in his shorts, your friends make a bet to see who can get definitive proof of his big dick -- and you, despite being wildly in love with him, agree to participate.

Tags/Notes: workplace shenanigans ft. santos, whitaker, javadi, mohan, king (i chose the pic with her on purpose), background mohabbot, slow burn-ish, mutual pining, first time together, fingering and oral (f), unprotected piv (discussed), size kink obviously, loootsss of marks (bruises, hickeys, scratches), some mention of minor blood from said marks

Content: i mean the whole thing is kinda sexual harassment. everyone has fun but that doesn’t change that it would be very naughty to do something like this!

A/N: thank you all for being so nice about me getting sick and having to delay this, but hey i locked in and actually got it finished!

Word Count: 11.0k (oops)

not proofread properly bc it would've taken so long

The moment your lunch break starts, Trinity yanks you into an on-call room, where Mel, Victoria, Samira, and Whitaker have all also been dragged during a rare moment during the day when you can all leave the floor at once. It’s dark inside and it feels suspiciously like a gathering of cult members. Ever since you found out the six of you lived in the same building (which, yes, half the staff lives in because it’s the cheapest spot close to the hospital), you’ve been a group, even now that Samira’s off living with her knight in shining scrubs.

Trinity looks between you seriously, her phone screen illuminating her face from below like a horror movie villain about to give you the rules for a torture game. She announces seriously, “Guys, I have crucial intel.”

“Alright, get on with it,” Samira sighs. “Some of us have work to do and waiting in here has already taken up half my break.”

Trinity draws a deep breath and holds up her phone, showing off the screen in an arc to let everyone get a good look. “Dennis’ and my other roommate sent us these screenshots last night. I guess Robby has his settings so nobody who has his number can see it, but she did.”

You huddle around the phone as she swipes through a series of pictures, each one of your attending (and your best friend), Robby. A Tinder profile. As her thumb swipes across the screen, all of you ask questions over each other: He owns a motorcycle? And a real suit? Oh my god, is he shirtless there? Wait, he plays basketball?

While they gawk and laugh, you’re stuck on the bio that makes you smile: I’m a doctor. Not in a hot way. In an ‘I’m in therapy and you probably should be too if you want to date me’ way. Soft spot for puppies, babies, and good beer. My best friend forced me to make this when he got a girlfriend so that I wouldn’t be a third wheel. Guess I’m looking for my fourth wheel. Someone to stabilize me.

Victoria’s been standing there slack-jawed for the longest. As the baby of the group, she’s always surprised by everything. “I just can’t believe Dr. Robby is on dating apps.”

Trying not to get pathetically jealous at the idea, you reason, “I mean, he’s single. He’s attractive.”

Samira snickers, “Don’t they have an age limit on that app to protect seniors or something?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s not that old.”

“And you’re one to talk,” Dennis points out. “Dr. Abbot isn’t exactly young.”

“He’s a decade younger than Robby,” she replies. “Robby’s so old I didn’t think he could even download an app without help. He asked me to convert something to a PDF for him the other day. I find the idea that he’d meet someone from an app…charming. The way a cat trapped in a tree is cute.”

Mel crosses her arms over her chest and physically turns away from Trinity’s phone. She huffs out, “Guys, this is so inappropriate.”

Trinity glares. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s sort of my whole thing,” she cuts back. Then she nudges you and asks for backup, “C’mon, you know this is wrong.”

But you’re way too intrigued to agree with your roommate. You shrug and say, “It’s a public profile. Someone was bound to find it eventually, right?”

Mel scoffs and shakes her head. “Et tu?”

Trinity groans and makes Mel turn back around with a pointed look. She goes on, “Guys, the intel isn’t that he has a Tinder.” She zooms in on the picture of him with Dr. Abbot on a basketball court, Robby jumping to dunk the ball. You want to lick the sweat from his hairy chest. Trinity shoves her finger at the screen. “Look at this hog he’s packing. Dr. Robby has a giant dick.”

You take a closer look at the outline visible in his slinky athletic shorts. No way. You scoff and shake your head; the idea that a human man could have a dick that big seems outright ridiculous. In years of practicing medicine and being a sexually active adult, you’ve never seen one that would compare. So you shrug your shoulders up and awkwardly rush out, “That could be a water bottle or something.”

Victoria, wide eyes locked to the screen, chimes in, “Or- or just a shadow. The lighting.”

“Yeah, sure, or a massive fucking cock.”

Dennis, the reddest of everyone (he once told you about an absolutely mortifying sex dream he had about topping Robby), hisses, “Trinity, he’s our boss!”

“So?”

You step in, too. “So what are we even supposed to do with this information?”

“Well we all know what you’re going to do with it,” she says to you with a knowing, wicked grin. “You’re going to fantasize about how it would feel to take such a-”

“Trinity!” You slap your hand over her mouth. “If you bring up my crush on him one more time, I’m going to start paging you on every single bowel disimpaction that comes into the ER for the next six months. I’m working on getting over it!”

“Here’s what I’m proposing,” Trinity says seriously. She’s such a ringleader it’s not even funny. This is her circus and the rest of you are definitely her monkeys. “I say we all put in some money and the first person to get definitive proof that Dr. Robby’s packing gets the whole pool.”

“Absolutely not,” Mel says right away. She’s so serious that she shoves out of the on-call room and back to work. She never wants to play in the circus.

The rest of you stay put, though. Dennis mutters, “How much money?”

“This is high stakes,” Samira reasons. “A hundred each.”

“You’re only saying that because you have the best chances,” Victoria cuts in. “Dr. Abbot probably sees his dick every time they go to the gym together.”

“No outside interference,” Trinity adds immediately. “I like the sound of $100 each. That’s a pool of $500. Sounds pretty fair for the task at hand.”

Dennis wrinkles his eyebrows. “What if nobody does it?”

“Then we all lose out on $500.”

To a group of poor twenty-somethings, that’s pretty damn convincing.

“I’m definitely in,” Samira starts. If Trinity is the ringleader, Mohan’s the strongman. “Even if Jack can’t help, I’m smarter than the rest of you.”

Dennis punches her on the arm; he’s the group’s contortionist, always able to bend himself into ridiculous situations somehow. “Me too. I’m the only one with access to the men’s showers.”

You argue, “Then you should put up $150. That’s an unfair home field advantage.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other girls that makes Whitaker balk.

“Okay, yeah, I may also have a penis, but I have the distinct disadvantage of being scared shitless of Robby, unlike Samira and Santos.” Then he shoves an accusatory finger in your direction. “If anything, you have an advantage because Robby already wants to fuck you.”

You shove him in the chest. “He does not!”

“Ow, first of all.” He shakes his head and says, “How about we go no-holds-barred? Samira can use Abbot, I can use my Y chromosome, you can use your powers of seduction. Whatever.”

Victoria pouts. She’s the tightrope walker, always trying to balance the line of appropriate and otherwise. “And what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Psychological warfare,” Trinity suggests. “That’s what I’m planning.”

Samira offers, “Maybe just beg?”

“Jesus, fine,” Victoria sighs. “I’m in, I guess.”

All eyes turn in your direction. “How about you, Mrs. Robinavitch?”

And your role in this circus of idiot doctors? Well, you’re just the clown who’s been nursing a big fat crush on her attending for two years. The idea of seeing Dr. Robby naked is too appealing for you to resist. So you present your hand to the center of the circle and sigh, “I’m in.”

The bet gets out of hand right away, not that this sort of thing could ever be under control. The six of you – Mel’s invited mostly because she’s your roommate and already knows, though she’s made her disapproval patently clear – meet for beers after a long shift the following Friday. Samira clears her throat and breaks the silence, “Do any of you sure-to-be losers have anything to announce to the group?”

Trinity pulls out her phone and dramatically sighs. “Well, I really thought I had it. I made a Tinder profile of a very respectable, almost-age-appropriate lady and matched with him. Paid for the goddamn Super Like and everything.”

Victoria’s jaw detaches from her maxilla. “You catfished him?”

Trinity looks honestly offended. “Only a little!”

Dennis gawks. “Whose pictures did you use?”

“My mom’s.”

“Seriously?!” Even Samira’s in disbelief over that. “Did you at least tell her?”

“It’s not like she’ll ever find out,” Trinity reasons. “Her and my dad have been together since the Dark Ages. They’d never be on Tinder. And I used a fake name. She’s just the prettiest woman over 40 I know.”

“You’re fucked up for that,” Dennis says with an admonishing shake of his head. Then he sips his beer and presses, “So how did it go between Robby and your not mom? No luck?”

“Obvioulsy not,” she explains. “He told me in, like, the third message that he’s looking for something serious and would only have sex with someone he loves. Like, apropos of nothing. Old people are weird; I don’t get him at all.”

You swallow hard. “That’s sweet, though.”

She scrunches her nose. “Is it?”

Victoria giggles, about one cocktail too deep, “Would you rather find out our boss is a total man whore?”

“Actually, yeah,” Trinity laughs. “It’s kind of sad someone his age is still looking to settle down.”

“Hey,” you stop her, “that’s actually mean, Trin. Robby’s a good man and he deserves to be happy.”

“Sorry, forgot it’s rude to insult someone’s boyfriend right in front of them.”

Samira shakes her head and tuts then, feeling merciful on your behalf, “Poor showing, Santos. I expected better from our leader.”

“Give me another week.”

“Not if I beat you to it,” she replies with a grin. Then she nudges you with her elbow and says, “C’mon, Jack wants us to go to dinner with Robby.”

It’s not an unusual invitation – the four of you get dinner a few times a month – but tonight it catches the attention of everyone else. 

Dennis protests, only half joking, “Woah, woah, you can’t bring her if it’s going to turn into an orgy thing where she gets a quick shot at the win.”

As your cheeks turn pink, you argue, “I thought it was a no-holds-barred game, Whitaker. Your idea, remember?”

Samira gives you a conspiratorial look. “What do you say, babe, wanna go ask our boys to drop their pants in the middle of the restaurant?”

Pretending not to be as embarrassed as you are, you giggle, “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“This is so unfair,” Dennis pouts.

“Start following him into the shower, then.” Samira smiles and links her arm with yours as you get ready to walk away. “Calm down; she’s always our go-to fourth wheel. No special advantage tonight.”

“Tonight, he did that thing where he touched my lower back when he opened the door for me,” you bemoan to Mel late that night, both sitting on her bed as you stare at your laptops. “Have you ever noticed how big his hands are?”

“Can’t say I have.”

You shut your laptop dramatically. “Seriously, how am I supposed to recover from that?”

Mel shrugs like she always does. “Ask him out.”

“I can’t. He’s my boss.”

“He’s probably waiting for you to do it,” she reasons. “It would be inappropriate for him to ask you, but not necessarily the other way around. Provided you aren’t asking in exchange for any benefits in the workplace.” Then she gives you a little mischievous grin that only you and Langon are ever privy to. “Benefits besides making out in on-call rooms, of course.”

The next series of attempts comes from Samira. She decides to use her one trump card, enlisting Jack’s help. He finds the whole thing hysterical because he’s a feral child just like his girlfriend, so he agrees. Trinity insists on adding a caveat to the rules: The picture has to be on the better’s phone, taken by the better, explicitly ruling out Jack’s involvement beyond being a co-conspirator. Samira agrees and insists it’ll be no problem.

So, for two weeks, every time Robby and Jack hang out, Samira comes up with excuses to tag along and shoot her shots. She goes to the gym with them and ‘accidentally’ walks into the men’s locker room on two separate occasions, both times catching Robby after the shower but with his towel already on.

On a Thursday night all have off, you’re unfortunate enough to witness one of the efforts firsthand. Samira invited you over to watch the Penguins game with her and Robby (since the two of you hate sports and she’ll be bored out of her mind otherwise).

After three beers, Robby excuses himself to the bathroom. Only fifteen seconds later, Samira stands up, gives a salute to you both, and whispers, “Wish me luck.”

Jack grins like the dumbass he is. “Good luck, honey.”

As she walks away, you shake your head and turn to him. “It doesn’t bother you that your girlfriend is obsessed with taking a picture of your best friend’s dick?”

“Nope,” he replies confidently. There’s a cool, clear ‘she knows what she has at home’ energy to the reply. Then he puts on a meddling smirk and akss, “Does it bother you that she’s going to see Robby’s dick before you get to when she wins?”

“Jack!” You toss a pillow at him hard, causing him to spill his beer slightly as he laughs. “Y’know, it’s hard enough dealing with the teasing from the other residents. I don’t need it from you.”

“Hey, I have to listen to Robby going on and on about you all the time; it’s not easy for me, either.”

Your eyes widen into planets, but before you can ask the million clarifying questions you need to, Samira’s back, wearing a disappointed grimace. Looking solemn, she glances between you and Jack and shakes her head. “No dice.”

She tucks under Jack’s arm and he kisses her forehead. “You’ll get him next time, slugger.”

Robby emerges from the bathroom two minutes later with his face tomato red, unable to look Samira in the eyes as he takes his spot next to you once more. He mutters, “I miss anything important?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you reply honestly. Pitying his blush, you touch his thigh and ask, “Can I get you another beer?”

“Please.”

Trinity shakes her head in disappointment once Samira recounts her latest attempt in a line of failures. The three of you and Javadi are at the nurse’s station during shift change, making sure charts are in order as the night shift begins to filter in. Trinity sighs, “Maybe I should just pants him. Say it’s a prank or something.”

You snicker, “That would definitely get you sent straight to HR.”

Victoria puts her head in her hands; she hasn’t even come up with a plan yet and it’s getting to her. “This whole thing is going to get us all sent to HR.”

“Not if you never try anything,” Trinity replies.

Victoria glares. “You’re just trying to get me to back down so you get the money.”

Trinity raises her hands and laughs. “Guilty.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Robby’s tugging off his trauma gown with a frown on his lips. He’s splatterned in blood, enough that it’s gone between his mask and gloves and gown. He’ll need a shower. From across the ED, the four of you watch as Dennis rushes through a patient handover and hustles down the hall. Shooting a knowing look over his shoulder at the four of you, Dennis follows Robby into the showers.

You whisper, “Oh, god.”

“I’m gonna miss the little guy,” Trinity says seriously, shaking her head, “especially his share of the rent.”

Victoria sighs, “He made the best coffee.”

When you’re all finished and ready to leave, you and the other girls wait for Dennis by the Pitt’s doors, trying to be inconspicuous as you await his status report.

Dennis emerges, walking fast, expecting you all to meet his brisk pace. You have to practically jog to keep up until you’re a block from the hospital, well out of ear shot of anyone else. Finally, he stops abruptly and swings around to scan his periphery. His eyes are trained on his shoes. He hisses, “Rumor confirmed. Huge.”

Your cheeks burn; blush is becoming a constant state for you thanks to this stupid bet. Trinity’s mouth falls open and she shoves his shoulder hard. “Show us!”

“I didn’t get a picture.”

The whole group groans in disappointment (besides Mel, who sounds relieved). Victoria puts her hand on her hips. “Then you didn’t confirm anything. You could be lying.”

“No way I went through that mortification for nothing. I saw it.”

“Doesn’t count, Dennis,” Trinity replies with an unsympathetic shrug. “We’re talking about $500 here. Hard proof you can share with the class or nothing.”

He frowns and offers, “I can tell you that it’s the size of my goddamn forearm and he has a birthmark the size of a quarter on his hip; that doesn’t count for anything?”

Samira claps him on the back and suppresses her laugh. “You’ll have to try again, Whitaker.”

You aren’t really planning on participating. No matter how much you get annoyed at the amount of crap you get for it, you really do like Robby. In fact, it’s a lot past ‘like.’ It’s love. He’s the person you go to for advice, for jokes, for reassurance. For silence. He’s the first person you text in the morning and the last at night. You don’t know exactly how or when it happened, but you gradually went from ‘Robby’s favorite resident’ to ‘Robby’s favorite person’ over the last few years. And that relationship, whatever it is, matters a hell of a lot to you. You don’t want to damage it, even over that much money.

And then your bank account goes into the negative.

You’d run the numbers wrong on your budget for the month, a handful of bills come through at once, and suddenly you’re staring back at a deficit of more than a hundred dollars. All of a sudden, the $500 your stupid-ass friends have been dangling like a carrot in front of your nose has some real appeal.

You know that, for you, there’s really only one option. You could never, in a million years, get away with any of the sneakiness the rest of them are trying. And, yeah, sure, maybe you could go for seduction the way that everyone is prodding for you to. But you’re way too ashamed to do that for a whole host of reasons.

All you can possibly do is beg.

So you spend the whole day screwing up your courage to nut up and ask. You can’t even look at Robby while you work, terrified of the possible outcomes that could roll out in front of you. Of course, there’s the obvious: A visit to HR, fired, tarred and feathered, stripped of your medical future. Most likely, he’ll be mortified and your friendship will be ruined. Possibly, he’ll be flustered and embarrassed and never speak to you again.

Then, worst of all, there’s the idea that this might start something between the two of you. Something you’ve been dancing around for a very, very long time. Something hot and true and real.

What the hell would you do then?

Robby notices. Because of course he notices. He leaves you alone at first, hoping you’ll just corner him and ask whatever it is you’re stewing on. Then he starts avoiding you, too, because he’s wracking his brain for what he must’ve done wrong for you to be like this. He’d made a joke about pandas that hadn’t landed yesterday, but that couldn’t be it. Could it? Maybe it was how he corrected you when you set that broken nose first thing this morning. He hadn’t had his coffee yet. No. You never made a thing about work stuff.

Finally, when he sees you slip into the locker room at the end of your shift, he can’t take it anymore. After a deep breath, he closes the space between you, touches your lower back, and leans in close. “Can we talk for a second?”

You jolt back from him and stare up into his eyes. Shit, you always forget how tall he is when he isn’t doing that thing where he shrinks down to make others more comfortable. “Um, yeah. Is- What’s, ah, what’s up, Robinavitch?”

Robby scowls. “‘Robinavitch’? I don’t think you’ve ever called me that before.”

“First time for everything.” You grimace, shifting from foot to foot, and snatch your backpack from your locker. “Can we, ah, go somewhere else?”

There are a ton of emotions flashing through his eyes. Concern, curiosity, nerves. But all he says is, “Yeah, of course.”

Robby leads you across the Pitt to his office, which is totally barren except for a stack of paperwork on the desk that he clearly has no intention of doing. He flips on the light, draws the blinds, and turns to you seriously. “Alright, sweetheart, what the hell is going on? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

You stick close to the door and stare up at the ceiling tiles, wringing your hands. “Look. Okay. This is gonna be so horrifying, alright? So just…just don’t make fun of me too much. You can make fun of me a little, but not that much, because if you make too much of a thing of it I’m never gonna be able to look you in the eye again and-”

“Woah, hey, it’s alright.” Robby reaches out and touches your elbow, stepping closer to you until you look up at him. He cups your face with one of his agonizingly large hands and you’re so embarrassed it’s unbelievable. “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

“God, please don’t be sincere,” you whine. “You can’t be sweet, sincere, cow-eyed, gorgeous Robby right now, okay? Because I’ll have to go jump off the roof if you look like you care about me when I’m about to say something as stupid as what I’m about to say.”

Carefully, he replies, “But I do care about you.”

“Okay. Fuck. Here goes.” You duck your head, lower your voice, and absolutely ramble out, “Trinity found your Tinder profile a few weeks ago and in one of the pictures it sort of looks like we can see the outline of your dick and she said it looked really big so then we all made a bet to see who could get a picture of it to prove that you’re, um, well-endowed, and we all put in a hundred dollars as a pool for the winner and I know- I know it’s so stupid and so, so wrong, but I could really use that kind of money but more importantly I definitely can’t afford to lose a hundred dollars right now because my bank account is overdrafted which is also mortifying in and of itself to tell you because you really shouldn’t be concerned with my financial wellbeing but the fact of the matter is that I-”

“Wait, wait,” he cuts you off, “you’re telling me that’s what’s been going on the past few weeks? My subordinates have been conspiring to see my dick?”

Reaching a new shade of effervescent pink as yet undiscovered by man, you squeak out, “Yes.”

And then he starts laughing. As you blush so hard that your entire body is burning, he absolutely cracks up – to the point that he’s hiccuping, tears falling, grabbing his stomach. Doubled over, Robby wheezes, “Christ, I was starting to worry I’d have to give Whitaker a talk about how nobody will judge him if he’s gay because he keeps ending up in the shower the same time as me and then running away when he realizes I’m naked. And I’ve been terrified that Jack and Mohan might be planning to invite me for a threesome the way she’s been loitering around me. Thank god.”

Shaky relief floods your body and you mutter. “That…wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I actually don’t know.”

After wiping an amused tear from his cheek, Robby reaches out his hand and commands, “Alright, slugger, give me your phone.”

Shocked out of your mind, you reach into your pocket and present it wordlessly. When you see that he’s going for his waistband, you turn around and cover your eyes like his dick might bite you.

Robby laughs again, this time at your obvious nerves. Not discomfort, though. Nerves. He chuckles, “You don’t get extra money for seeing it in person?”

Gnawing off your lower lip, you whimper, forgetting about the rules in the heat of the moment, “Nope.”

“I’m decent now.” When you turn back, he hands off the phone, screen still open. “Go get your money. Buy me a drink or something as my share of the spoils.”

Then you look at your phone. The syllable falls out before you can stop it. Shocked, breathless. Undeniably turned on. “Oh.”

You stare down at the picture with wide eyes. Your pupils dilate, your throat goes dry, and you can’t deny that heat and wetness collecting between your legs. Yeah, that’s a big fucking cock. Even soft, it has to be eight inches – but, like, real inches, not fantasy porn inches. And thick. Dennis may not have been far off base with his forearm comparison, given that he’s beanbole skinny. That whole ‘thick as a beer can’ thing you’ve read in tons of smut suddenly seems possible if Robby can get even thicker than that when he’s hard.

Jesus Christ.

Yeah, your dildo definitely doesn’t compare to the real thing, no matter how much you’ve fantasized about it while using your toys.

Robby’s amused voice is a little rougher when he asks, “What was that, sweetheart?”

Your head snaps upward hard enough that you hope your neck will break and kill you. “Please don’t tell me I just said that out loud.”

Robby cages you against the door between his forearms. “You definitely did.”

Your eyes fall to his lips. “Robby, I-”

He presses your bodies together. Your chest on his chest. Your thigh slotted between his. The smirk he’s wearing is so hot you start to melt underneath it. You might have a picture of his dick, but he’s holding all the cards. Shit, you can feel his cock through his scrubs against your thigh. He’s not even hard and you can feel how big he is. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’re done. You’re through. Stop the timer, pull the plug, call in the guard.

He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to make eye contact. With you unable to speak, Robby teases, “You what? C’mon, gorgeous, use your words.”

All you can do is whimper.

The sound you make is downright pathetic, but it only encourages Robby. His breath brushes your lips and it feels like he can see your heart beating in your neck. Then he presses his lips to the curve of your ear and murmurs, “God, I’m gonna have so much fun wrecking you.”

It takes you forty five seconds to breathe again. Finally, with Robby pulling back enough to allow you to think, you mutter, “Mel’s outside waiting for me to walk home with her.”

“Of course.” He pulls back the rest of the way, taking a deep breath. When he shakes his head, it’s almost in disbelief – and you realize he wants you. He presses a soft, knowing kiss to your forehead, strokes your cheek with his thumb, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

And he unlocks the door behind you with his arm still around you, the sound shaking you from the stupor of his presence.

After practically sprinting to the hospital exit, you find Mel waiting in your usual spot under an overgrown oak. Gripping her arm hard, you whisper, “I’ve got the picture.”

Her eyes pop out of her head. “What?! Seriously?”

“Yes.”

You start walking, harsh and fast, toward your neighborhood, needing to do something to get this crazy energy out of your body.

She hustles to keep up with your pace. “How?!”

“I told him the truth.”

She squeals like a gossipping cheerleader. “And he took his…manhood out for you?”

“I turned around. He took the picture.”

“Wow. He must really be into you.” Then, catching your elbow to slow your walking, she lowers her voice and asks, “Are you going to send it to everyone?”

“I- I’m not sure.” You roll your eyes and groan, “He was going to kiss me. After I told him. After he took the picture. He said- he basically said that he thinks about me, y’know, like that. So now sending it to the group chat feels like sending  – god dammit – it feels like sending my boyfriend’s nudes, okay? You were right.”

She gives a self-satisfied smirk. “I usually am.”

“But I really need that money, Mel. Like ‘won’t be able to pay my share of the rent’ need it.”

“Ask Dr. Robby for it.” She needles with a cute grin, “Clearly he’ll do anything for you.” At the entrance to your building, she pauses. “Seriously, though, you shouldn’t.”

“He told me I could.”

“Still.”

“I have to think about it.”

“Okay, I guess.”

The six of you sit side-by-side like kids in the principal’s office, cramped into the small office high up in the hospital’s tower. There’s an HR rep across the desk. Robby and Jack are standing behind her, trying really hard not to laugh at your dejected expressions. You can’t blame Mel for snitching about the bet, not when you’d ended up mortified and crying and confused in her arms after the whatever the hell that was with Robby last night. The moment you’d reached your apartment, it all washed over you and turned into a full breakdown of ‘what the fuck.’

When the rep finishes going through what feels like a prosecutorial rundown of charges, she asks over her shoulder, “Dr. Robinavitch, do you feel safe continuing to work with them?”

He outright laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. To him, this whole thing is a ridiculous inconvenience. “Yes. God knows I’ve participated in my fair share of similar betting pools downstairs.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” she groans, already having nightmares about an avalanche of paperwork. She turns back to look at the rest of you. “Doctors, do you understand this was a massive violation of Dr. Robinavitch’s privacy?”

You nod solemnly, tears biting at your eyes. You’ve never been in trouble like this before and you absolutely hate the feeling of it in your gut. “I completely understand. I’m so, so sorry.”

Everyone echoes something similar – except Trinity.

The HR rep picks up on it. She presses, “Dr. Santos?”

It’s not her first time getting a talking to about a bet placed with colleagues. So she scoffs. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s not like Robby hasn’t done the same kind of shit.”

“Again, pretending we didn’t say that.” The rep pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply for a minute. “Obviously, there will have to be consequences. We can’t send the message that this hospital doesn’t care about sexual harassment.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a harsh laugh. “Sexual harassment?”

She turns around and glares. “How else would you describe coworkers trying to take naked pictures of someone?”

“Well, yeah, I guess, but the ED always has this kind of thing happ-”

She cuts him off with a raised hand. “I am begging you all to stop talking before I have to call in Gloria to deal with this mess.”

That shuts everyone up.

For organizing the whole thing, Trinity gets placed on administrative leave without pay for a week, which she grumbles about before realizing she can go on an impromptu vacation. Because of the whole locker room incident, Dennis gets three days without pay. After the gym situation, Samira and Jack earn the same, which doesn’t really seem like a punishment considering they’re shacked up together. Since you at least asked for his consent, you have two days without pay. Because Victoria was too scared to even try, she gets sent home early with a warning. Mel, of course, gets off home free – although she gets put on night shift since they’ll be down Dr. Abbot.

“Are you mad at me?”

After shoving another handful of chocolate into your mouth, you shush Mel and turn up the volume on Bridget Jones Diary. “For the last time, no.”

Not convinced, she reminds you, “The only reason I told HR is because I didn’t want you showing your future boyfriend’s dick off to everyone in the hospital. You’d regret it.”

“I know, Mel,” you reply. It’s been 24 hours and you’ve had sufficient time to fight with her about the whole situation. “Seriously, I’m not mad. I get you, okay? I know you were trying to protect me in your own way. But I will be mad if you talk over the tarts and vicars party. We need to finish this before you leave for your shift.”

Accepting it (you know she’ll ask again soon), Mel reaches into your shared snack bowl and relents, “Okay, okay.”

Right when Colin Firth is about to announce that he likes Renée Zellweger just as she is, there’s a knock on your apartment door. You both ignore it, assuming it’s a package delivery, but a second knock a minute later takes you by surprise. Cutting a look over to Mel, you ask, “Did you get food or something?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “I figured you did.”

“I’ll check it,” you say, unfurling from the blankets and setting the snacks on the coffee table. In your knee-high socks, skimpy pajama shorts, and bralette, you joke, “Hopefully it’s the Mormons again and seeing my exposed skin will send them into a crisis of faith.”

Mel’s laughing until you open the door. Then she mutters something like ‘please Jesus no’ and looks like she’s debating taking the fire escape.

Robby looks really good in casual clothes. The jeans make his thighs look gigantic and, fuck, have his shoulders always been that goddamn broad? The white tee and – Jesus Christ, really? – leather jacket have him looking like a greaser, like one curl should be on his forehead, like you should be dropping to your knees and-

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You try to return your eye contact to an appropriate area and can’t find it in you. You’re obsessed with his arms. The way he’s leaning in your door frame, one hand above his head, elbow against the wood, has his trap bulging into his bicep and then down toward his veiny forearm and- Fuck. And his chest. His chest. Christ alive. His pecs. It’s only when you shut your eyes that you’re able to stammer out, “What are you- I’m, ah- Hi, Robby.”

He touches your cheek to get you to open your eyes. “I’d like it if you started calling me Michael.”

You try out the taste of that on your tongue. “Michael. Alright.”

He smiles at that. You love the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Mind if I come in? Or did you want to keep ogling my tits for a while?”

You startle backwards a few steps and awkwardly gesture to the apartment. “Sorry, ah, yes, of course, come on in.”

When he sees Mel on the couch, he bristles. It’s comforting to see his ridiculous confidence waver for even a second. “You live with Dr. King.”

“I do.”

“Right. I knew that.” He puts on an almost-professional smile and waves, “Hi, Mel.”

She holds the blanket tight around her neck like she’s naked underneath. “Hello, Dr. Robinavitch.”

You give her a wide-eyed, impatient look at her to break her bewilderment and hiss, “Mel, don’t you need to get ready for your shift?”

She scrambles upward, still clinging to the blanket. “Yes, yeah, ah, right, yeah. I’ll, um, I’ll leave you two alone. Out here. And then I’ll be leaving. For the night. Yup.”

Mel disappears into her bedroom, careful to cover her body every step of the way as if Robby would be phased by seeing her in sweats and a sports bra. As if his attention isn’t fixed squarely on you.

Robby’s eyes skate over your body and you’re suddenly agonizingly aware of how little you’re wearing. He smirks again. Fuck that smirk. “I’m a big fan of your outfit.”

You cross your arms over your chest and then stretch your arms out to cover your stomach and then realize that makes your cleavage worse and cross your arms again. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Robby takes your hands in his to stop you trying to hide from him. He kisses your hand and you’re swooning. You didn’t even know what that felt like until now. “I told you I’d see you, didn’t I?”

“That was before our collective scolding.”

“Well, I’m a man of my word.” His hand goes to your neck, holding the back of your head and pressing his thumb over your pulse at once. His hands are so big. Your brain is cloudy with desire and then he makes it so much worse by saying, “I said I wanted to wreck you. I’m here to make good on that.”

Mel emerges from her bedroom in her scrubs and fleece jacket, eyes trained on the floor and cheeks red. She rushes past Robby, who takes half a step back from you. Snatching her keys from the hall table, she announces in an unnaturally high pitch, “Well, it’s time for my shift. See you both, um, later!”

Then she’s gone – forty five minutes early. And there’s a locked door between you, Robby, and the rest of the world.

You’re frozen and Robby thinks it’s too adorable not to take advantage of. He jumps right in, stepping close to put his hands on the slope of your waist, thumb on ribcage and pinkies on your hips, and asks, “So, what’d all your friends think about my dick pic? Sufficiently impressed?”

You bite your lower lip, not yet able to look at him, and admit in a hushed tone, “I didn’t send it to them.”

Robby tilts your chin up and searches your face. “Why not?”

“You know already.”

He leans in close, breath mixing with yours, foreheads touching, and replies, “I need to hear you say it.”

Your lip twitches up into a smirk. He’s as desperate for you as you are for him. That feels fucking good. Finally, you make eye contact – and he’s shocked by the intensity in your expression. He’s never seen you looking possessive. Blood rushes to his cock. You press a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat drum against your palm, and say, “I didn’t send it because you’re mine, Michael. And I don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine.”

The grin that spreads over Robby’s features is heart-fluttering, slow and certain and reaching the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours, huh?”

A tiny bit tentative, you whisper, “If you want me.”

Robby laughs, “If I want you?”

You’d expected your first kiss with Robby to be hungry. For your mutual, long-suffering want to explode over each other and turn into shedding clothes and falling into something frantic and intense, chasing pleasure and needing like nothing else.

But it’s not.

Robby takes a deep breath first, like he needs to gather up his courage to actually press his lips to yours despite all his bravado. Then he gives his head a little shake, laughs softly, and leans in. Both of you are gentle, even as you step up onto your toes to deepen it, even as his slightly shaking hand presses up into the curve of your spine to pull you up closer, even as you let out a breathy moan. It’s a caress more than a claim, an exploration more than an ecstasy, a feather more than a fire.

“I want you the way I want oxygen,” Robby breathes into the wide quiet space after your lips part. He kisses you so softly again and, like he might cry, whispers, “I love you.”

It’s your turn to smile – slow, disbelieving, adoring. “You love me? Really?”

He scoffs and holds you close, eye contact so sweet, “I love you so much I can’t think straight when you’re not on shift with me. I love you so much it makes me outright stupid. It would embarrass me, how much I love you, but it doesn’t because every once in a while you look at me like you might love me too and those moments make my whole life worth living.”

Knees weak and heart thudding, you whimper, “Michael.”

This time, the kiss is what you’d expected. You’re biting his lip and rucking up his shirt and shoving him toward your bedroom while he’s chuckling into your mouth at your obvious and unashamed desire, keeping you balanced, matching your energy as he opens up the door and lets himself be shoved back onto your bed. You situate yourself in his lap and practically rip his jacket off so you can finally sink your teeth into his ridiculously gorgeous arms.

Robby pulls in a sharp breath when you suck a harsh mark into the sensitive hollow of his collarbone, dragging the bruise up his neck with unrelenting suction. “Planning on getting me sent to HR our first day back as a couple?”

You pull off of him and catch your breath. Carefully, you run your thumb over his hand and reply, “Yeah, actually. I wanna do this right. HR, paperwork, the whole thing.”

Robby, smiling a tiny bit, asks, “You’re not worried about what everyone’s going to think?”

“Who cares?” You shrug and tell him, “All the other residents have been telling me to ask you out since we started. Even Jack wants us to get together. We’ve been working together while eye-fucking for two years; I don’t think much’ll change.”

“Except how close the administration’s gonna be watching you,” he replies. “I don’t want you to regret-”

You cross your arms over your chest and say, “Michael David Robinavitch, if you’re seriously interrupting our first time together to talk about the boring logistical details of our relationship, I’m going to break up with you.”

“Right, priorities,” he agrees, hands travelling up to your bralette. “Let’s focus on getting you naked.”

“That’s more like it, cap.”

“First, though,” he says softly, pleading, “I want you to say it back.”

It’s as easy as a heartbeat. You kiss him again and murmur against his lips, “I love you.” You drag your bralette up and over your body, leaving you bare-chested and blushing. As Michael’s black eyes devour the sight, you repeat, “I love you.” Then you slip off his lap, lay back on the bed, and coax him to come with, caging you between his strong arms. Before he can descend and devour, you tilt your face upward, kiss him gently, and say one more time, “I love you.”

Robby shoves his hand into your pajama shorts with no hesitation or pretense, wanting to feel you so bad he doesn’t even bother taking the clothes off first. As his fingers part your lips, dragging slickness up to your clit, he groans delightedly, “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

With a soft moan, you explain, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You shimmy to push your shorts off, kicking them away. Robby roughly shoves your legs apart right away. He’s reluctant to remove his fingers, but he’s devastatingly hungry for your pussy on his tongue. He moves to the end of your bed and, just to make you shriek out a laugh, grabs you by the ankles and yanks you down, the fabric of your comforter turning into a sled toward his body. Then he smiles wide, shakes his head in disbelief, and praises, “You’re so gorgeous it’s almost offensive.”

You roll your eyes and fail to suppress a sweet, shy smile. “Thank you.”

Then he drops to his knees, muttering something about getting down to business. Reverently, he kisses and licks your inner thighs, going between sucking marks on your skin and soothing them with his tongue. Once he’s got you squirming and silently begging, he inhales your scent deeply, hovers close to your drenched sex, and groans, “I’ve been wondering how you taste for years. Can’t believe I finally get to find out.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grins and ghosts the breath of his words across your clit, “And I bet you taste like heaven.”

The moment his tongue makes contact, you both moan. His vibrates up your spine, turning yours into more of a breathy gasp. He latches onto your clit, then, refusing to tease when he finally has exactly what he wants. Propped up on your elbows, you watch as he greedily devours you, eyes closed and face relaxed with rapture. You’ve never seen him look so stress-free. Like your pussy’s the one thing in the world that can silence his racing mind.

He might not admit it out loud, but that’s the truth. Your tartness on his tongue has his cock leaking through his boxers. He’s rutting against your mattress like a horny dog, imagining how ridiculously good it’s going to be to finally slip his cock inside of you. That dizzying goal combined with the perfection of your taste has him dialed in, focused on your pleasure more than he focuses on most procedures.

He curls one finger slowly inside of you, thrilled out of his fucking mind when you groan louder and buck your hips against his mouth for more. His hands are huge and they’ve always been an object of your secret lust. When he adds a second finger, there’s a slight sting, but it’s quickly eased by his tongue lapping at your clit, flat and confident and accompanied by rhythmic gentle sucking. The pace he sets is indulgent, the first course in a long meal he wants to savor every morsel of.

When Robby feels your orgasm starting to tighten, he slows down. Teases it out. His fingers turn from curling to massaging, firm and insistent against your G-spot like only a doctor could. He makes sure to spread them wide, scissoring them, letting your muscles clamp and stretch. When your wetness soaks into his beard, he finally pulls off, just lightly kissing your inner thighs and breathing you in.

Orgasm-hazy and needy, you manage to stammer out, “I have an IUD, by the way.”

He looks up from between your legs with a mischievously raised eyebrow. Fuck, hes so handsome with his lips all shiny from spit and wetness. “Are you trying to tell me to fuck you raw?”

After a second, you nod bashfully.

“That’s very good to know, kitten,” he praises warmly. Then he pushes his fingers back inside you and moves his mouth down toward your clit again.

Sounding whinier than you’ve ever heard yourself, you demand, “Michael, please, just fuck me. Need you.”

He kisses your clit tenderly, like he’s greeting an old friend, and tells you, sternly and with no room for debate, “I’ll fuck you when I’ve got you taking three of my fingers. You’ve gotta cum one more time.”

You thrash against his hand and groan, “Christ, I want you so bad. I can take it. I swear I can.”

Still curling his first two fingers back toward himself, he gives you a look so perfectly condescending it makes you clench around him. “Trust me, baby, I love your enthusiasm, and it’s taking a hell of a lot of effort to resist you, but I’ve had this dick long enough to know you need to be good and ready.” He kisses your inner thigh and presses his thumb to your clit, which starts to make your thoughts evaporate again. Then he assures you, “I promise I’m gonna fuck you so hard and so deep that you’re gonna forget anyone else has ever fucked you before. Got it?”

You stretch your arms up behind your head and sigh dreamily, “I guess I shouldn’t complain about having a boyfriend who insists on making me cum twice before he puts his dick in me.”

“Twice when I’m feeling selfish,” he corrects seriously. “This is me rushing to get inside of you. When I’m taking my time, I’ll get four or five out of you first – bring out some toys when my fingers get tired – so you’ll be gushing wet and making the dumbest little noises for me. Turn off that big beautiful brain of yours.”

“You say that like it’s a promise.”

“It is.”

And then he’s back to eating your pussy. You’re still so sensitive from your last orgasm that he goes agonizingly gently, just using the tip of his tongue light as a feather to tease you. He holds you tight to his face by the hips so you can’t squirm away, no matter how much the overwhelming pleasure makes you thrash against the mattress. It’s his fingers that keep you grounded to reality, sloppy wet and firm and knowing. It’s like the beginning of your residency when he guided you through everything slow and steady, paying special attention to you and your potential. He holds your pleasure in his hands with expert precision.

Your orgasm slams through you as soon as he adds the third finger, stretching you comfortably open and pushing you forward. He’s holding you up now, your legs on his shoulders as your back arches away from him and your hands try to find anywhere they can get purchase, tugging his hair and beard and scratching his shoulders as your thighs spasm and ache. Your moans are high and stupid, thoughtless as ecstasy spreads out in front of you.

But Robby doesn’t let up, fingers branding into your hips as his other hand keeps working you open through the brutal aftershocks. The brush of his beard against your sensitive flesh has you seeing stars. Tears sting at your waterline and his lips wrap around your clit harder than ever, refusing to give you any relief from the lingering orgasm that’s bordering on painful now. It’s only when your moans turn to gasps and your tears actually crest over onto your cheeks that he detaches.

Robby blows cool air on your pussy and rubs his thumbs tenderly over your outer thigh as he slowly withdraws his fingers. Your whole body shudders from the stimulation and you feel so fucking good it’s like you’re high on the drug of your newly minted boyfriend.

He gradually kisses up your hip, over your stomach, between your breasts, and then finally along your neck to your lips, where he softly sucks your lower lip and praises, “Good job, angel. You ready or can I bring you water or something?”

You kiss him back for a minute, lapping up the taste of yourself on his mouth. He still has his pants on but you can feel that his cock is agonizingly hard and straining against them. So you press your forehead to his, take a deep breath, and nod seriously. “I need you to fuck me.”

Robby grins, pupils dilating and heart slamming. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”

“Probably about as many times as I’ve used a dildo and been disappointed it’s not your cock.” At your response, Robby laughs as he steps off the bed, rummaging through his discarded jacket. He pulls a small bottle of lube from one of the pockets and it makes you snicker. “You were that certain I’d fuck you?”

“Yeah, pretty damn sure.” Then he ditches the small talk, moving back to the edge of the bed like a lion and shoving your legs apart again. He uncaps the bottle and trains his gaze between your thighs. “There’s my greedy pussy. So pretty for me clenching around nothing. Fucking begging.” He squirts cold lube on your hot, overstimulated cunt and you hiss in a sharp breath that makes him chuckle darkly with arousal. “So sensitive, too. Fuck, you’re perfect. Need my cock, don’t you?”

You’re such a sniveling mess that you can’t even respond, just chasing your hips toward his cock to silently beg.

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, stilling your hip with his hand and spreading your legs as wide as they can possibly go. He lines up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance, taking a second to memorize the image as he murmurs,  “Gonna take care of you, sweet girl. Don’t you worry. Just breathe for me.”

No amount of preparation could prepare you for the size of his cock. It doesn’t hurt because you’re ridiculously wet and he took his damn time, but the stretch is immense. Like sinking deeper into a yoga pose that makes you groan and curl your toes. A release. Your head snaps backwards and sweat beads on your forehead as he slowly, carefully, lovingly thrusts inside.

Robby touches your cheek and makes sure, “Is this okay? Not too much?”

You gaze up at him with eyes so full of love and lust Robby’s half-sheathed cock twitches inside the heat of your body. Unable to come up with anything else, you just whisper, “Perfect.”

Robby smirks and nods. He’d tell you how you fit him like a glove, how your wetness and tightness has him on the edge already, how you’re everything, but if he opened his mouth right now the string of high-pitched moans would be absolutely pathetic. So he leans down to kiss you, pushing your legs further back and up so he can fit himself between your hips. As his lips meet yours, you moan into the kiss, toes curling as his cock finally reaches into you as deep as he can, maybe three quarters of him piercing you.

Robby gradually draws his cock back and pushes forward again. With a trembling breath and a burning kiss, he groans, “God, you feel fucking incredible.”

Breathing hard, you grip his hair and nestle into the crook of his neck and cry, “So good, Michael. Your cock’s amazing. Like you were made for me. Feels incredible.”

His whole body shudders with pleasure and delight. “You can’t say things like that, baby.”

“Why not?”

He scoffs, one hand going down to play with your pebbled nipple. “I’d like to fuck you more than thirty seconds before I cum prematurely.”

That makes you bite your lower lip and eye him carefully. You file away ‘Robby totally has a praise kink’ for another day because you can’t put any coherent thoughts together as he manages to get deeper and deeper inside of you with every thrust. You didn’t even know your body could feel like this – loose, warm, brilliantly full. If he pulled out, you’d feel incomplete somehow. He’s christening a new version of you to the point that you’re starting to understand that whole ‘ruining you for other men’ thing. His cock is everything. It’s divine and electric at once, a symphony strumming from your cunt up your abdomen, rooted by his greedy hands on your tits and his mouth worshipping along your neck and collarbones.

Then he drops his thumb down to your clit.

You’re sparking toward another orgasm before you can even process the gesture. He grins into your neck as your back arches and your cunt clamps down. With your walls stretched so taut, each pulse of your pussy is sharp as a rubber band snapping, intense and vibrant. When you cum, you lose any control over your body, becoming something primal and raw and animal. Fingers digging into his flesh. Teeth sharp and violent over his shoulders. Legs locked around his ass. There aren’t any thoughts but the drunkenness of his touch, his body pressing down on yours, his claiming grasp everywhere. 

As you shatter into aftershocks, overstimulating and delicious, you’re being so loud, moans and slapping skin and gushing cunt, that Robby probably should slow his fucking or muffle your mouth, but he’s addicted to the sounds. It’s the litany of music from your body that has his balls tightening and him grunting, “Where do you want it?”

All you can do is tighten your thighs around him and stare up with lust-ridden eyes, whining almost constantly, a silent plea for what you want.

Robby holds your face by the jaw, keeping you trained forward to look right at him despite how glassy and dazed your expression is. “If you want me to cum inside of you, you’re gonna have to ask nicely.”

You nod slowly, trying to come up with words when your thoughts are sex-fueled molasses. It takes another few seconds for you to come up with one idea that rings true enough to break through the fog: “I’m yours, Michael. Please.”

“That’s right,” he growls, hands around your ankles to keep you in the mating press as he shoves deep inside of you, cum bursting forward. You watch, rapt, as his mouth falls open into a precious little O and his eyes pinch tight and his right hand smashes back onto the wall to keep him upright. “Fuck. Fuck.” He falls forward and kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance: Desperate and owning. His voice is broken and raspy. “God, I love you. I can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

You just whimper into his neck, wrapping your arms around him and easing your legs down as much as they can with his body still between them. Not so subtly kissing and licking his sweat, you murmur sweetly, “Love you, Michael. Will you stay the night?”

“Of course,” he replies easily. “Stay here; let me get you cleaned up and comfortable. Is it alright if I rummage around to get you something to drink too?”

You nod and hum happily, “You’re an angel.”

After pressing a few more kisses to your lips and cheeks and forehead, Robby stands up, stretches out his arms, chuckles to himself, and disappears into your kitchen and then your adjacent bathroom. You drift contentedly in the blissed-out cloud of your brain, eyes gently closed and limbs heavy, until he returns. You barely notice his presence until you feel a cool washcloth wiping the beading sweat from your forehead and chest and then trailing down between your legs. Robby listens to your heavy, even, satisfied breaths as he works, switching to massaging the bruises his rough hands have left over your hips and his greedy mouth left along your thighs.

Finally, he sits next to you on the bed and softly rubs your shoulder. “Drink some of this for me.”

“Mmm.”

You barely open your eyes as you take the chilled blue Gatorade from him, chugging down half of it before offering it back so that he can drink it too. Then he gives you a tangy bright kiss and says, “C’mon, I’m pretty sure it’s bedtime.”

With a big stretch of your arms over your head, you swing your legs off the bed, kiss him hard, and stand. He slips back into the bathroom as you grab a pair of shorts and tank top to put on after you’ve showered or at least cleaned up some.

“Jesus, sweetheart, you’ve got me looking like I went ten rounds with a boxer,” he whistles low from the bathroom. “You’re awfully cute for a vampire, you know that?”

“I’m sure the marks aren’t that bad,” you reply with an eye roll, joining him through the doorway. Under the real lights, though, you realize with horror that you’ve not only given him hickeys and bruises but you’ve broken his skin in more than one place – both with your teeth and with your nails. There are mean bites all around his neck and down his shoulders, scratches over his arms and upper back, beads of blood mingling among the marks. Tears spring up into your eyes when you realize you’ve caused him pain that he’s going to be carrying around for a week or more. “Oh my god, Michael, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Sorry?” He turns toward you with an adorably furrowed brow. “What in the ever living fuck are you sorry about?”

You rummage around the bathroom drawers for your first aid kit and sniffle, “I really hurt you.”

“Baby, baby, stop.” Robby snatches you back by the hips and pulls you up. “I’m gonna wear these as a badge of honor. You have any idea how good it feels to fuck a good girl so well she turns feral?”

You pout your lip as you try to suppress your smile. “At least let me look them over. Apply some topical antibiotics and bandaids.”

“I can take care of myself, sweetheart, they gave me a whole degree in topical antibiotics and bandaids,” he chuckles. “And you’re gonna have to get used to it. Now that I know how crazy you get, I fully expect to get these marks touched up more nights than not.”

“Michael,” you protest half-heartedly as he kisses you deeply, “the human mouth is a hotbed for for infections.”

He doesn’t stop smiling, though, tugging you into his body by the waist, his cock debating coming to light against your thigh. “Yeah, baby, I noticed your mouth is fucking filthy.”

“Robby, I’m serious, we need to clean the wound sites or-”

“Ohohoh,” he teases, “if you wanted to shower together, you could’ve just said that.”

You hum as you flip pancakes, pajamas hanging loosely from your body, Robby standing behind you lavishing kisses along the tops of your shoulder. The warmth of his shirtless body has kept you feeling so safe and cozy all night. When the door handle turns nearby, you startle slightly from the intrusion to your peace but don’t move.

Robby doesn’t either. He just shifts his weight so he can look over his shoulder at your roommate coming home. No point in pretending this won’t be a regular occurrence. He offers, trying sound kind and nonthreatening so she won’t get spooked like a rabbit again? “Morning, Dr. King, how was your shift?”

Mel stares at the two of you for about thirty seconds, computing and calibrating, before she just shrugs off her jacket, hangs it on the small coat rack, and replies, “Um, hi, Dr. Robby, it- it was good; finally checked off an emergent birth.”

“Good work,” he tells her earnestly; the first time delivering a baby on the ED floor is nothing short of terrifying. “Congratulations, kid.”

“Looks like I have some congratulating to do, too.” She beams and joins you both in the kitchen. “You two are finally happening? For real?”

“For real,” he confirms with a laugh as he realizes how much you must’ve vented to Mel over the years. “Took us long enough, I’d say.”

With Robby blocking the coffee maker, Mel just presents a mug to him. He fills it with a surprised nod, pleased to see her slightly more comfortable with his presence. She sighs out like she’s getting a massage, “God, this is such a relief for me. You have no clue how annoying she is about you, like, every night. Robby breathed on my neck and I almost passed out. Robby reached for the same suture kit as me. I had that sex dream about Robby again. It’ll be nice to go to bed earlier.”

You glare at Mel over your shoulder as you plate up a stack of pancakes. “You don’t have to make me look bad in front of my brand new boyfriend.”

“Trust me, baby,” he replies, turning to catch you in a quick kiss, “I’m twice as bad. I’m pretty sure Jack was getting ready to file a cease and desist because of how often I complained about not having you. Him and Samira are going to have to come up with a new couple to meddle with; I almost feel bad for them.”

Mel nervously asks, “Dr. Robinavitch, would you grab me the French vanilla creamer?”

“You can call me Michael, if you want.” He opens up the fridge, searches a second, and hands over the half-empty bottle. “Figure I should be on a first-name basis with my future wife’s maid of honor.”

You pour your own mug of coffee and give him a smirk. “Future wife, huh?”

“Mohan shared your ring Pinterest board with me when I left Jack’s to come here last night.” He kisses your cheek, beard scratchy and lovely, and murmurs, “The title being ‘Mrs. Robinavitch’ didn’t leave much to the imagination in terms of your intentions with me.”

Mel, absolutely grinning now as her happiness for her best friend bubbles over, giggles,  “Maybe I’ll start a betting pool for how long it’ll take.”

Robby gives her a conspiratorial wink that makes your heart sing. “Cut me in for half and I’ll help you cheat.”

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[writingsforfandoms-multi]

the ring | michael robinavitch x nurse!reader

summary: after getting married, the first day back at work is a little harder than you expected it to be 

warnings: this got nastier (smuttier) than expected my bad

You didn’t think a ring would affect you so much. 

Michael, cocky motherfucker, knew what he was doing. He was teasing you all day. 

It started in the morning, this was going to be your first shift back together after getting married. You both wore your rubber bands to work and kept your actual rings on a necklace, and something about robby wearing a chain with his wedding band just did something to you. Before you left the house this morning, you had pulled him by the chain and crashed his lips to yours. 

During your honeymoon, you had been insatiable. Of course you have always been attracted to michael, but there was something about him being your husband that just made him so much more attractive. 

“Fuck, honey we need to leave now or else we’re not leaving” he says, breathing heavy

“Michael I don’t know how I’m gonna survive the day” you groaned

“I know, me too” he takes a deep breath. During your honeymoon, he was as insatiable as you, if not more. 

“Just 12 hours” you say, even though you know it was never just a 12 hour shift

“Just 12 hours” he agrees, knowing it's gonna be longer than just a 12 hour shift 

But fuck 12 hours you could barely make it to hour 4 before you and michael took a little break in the supply closet 

You barely had time to close the door before michael spun you around and grabbed your face with his hands and crashed his lips against yours, all teeth and tongue and urgency. His hand traces down your face to your throat before his hands cup your ass and he lifts you up against the door. His hips thrusting against yours looking for any sort of friction, “fuck the rule we have, it was stupid anyway” he says as he pulls your scrub top down to expose your breast and he trails kisses down your throat to the top of them.  

You laugh as you lean your head back against the door, “we set the rule when we started dating for a reason babe” you remind him, “we haven’t broken it in three years let’s not start now” you said, referring to the rule you made to yourselves that you wouldn't have sex where you work.

He groans against your chest, “you’re right, we’ve been doing so good” as much as he wanted to fuck you in this supply closet right now, how needy he was for you, he reminded himself of why you made the rule in the first place. 

He takes a minute before he sets you back on the floor and he takes a few steps back and you notice the very obvious bulge outlined by his pants. You couldn’t help but bite your lip. He looks at you with a pained expression on his face, “I love you honey, but you’re looking at me like you want to devour it, which is definitely not helping my little situation right here” he gestures to his problem 

“Little?” you scoff under your breath and he laughs. “Okay fine, I’ll leave, only because you read my mind” you wink and turn to leave the supply room

The next time you interacted was when you had three hours left in your shift. He had cornered you by one of the staircases, away from any prying eyes. 

“You’ve been giving me those ‘fuck me’ eyes for the past five hours” he accuses 

“You keep playing with your ring when you're at the desk” you narrow your eyes

He looks into your eyes for a moment before he breaks into a smile, “I keep remembering our wedding day” his eyes softening, reminiscing, “best day of my life” he adds 

You couldn’t help the smile that overtook your face, “mine too” you give him a quick peck on the lips then say quietly in his ear, “three more hours then I’m all yours” and you pull away and exit back out to the floor before he can react. 

The next three hours flew by, filled with lingering looks and even more lingering touches. By the time night shift got there and you gave report, you and robby couldn't get to his car fast enough. 

“Robby, drive now” you say as you quickly throw your stuff in the back, anticipation running rampant through you

“Thank god we live so close” he mutters under his breath, glancing at you in time to see you clench your thighs, his jaw tightening 

You make it to your house in record time and barely make it through the door before he’s slamming you against it. Your hands went to his cheeks but he grabs them and pins them against the door, making you moan into his mouth. 

He breaks away to strip you of your clothes before his lips are back on yours, “now, this isn't really fair Mr. Robinavitch, you still have all your clothes on” you pout 

“You’re awfully needy today, Mrs. Robinavitch” he says as he takes off his shirt and goes to take off his pants but you beat him to it, already on your knees and before he even has time to process what was happening, you took him in your mouth. 

He groans and places one hand on the front door, the other coming to the back of your head. “Fuck honey” he says as you pull him out with a pop. 

“I’ve been needy for you all day, michael” you whine before you take him back in your mouth. 

Michael pulls out of your mouth by pulling on your hair, “I want to come inside you, honey” he breathes heavy and takes you in his arms and quickly leads you to the couch. 

He sits down and brings you to his lap where you slowly slide down onto him with a moan, feeling the slight stretch. He gives you a moment to adjust before you start moving your hips, his hand with the wedding ring coming up to your throat, “I love being married to you” he groans. 

You were in such bliss you couldn’t even formulate a response. His hand trails down from your throat, down to your breast before he suddenly grabs your hips and makes you ride him faster. You crash your lips against his and moan into his mouth, “harder please” 

He thrusts up into you, “you take me so well” he pulls you forward on his chest, your arms coming around on either side of him to hold on to the edge of the couch, his hands coming to your ass to use as leverage to bring you down harder on his cock. 

“Fuck michael” you moan, putting your face into his neck

He could tell you were getting close by the way you were clenching around him, “I know baby” he grunts as he grabs your ass tighter, chasing his orgasm after he makes you finish.

You stay against his chest, still on his cock, taking a moment to catch your breath before you pull back and look at him, “I love being married to you too” you smile and you place a sweet kiss on his lips before he wraps his arms around your waist to pull you back against his chest 

“I love you” he sighs, placing a gentle kiss on your head, as he wishes you both could have stayed in your little honeymoon just bit longer 

– 

a/n: the restraint I needed to not use a daddy kink (I was so very tempted)

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