aki

it's not living (if it's not with you)

[prodkeiji]

🗯️ VIE！

spam sideblog. not leak and spoiler free. rants/vents are utc, regularly complains abt the smallest inconveniences. sneak peeks here and there, i say kms/kys jokes often too. rb heavy and all cryptic posts are /nbh. feel free to follow :]

MINORS BLOCK THE #mdni TAG.

[avalonlover]

Your Name On The Guest List

victor!reader x finnick odair

summary : the night before the 75th hunger games, finnick odair shows up at your door. he says he couldn't sleep. that's not the whole truth.

tags: love confessions, night before the 75th games, hurt/comfort (i think), little bit of fluff at the end (ew)

a/n: thg is my life blood. it's woven into my dna. im working on a series rn but wanted to get something up in the meantime. wrote in 2 hrs. unedited. ignore mistakes :)

word count : 2.5k

masterlist

The knock is soft enough that you almost miss it. Soft enough that you didn't expect Finnick Odair to be the one behind it.

He props himself against the door frame with one arm, wearing a smirk that doesn't quite fit the rest of his face.

"Couldn't sleep," he says, though it isn't quite a sufficient explanation.

You give him a once over, noting that he's still dressed in what he wore after training today. There's something more domestic about him than the last time you saw him.

As you try to formulate a response, he enters without invitation — you aren't sure he was even expecting one. The room rearranges itself around him. The man belongs where he stands and you both know it.

Only when you shut the door does he turn to face you, and you question, briefly, if that quality is gone entirely. Perhaps he invited himself in for other reasons, ones he wasn't sure he knew how to admit.

He lowers himself onto the bed and deflates all at once, studying the pile of discarded clothes beside your bed as if making a pointed effort to avoid your eyes.

"Your room looks like mine," he says softly.

"Well," you sigh, not moving from where you stand by the door, "it's a hotel. That's sort of how it works."

He doesn't push the notion and you don't tease him for it because it's an obvious stalling tactic.

You were afraid to ask what was wrong. It would sound silly out loud. Tomorrow you would be thrown back into an arena for the second time after wholeheartedly believing escaping once would be the end of it. Everything about it was wrong — you'd been drowning in wrong for quite some time now.

And perhaps asking would be crossing a line. The two of you aren't close, not in the way he and Johanna are or you and Haymitch. (Granted, all victors are "close" in their own way, but not in the sense that you can spill your guts at random to anyone in the group. That was the nature of being a victor — you haven't made it this far by misplacing trust.)

You and Finnick had shared hushed jokes at ceremonies and traded bubbling fruity drinks in hidden corners of galas. It's hard not to enjoy your time with someone so charming and witty, and you had no trouble admitting that.

But you've been through this moment before, the final dark hours before losing control of life as you know it. Sitting in the shroud of night with only your thoughts, where all your regrets and fears and love threaten to strangle you. These weren't moments you spent with a fair-weather friend.

And yet, there he is: looking too hollow to be someone you recognize, comforter bunched up under his fingertips, looking as if something is burning so fiercely within him that he fears what will happen if the flame dies out.

It's rather heartbreaking to watch, especially considering you are wrought with fear yourself. So despite everything, you ask.

"What's wrong?"

He takes a deliberate, steadying breath and straightens his spine, but it does nothing to improve his state.

"Nothing. Just," he purses his lips, only now looking up at you, "couldn't sleep."

You cross the room and sit next to him on the bed, not touching but close enough that he could shift slightly and change that. You don't say anything because silence may be the only honest thing either of you have to offer right now.

He laughs, low and humorless. "You're not going to let me get away with that, are you."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

You steal a glance at him in your periphery and watch his face twist with something you couldn't name.

"You didn't have to."

Silence fills the room, broken only by the soft crack of fireworks outside and the constant hum of partying in the streets.

You wonder if that's all you'll get out of him. A dry, offhanded joke serving as the slam of a door on something that was almost real. But if that's what he needed, you'd let him give that little.

In a sudden moment of realization you quietly admit you'd sit side by side — knees and shoulders threatening to collide, suffocating in the space between words — if that's what it took. You don't dare rationalize that desire because that train of thought would lead nowhere useful. Not now.

His voice, the sudden, gravelly sound of it, almost makes you jump.

"I keep thinking," he starts, then stops. Then starts again. "I keep thinking about what I'd regret if tomorrow goes the way I think it will go."

He says it coolly, like it costs him nothing, but you watch as his hands clasp tighter in his lap as if he's working very hard to keep them that way.

"And I keep coming back to the same thing."

You wait patiently, giving him the space to continue if he chooses. He shifts rather uncomfortably and keeps his gaze trained ahead, watching the way the city lights project against the door.

"You," he says with more confidence than you expected. Not the even, practiced kind he wears so often — understated but certain.

This time you stay silent because you aren't sure what to say at all. Your attention jumps to the rush of heat to your cheeks and the way everything around you falls completely still.

"I couldn't sleep," he nods, "that was true, but I didn't expect to anyway. I was just sitting there thinking about the Reaping… over and over and over."

You can feel his eyes on you but you can't bring yourself to face him. Your gaze falls to your lap and you trace the seam of your pajama pants along your thigh to ground yourself.

"I was tying my shoes, practically out the door, when they started showing your district. I saw you up there and… you looked so different than the last time I saw you. I guess it's been months, maybe almost a year now. I don't remember. Either way, you were up there on that stage — it was something about the way your hair was done, maybe the way you were standing, or… I don't know."

He sighs and leans back, propping himself up on his palms and letting his gaze wander off into the distance. After giving himself that pause, he's much more collected. Something in him is almost lighter.

"You just looked so beautiful, I couldn't look away."

You huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. He pauses and the spell of his monologue breaks. Suddenly the girl he'd been speaking about so distantly is sitting right beside him, close enough to touch, laughing awkwardly at her own confession being handed back to her. The energy in the room shifts all at once and rushes into the space between you.

"What?" He smiles softly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of your face.

"Nothing," you wave sheepishly, "sorry."

You turn to meet his gaze and suddenly you feel alive. His breathing is shallow, eyes darting around your face like he's trying to work something out. Hauntingly beautiful — this wasn't new, of course — but now part of his light, the one so much of the world adored, is shining on you. The weight of it feels like too much to bear, so you look away.

"I mean it," he says, softer now. "I couldn't bring myself to leave while you were still on screen. When they called your name, it stopped feeling like a game."

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, as if the words won't come out, or there are too many.

"I know what people think of me. The flirting — it's a habit. It comes easily." He pauses. "It never came easily with you."

You can feel yourself slowly drifting closer to his side but refuse to label it as intentional. Instead, you let it happen and wait with bated breath.

"I'm good at making people feel like the only person in the room. I know that. I've done it enough times to know exactly what I'm doing when I do it. It was never like that with you. You made me nervous," he swallows like it's hard to admit, then laughs at himself. "Genuinely, embarrassingly nervous."

He glances at you sideways, whatever lightness he'd worked up before dissipating. "Please don't look at me differently for saying that. It's awful, I know, the way I—"

"Finnick." You surprise yourself, how steady your voice comes out. "We all do what we need to do to get by. That's nothing. You know that."

Something in him loosens. He mulls over what you said for a moment, then continues.

"I never let myself think about what it actually meant. That at all our horrible, mandatory victor events, you were always the one I looked for first."

A small, rueful smile crosses his face. "I'd manufacture any excuse just to spend another minute with you. I don't know if you remember, but at last year's opening ceremony I spent the entire night doing impressions of the other victors just because you laughed at it once. I must have looked like such an idiot."

You light up at the memory, instinctively turning to face him.

"Yes! Oh my god," you breathe out a laugh, "you did the best Beetee impression I'd ever seen. I thought it was hilarious."

When you focus in on his face you notice he is absolutely beaming, as if he's relishing the fact that he made you laugh again.

"Sorry," you smile, now finding it hard to look anywhere else but his face, "I cut you off."

"It's okay," he grins, shaking his head. "I was just saying you made the events, the Capitol, all of it bearable. I'd see your name on the guest list and suddenly the whole thing felt survivable." He exhales slowly. "And then they called your name at the Reaping and I understood, all at once, what I'd been pretending not to feel."

He shifts so that his leg is on the bed, able to fully face you now. There is nothing between you. No charisma or fond memories or dread or fear. Just Finnick, stripped plain and bathed in the dim light.

"The way you say exactly what you mean even when it would be easier not to. The way you laugh at the wrong moments. The way you've never once looked at me like I'm something to be collected." His voice drops. "I would have been happy to search for your face in every room for the rest of my life and never say a word about it. I was ready to do that. But now…"

He steadies himself and you have the instinct to brace yourself — it feels as if the world is tilting and you are sliding right towards him.

"I just didn't know how to walk into that arena without having said it."

You don't know how to proceed. The feelings, the memories, the person he's speaking about feel like a familiar silhouette but the full picture is impossible to make sense of.

And that thought from before — the one that begged you to sit with him until the sun came up, the one sitting patiently in the back of your mind like something expecting to be returned to — finally lands somewhere solid.

It doesn't take the shape of words, however. Instead, you reach for the hand resting on his leg, your knuckles grazing his hesitantly as if you hadn't already made the decision. Without a second thought, he places his hand over your open palm and laces his warm, steady fingers with yours.

"I love you. Not because I want anything from you. Not because I need you to say it back." His eyes hold yours and his thumb brushes across your knuckles. "Just because it's true, and because I couldn't die with it still sitting in my chest."

His eyes bore into you with such heartbreaking honesty that you feel as if you are melting right in front of him.

You never took someone for their word. Ever. You'd seen too much to be so careless. But for the first time you betray yourself — because no one could witness something so raw and so unguarded and not believe it. And no one could see themselves so plainly in another person — their own unnamed feelings laid out in someone else's words — and call it anything other than love.

The world tilts again, the way it had before — only this time you don't brace yourself against it. You let yourself be taken by the angle.

You climb into his lap slowly, giving him every opportunity to say something, to make a joke, to be Finnick Odair about it. He doesn't. His hands find your waist like they already knew the way, and when you finally kiss him it is nothing like you would have expected from a man with his reputation. It is reverent, like something he needs to get right. Like he is racing against time and he dares to slow down and savor it.

With his hands tangled in your hair, he pulls away, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes — his attention waging an internal war. You don't have enough patience to wait for one to win out. Instead, your limbs slide to fit his like puzzle pieces and you ease yourself into the crook of his neck.

It is as if the touch brings him back to reality. He stills beneath you, and for a moment you wonder if you've miscalculated. Then his arms wind around you, slow and deliberate, pulling you further into him like he's afraid you might change your mind. He presses his lips to your hair, your temple, the side of your face — quiet and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, which you both know is the one thing you don't have.

"I love you too," you say into his neck.

He goes very still. Then, softly: "I know. You didn't have to say it."

You pull back to look at him. "Shut up."

He laughs — a real one, one you can feel against your scalp — and before you can settle back into your own space he pulls you firmly back against his chest, tucking his chin over the top of your head.

A beat of comfortable silence passes.

"Horrific timing on your part, by the way," you say, angling for light, but it falls flat.

"You have nothing to worry about," he says with certainty, his fingers drumming against your side absentmindedly.

"Is that so?"

"I'm going to make sure nothing happens to you." His arms tighten slightly around you.

You frown. "Finnick. Katniss and Peeta are the objective. This whole thing is bigger than just me, you know that."

"I know," he says simply, like he's already made peace with it. Like the decision had been made long before tonight, long before he ever knocked on your door. "I'll see to all of it."

His lips press once more to the top of your head.

"And then I'm coming for you. That's all I care about getting right."

[jadeittic]

Affair?

summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.

pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding

notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!

reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo

The first rumor started because of a protein bar.

Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.

No.

It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:

"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."

And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.

"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."

You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."

"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"

"He labeled every container by protein count."

"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.

"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."

Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.

Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.

They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.

They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.

And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.

That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.

So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.

And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.

Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.

Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.

The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.

The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.

Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,

"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.

Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.

"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."

Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"

"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."

Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.

"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."

The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.

Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.

Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.

"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.

"Hello to you too."

"Did you eat?"

The room paused.

You looked midly defensive. "Yes."

"You're lying."

"I had crackers."

"That's not food."

Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."

"You're pregnant."

"And?"

"And you require actual nutrition."

Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.

Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.

The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.

Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"

You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."

"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.

You looked confused. "Brendon?"

The entire station froze at the first-name basis.

"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.

"That's his name."

"No one calls him Brendon."

"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."

After that, people started noticing things. Little things.

Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.

How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.

One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.

"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."

Dana laughed. "Six?"

"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't even want to know."

Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"

You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."

"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"

"Oh, that was ours."

Silence.

You blinked up. "What?"

Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"

"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."

Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.

"You're... close with him?"

You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."

Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.

You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.

And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.

Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.

The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.

And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.

Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.

"You can't have that much caffeine."

You looked offended. "It was half-caf."

"It was basically battery acid."

"You tasted it?"

"You left it on the counter this morning."

Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.

You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"

"You wanted fries."

"I mentioned fries once."

"You cried about it."

"I was emotional that time."

"You threatened divorce."

The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.

Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.

Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.

Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.

"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."

Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."

You looked at him. "I know."

"You forgot."

"I remembered eventually."

"You remembered because I reminded you."

The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.

Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.

The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.

The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.

"Oh my God."

You frowned. "What?"

He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"

You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"

"That man practically tucked you in!"

"He's just—"

"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"

"My husband!"

"Exactly!"

You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.

"Oh my god."

"So, you are!"

"No I'm not, Frank."

"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"

"Because he made it."

Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."

"He color-coded the whole calendar."

He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.

Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.

Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.

Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.

But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.

And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.

That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.

Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.

You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.

"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."

The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.

"No."

Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.

"Repeat what you said."

The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"

"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."

The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.

"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."

Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.

The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.

It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.

And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Dennis looked at her. "What?"

But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.

At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.

Not like a lover, like a husband.

"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.

You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.

Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.

You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.

Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."

"You never said—"

"Well, nobody asked."

"You literally acted like you hated each other!"

You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."

Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.

Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.

Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.

And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.

The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.

The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.

And worst of all?

Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.

Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:

"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"

thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)

[cocoaxia]

★ — under wraps !

summary: in which you ask about the lads boys condom size.

ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb

notes: suggestive content so NSFW / MDNI, xavier’s a little vulgar, zayne is lovely, rafayel wants to kill himself again (!!!), sylus is lovely again, caleb is strange. no explicit mentions of gender (!!!), only a few comments/compliments but nothing explicitly stated. that’s it (i think)

p.s. this is based on a req SO i hope you like it (even if just a little bit) ^^

a/n: yes…that is a cocoaxia original photo…no i don’t want to talk about the implications of me going about my normal human business and stopping to take a photo of the condom aisle to subsequently use for A LADS SMAU…i do it all for the realism…don’t ever say i'm not committed to you ladsnation…ty for reading (- -)(_ _)

© cocoaxia

[tiddler-be-fishin]

i spent too long on my WHA miis to not share 😭😭 (and yes they will be getting married i dont care what it takes)

[jammatown919]

[fereberries]

. ⋮ THE PITT P!LINKS .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

18+ only! make sure you're logged into x/twitter to access the links

included: dr. michael 'robby' robinavitch, dr dennis whitaker, dr frank langdon, and dr jack abbot (might make a part 2 and add more characters hehe)

℘ DR ROBBY

making out w ur ass જ deepthroat જ deeper n deeper જ such a tease જ kneading ur ass જ spread ur legs wide open for him જ

ᯤ DR WHITAKER

inked!dennis જ dryhumping જ after shift video જ hasnt seen you in weeks જ involuntary hip movements જ god he loves when u control him જ slow and soft જ

⚡︎ DR LANGDON

loves watching you squirm જ at your mercy જ early morning before his shift જ he loves ur strap જ laid out before him જ loves how you look at him જ

ᝰ DR ABBOT

pussy whipped જ riding him જ cant stop thinking about you જ touchy feely જ breakfast જ all black જ in uniform જ personal plaything જ

[romerona]

Handyman!

In which Dennis Whitaker offers to help you fix something at your house, and oh, you must pay him back somehow.

Dennis Whitaker x femreader!

Readers a rad tech. City girl reader. NSW. Oral (m&f) unprotected P in V. A bit of rough Whitaker (i headcanon he doesn’t know he’s strength sometimes lol) bit of inexperience Whitaker. Feral reader. Bit of breeding if you squint. Dennis likes to bite.

word count: 6k

First time writing smut so please be nice

Morning filtered in through the blinds in thin, honeyed lines, striping the small apartment in soft gold.

The place had that that lived-in feel, trinity’s hoodie draped over a chair, Dennis’s boots abandoned by the door, maybe a sock somewhere in the living room. It was the quiet hum of a space that had seen a plenty of ordinary mornings just like this one.

Dennis was by the door, shrugging into his jacket, keys already looped around his fingers, halfway out before he’d even technically left.

From the kitchen, Trinity didn’t even pretend to be subtle as she watched him, leaning against the counter, in her robs, mug in hand.

“Oh, wow,” she drew out slowly, head tilting as her gaze dragged over him, amused and a little too pleased with herself. “Look at you.”

Dennis didn’t look up. “What.”

She took a slow sip of her coffee,“Nothing, nothing… just you actually made an effort today.”

That made him, slightly confused and smartly wary, glance at her and for her her grin to widened.

“God, you even put cologne on,” she added, like she’d just uncovered something incriminating. “Can smell it from here.”

Dennis frowned faintly, like he hadn’t even realized. “I always use it”

Trinity gave him a look so disbelieving it was almost theatrical.

“No, you wear whatever deodorant survived the week and call it a day. This…” she waved vaguely in his direction. “is effort.”

He looked down at himself like maybe his clothes had betrayed him somehow. “It’s not effort.”

“Right,” she said dryly. “And I’m the patron saint of minding my own business.”

Dennis let out a quiet breathy laugh through his nose and reached for the coffee mug he’d left on the counter, taking a swallow mostly so he wouldn’t say anything stupid.

Unfortunately for him, Trinity Santos loved silence for the reason being, that it gave her room.

She pushed off the counter and went to pour herself more coffee,“So what exactly is broken over there?”

He shrugged and set the mug down. “Her sink, I think, she said the water’s not coming out right.”

“And of course,” she said, voice laced with mock admiration, “you became Katniss Everdeen.”

Dennis rolled his eyes, catching the reference. “Don’t start.”

“‘Don’t start,’” she mocked, “You mean the super hot rad tech who just happened to need help and you just happened to volunteer?”

“It’s just a broken thing.” he waved a hand, already wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

“A thing,” Trinity echoed, nodding like that explained everything. “Got it.”

“Yeah, her sink.” He turned away from her, moving to rinse out his mug with a little more focus than necessary.

Her expression softened into something far too sweet, dangerously sweet. “And tell me, Huckleberry, you heading over there to fix her plumbing… or are you planning to service her pipes?”

He grimaced, a faint flush creeping up his neck despite himself, at the thought. “Seriously?”

“What?” Trinity let out a quiet laugh,“You practically set that one up yourself, and don’t act like the thought hasn’t crossed your mind. Because it definitely would’ve crossed mine.”

Dennis didn’t reply, mostly because he couldn’t, there wasn’t much he could say without giving himself away. The truth was, it had crossed his mind, more than once, different scenarios, different angles… more than he’d ever admit out loud, but he shut it down just as quickly every time.

For one, he’d been raised better than that and for another… it wasn’t something that would ever, in this god green earth, actually happen.

You were friends, that was what mattered.

Sure, maybe he had an itty bitty crush on you, small enough that he could almost lie to himself about it, but then again, who didn’t? Half the people in the Pitt would’ve lined up for a chance, and with the amount of options you had, with the way you could pretty much take your pick of anyone there, there was no world where it’d be him.

He just turned away, opening the cupboard to put his mug back while behind him, Santos kept going, because of course she did.

“You know, I’ve gotta say… I’m a little surprised.”

He nudged the cupboard shut, the wood clicking softly. “Yeah? About what?”

“I just figured if you weren’t on shift, you’d be back at that widow’s farm.” She gave a small shrug as she reached for the loaf of bread.

That made him slightly pause.

“I go out there to help Amy,” he said, turning toward her, the explanation coming out smooth, rehearsed from overuse. “You know that.”

“Mm,” Trinity hummed, like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “And now you’re helping Y/N. At her place, on your day off. Bright and early.”

Dennis exhaled quietly through his nose, like he could already see where this was going.

“It’s just a favor.”

“Just nice to see you branching out beyond farmerettes, Huckleberry.” Trinity said easily, not even looking up as she dragged a knifefull of butter across her toast

He shot her a look. “What does that even mean?”

She kept spreading the butter, a small, knowing smirk tugging at her mouth. “Means you’re diversifying your… charitable efforts.”

Dennis huffed, shaking his head as he reached for his jacket, tugging it on like he could physically remove himself from the conversation faster.

“I’ll be there, like, twenty minutes.”

“Right, right…” Trinity nodded, finally glancing up at him. “So should I expect you back before lunch, or are you planning to vanish into some kind of rendezvous bliss?”

“…you’re disgusting. Goodbye.” He grabbed his keys, already backing toward the door.

“Drive safe!” she called after him, completely ignoring that. “And take your time, no need to rush quality work.”

The door shut a second later.

Trinity chuckled and took another bite of her toast, pleased as anything.

“Oh, that boy is so not coming back soon.”

And for once, it wasn’t just her running her mouth for the sake of it.

She knew you well enough to remember the way you’d sit next to her as she wrote up some charts, a few weeks back, arms crossed, trying to sound casual while bringing him up.

“He’s just… nice,” you’d gone on, almost against your own will now at where Whitaker was with a patient, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Bit quiet, doesn’t get in your business, and he’s got that whole… farm boy thing going on and, I mean have you seen his hands? Gawd almighty, Santos, they’re rough, but not in a bad way, like he could fix anything, or...” you cut yourself off, but not before your mouth curved just slightly, “yknow, hold you down without even trying.”

All Trinity could do was stare at you as if you’ve grown a third head and started speaking in tongues “Ew”

“Doesn’t talk too much, but he listens, like he’s actually paying attention to you, doesn’t need to be loud about anything.” You’d tilted your head slightly then, like you were studying something only you could see. “…and there’s something about that whole rural thing.”

You were circling an idea, turning it over, testing it, considering it, a predator deciding if something was worth the chase.

“Right,” Trinity said slowly. “So what I’m hearing is you want to climb him like a tree.”

Boy, did you.

And now he was in your house, which somehow made all of it worse or better, mostly worse but definitely better.

Dennis had shown up not with your coffee order already in hand, your coffee order, exactly right, because months back you’d mentioned it once in passing and apparently he was the sort of man who just… remembered things like that.

He’d stood there at your door looking unfairly good in a plain shirt and jeans, holding the cup tray, all casual like this was no big deal.

As though he hadn’t just arrived armed with caffeine, competence, and that quietly helpful thing he did that made you want to see him shirtless and pantless.

You had insisted, no, flat-out refused to let him touch anything, until he ate something first.

“Sit,” you’d told him, already pushing a plate toward him.

“I’m here to fix your—”

“And you will,” you cut in, already halfway to the counter, “after you eat. I didn’t wake up early and bake for it to just sit there looking pretty.”

He’d tried to protest again, of course, a quiet, half-hearted “I’m fine, really—” that didn’t stand a chance against the look you gave him.

So he sat, and when he took that first bite of the jam spread croissant, and the sound he made, something almost like a groan slipping out before he could stop it, hit you straight to your core.

“Jesus,” he’d muttered, more to himself than to you, glancing down at it like he didn’t quite trust it. “That’s—”

“Good?” you’d offered.

He looked up at you then, with those big, sad, oh so tempting blue eyes.

“Yeah, really good.”

You had to physically turn away under the excuse of grabbing a napkin because otherwise you might’ve jump him right there.

Now, he was on his back under your sink, which in hindsight, that had been the easy part, because now, he was on his back under your sink.

You leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to look like you weren’t actively losing your mind.

He shifted slightly beneath the cabinet, one arm braced, the other working at something you couldn’t see.

“You’ve definitely got a clog in here,” he said, voice a little muffled. “Probably buildup.”

“Makes sense,” you replied automatically but had no idea what he was talking about because your attention was… elsewhere.

His shirt had ridden up to show a strip of skin at his stomach, the light dusting of hair, the way his jeans sat low on his hips as he shifted to reach further in, by the time you noticed the veins, you were shamelessly wet.

Your gaze traced details you absolutely had no business cataloguing, like the flex in his arm, the quiet strength in the way he worked.

Sooner rather than later, much to your disappointment, he was done.

There was a final twist of something under the sink, and then he shifted, sliding out from beneath the cabinet and pushing himself up in one smooth motion.

You had exactly half a second to compose yourself.

He turned the faucet on, letting the water run and watching it drain properly, then he glanced at you, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth as he stepped back and gestured toward it.

“All good. You’re set, my lady.”

You couldn’t help it, you smiled back, a soft little laugh slipping out of you. What a geek.

“Thank you, Dennis…”

He shrugged it off like it was nothing, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, no problem.” after a beat, he added, a little more earnest, “I mean it—if you need anything else, just let me know.”

That was the opening you needed.

You hesitated for half a second, just enough to make it seem natural and said, glancing toward the living room like the idea had just occurred to you. “Well… since you’re already here…”

He followed your gaze, brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?”

“Do you think you could help me set up my TV stand? I’ve been trying, but—” you let out a small breath, gesturing vaguely, “—it’s just not happening.”

Dennis huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little like he’d expected something like this.

“Yeah, I can take a look.”

“Thank you,” you said, already stepping back to give him space, gesturing for him to follow. “It’s in here.”

You led him into the living room, where the box and scattered parts sat waiting.

“Okay, I got… this far.”you said, pointing at the half-assembled stand.

Dennis took one look at it and huffed a quiet laugh under his breath.

“Yeah,” he said, setting his toolbox down, already crouching beside it. “I can see the problem.”

You crossed your arms, mock-offended, though there was a hint of embarrassment tucked into it. “Hey, I followed the instructions.”

“I’m sure you did,” he said, glancing up at you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “They just didn’t do you any favors, huh?”

You huffed a small laugh despite yourself. “Not even a little.”

He shook his head, reaching for a piece, turning it over in his hands with that same easy focus he’d had in the kitchen.

“Alright, let’s fix it.” he said easy, looking over at you with a grin.

And God, you had to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.

It should not have been this attractive, the whole capable-man-putting-things-together thing, and yet here you were, standing in your own living room trying not to stare at his hands again.

He worked with this quiet, steady focus, the same one he has at the hospital, like everything else fell away when he was doing something with purpose.

You were faintly aware he was talking, something about which piece went where, or why you thought the instructions were “backwards” but it all blurred into background noise.

“Yeah,” you murmured at one point.

“Mhm,” at another.

Not a single coherent thought behind it because all you could really register was;

I'm going to fuck his brains out.

You gazed as he leaned forward slightly, muscles in his forearms tightening as he adjusted something into place, voice dropping as he muttered under his breath, focused.

There was a faint sheen of sweat starting to gather at his temples, just enough to darken the edges of his hair where it curled slightly at the nape of his nec—

“Alright,” he said, giving the stand a small test push to make sure it was steady. “That should do it.”

You blinked, having been snapped out of your sightseeing.

“Oh—already?” you said, a little too quick.

He glanced at you, faintly amused. “Yeah. Wasn’t too bad.”

Course he made it look easy.

Then he stepped over toward the TV without hesitation, hands settling at either side like he’d done this a hundred times before and with one smooth motion, he lifted it and turned, placing it carefully onto the stand.

Your attention shifted to his back.

The stretch of his shirt across his shoulders, the way the fabric pulled just slightly with the movement, the subtle shift of muscle underneath as he adjusted the TV into place, making sure it sat just right.

You exhaled slowly, trying very hard to act like you were not noticing any of that.

“Good?” he asked, stepping back slightly, eyes flicking toward you.

You blinked again, dragging your gaze up to his face like you hadn’t just been staring.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect,” you said, a small grin slipping through despite yourself as you gestured beside you. “Come take a look yourself.”

Dennis stepped closer, brushing past you just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne again. He leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the TV, checking the alignment, one hand coming up to adjust it just a fraction.

He nodded after a second, satisfied. “That should hold just fine.”

“Yeah… looks so good,” you nodded, though your attention wasn’t really on the TV anymore.

Neither of you moved right away, until he stepped back first, putting just enough space between you to make it noticeable. He cleared his throat lightly, like he was shaking something off.

“Well,” he said, glancing around, “sink’s fixed, TV’s up… think that’s everything.”

You frowned a little, tilting your head as you looked up at him, something softer slipping into your expression. “Thank you, Dennis. Really, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

He chuckled under his breath, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, the other resting on his hip, just a little awkward now in a way he hadn’t been before.

“You would’ve figured it out,” he said easily, though there was a hint of something warmer in his tone. “Or called someone who charges way too much for it.”

You huffed a small laugh, but kept your eyes on him . “Yeah, well… I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Anytime." He nodded once, almost to himself.

You shifted your weight, turning to face him properly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’ll have to repay you somehow.”

His brows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging just enough to make you wetter than ever. He still looked a little unaware of the full effect he was having on you, which, honestly, only made him more delicious.

“You already fed me,” he said with a grin, like that should settle it.

You shook your head slowly and took a small step toward him.“That doesn’t count.”

Dennis blinked, grin slowly fading, a little thrown now, like he hadn’t expected you to push back. “No?”

“No,” you repeated, holding his gaze now, a bit more seductively than before. “That was just me being a good host.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything and just looked at you.

It was subtle, but you saw the moment he processed what you were trying to do, the shift in his expression, the way his attention sharpened and he straightened, like he was finally catching up to something that had been there for a while now.

“Oh,” he said after a beat, quiet.

You smirked lightly at that and took another step, now in his personal space.

“How about dinner?” you said, voice easy but edged with something a little more deliberate now. “We can start with dessert, if you want.”

Dennis flushed and let out a soft breath through his nose, one hand settling at his hip while the other flexed once at his side, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

“You— er you don’t gotta repay me,” he said, though his voice had gone lower now, less certain than before. “Wasn’t a big deal.”

You stepped in closer, up onto your tiptoes, just enough to close the space between you, your voice dropping to something lustful and meant only for him.

“Maybe not to you.”

He stilled and you shifted just slightly, your hand lifting, a single finger brushing under his chin, guiding his gaze back to yours, lips hovered just a breath away from his.

“So? Do you want dessert?” you murmured, barely above a whisper.

Dennis’s blue eyes dropped to your lips for a second, then back to your eyes. He swallowed, visibly, and when he answered it came out low and a little rougher than before.

“Yeah.”

A small, satisfied grin tugged at your mouth.

“Good,” you whispered, letting your lips barely brush his, enough to feel the warmth of him, enough to make him tremble. “I’d have felt terrible if I couldn’t show you just how appreciative I am.”

Your lips where on his.

A shudder ran through Dennis's entire body, a full-body tremor of pure shock and want. He was holding his breath, you realized, his whole body coiled with a tension that was equal parts nerves and raw arousal.

You took control instantly, your mouth moving against his with practiced ease, tongue tracing the seam of his lips, coaxing him to open up, to relax. He followed your lead blindly, a soft, choked sound escaping his throat as you deepened the kiss, teaching him with your tongue, showing him how to move, how to breathe and boy was he a fast learner, perhaps a bit too fast and eager.

It was like a desperate, clumsy energy took over, making him kiss you back with a force that was more enthusiasm than skill, his mouth moving against yours with an almost frantic need.

It was all tongue and teeth and pressure, a messy, hungry kiss that sent a thrill straight through you.

One hand flew up to cup the back of your head, pressing you to him, and the other hand, after a moment of awkward hovering, landed flat and awkward against your ribs.

You grinned against his lips, a silent, wicked acknowledgment of his fumbling earnestness.

Your own hand, which had been resting at the nape of his neck, slid down to find his, were they were still stiff against your ribs, radiating a nervous heat. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, feeling the frantic pulse beating just beneath his skin.

He let out a sharp, shaky breath against your mouth as you began to move his hand slowly and deliberately, guiding his palm down the curve of your side, over the dip of your waist.

His touch was light, hesitant, but he didn't resist, and you pressed his hand lower, over the swell of your hip, until his fingers were splayed across the flesh of your ass.

A choked sound, half-gasp, half-groan, rumbled in his chest.

His fingers, which had been so uncertain moments before, suddenly dug in, gripping you with a desperate, possessive force that sent a jolt of electricity straight through you.

He pulled you even harder against him, and you could feel the thick, hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by a pure, instinctual need to claim.

You broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to see his face.

His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy with lust, his mouth slightly pink and parted as he stared down at you. He looked utterly wrecked, and you'd barely even started.

"Breathe, Dennis," you murmured, a small, satisfied smirk playing on your mouth.

"Right," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Sorry."

"Don't be," you purred, nipping at his lower lip.

Your hand moved with a slow, deliberate confidence, sliding down the firm plane of his stomach and your fingers pressing directly against the hard ridge straining against the denim of his jeans.

Dennis's entire body went rigid, and a sharp, choked gasp was torn from his throat, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth falling open in a silent 'o' of pure shock.

You smirked, your thumb pressing down, rubbing a slow, firm circle right over the head of his cock through the fabric, but this is not what you want to do now.

You gave him a chaste kiss before gently pushing against his chest making him stumbled back a step, eyes widening slightly in surprise before he caught himself, his legs hitting the edge of the couch.

He sat down heavily, his gaze locked on you, looking up with an expression that was a mixture of awe and pure, unadulterated hunger.

You stood looking at him like a predator admiring its prey, a slow, deliberate smirk spread across your hands moved as you slipped the dress off your shoulders.

The same dress you had absolutely not chosen with this exact outcome in mind. Not at all.

It fell away easily, pooling at your feet, and for a second you just stood there, letting him look.

His mouth fell slightly agape as he took you in, standing before him in nothing but your pretty lace panties. The flush on his neck and cheeks deepened to a dark red, his gaze roaming over your body like he was trying to memorize every single inch.

He shifted on the couch, his hands gripping his own thighs, knuckles white.

You took a step forward until you were standing directly between his spread knees and looked down at him.

"Comfortable?" you asked, your voice a low purr.

He could only manage a shaky nod, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Good," you murmured, placing your hands on his shoulders and leaning down, bringing your face close to his, your breath ghosting over his lips. "Because the real dessert is about to be served."

In one fluid, graceful motion, you sank to your knees on the floor between his legs, which made his breath catch in his throat. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and raw, unfiltered lust.

With your eyes on him, your hands moved to his belt, the buckle clinking softly in the charged silence, you made quick work of it, then popped the button of his jeans.

His hips lifted instinctively, a desperate, needy motion, and you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and his boxers, pulling them both down in one smooth tug.

His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.

It was a beautiful thing, and the low, guttural groan that escaped Dennis's lips as the cool air hit him was music to your ears.

You looked up at him again, holding his gaze as you wrapped your hand around his hard, leaking cock. His eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat as you began to stroke him slowly, your thumb smearing the bead of pre-come over the sensitive head. His hips jerked, a helpless, needy motion, and a low groan rumbled in his chest.

"This okay?" you asked, your voice a low, husky murmur.

He stared down at you with his mouth slightly parted and for a moment he seemed incapable of forming words, his mind completely consumed by the slow, deliberate movements of your hand.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"Y-yeah," he finally managed to choke out, the word a strangled, breathless sound. "Fuck, yes, more than okay."

A small, satisfied smirk tugged at your lips, your hand never ceasing its slow, torturous movements as you purred, "I'm just getting started."

You then leaned in, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, and his entire body tensed, one of his hands gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles turned white, and the other was in your hair. You held his gaze, your eyes dark and full of promise, as you slowly, deliberately, swirled your tongue around the tip.

A choked sob of pleasure escaped his lips, his head falling back against the couch, his eyes squeezing shut. He was completely at your mercy.

"Fuck!" The word was torn from Dennis's throat, his entire body arching off the couch.

You set a punishing rhythm, your head bobbing, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of his shaft. You took him deep, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you swallowed around him.

The sound he made was pure, unadulterated ecstasy, a choked sob of pleasure that vibrated through his entire body.

He was completely at your mercy, his experience no match for your expertise. You were in control, and you were going to make sure he never forgot this.

You gave him a few pumps with your hand while you suck on the tip, could feel him getting closer, the frantic twitching of his hips, the way his fingers tightened in your hair, his breaths were coming in short, sharp pants, and then he started begging, his voice a ragged, desperate mess.

"Wait— fuck... I need... I need—" he gasped, his hips bucking wildly. "Please..."

You pulled back, just enough to let him breathe, but your hand never stopped its firm, rhythmic stroking. You looked up at him, a wicked smirk on your face, a thin string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock.

"Yeah, baby? What do you need?" you purred, your voice husky.

He groaned, his head thrown back against the couch as he fought for coherence. His eyes, dark and wild, found yours, and he gritted out the one word he could manage. "You."

Your smirk widened because that was the answer you wanted.

You leaned in and gave him one last, hard suck, a final, teasing taste that made his whole body jolt, before you rose gracefully to your feet.

You stood over him like a goddess of sex and satisfaction, and looked down at the disheveled, beautiful man you had just unraveled.

"Pull them down for me," you commanded softly, your gaze dropping to the scrap of lace covering your pussy.

He nodded, his movements clumsy with renewed urgency. He leaned forward, his hands shaking slightly as they hooked into the waistband of your panties, but instead of just pulling them down, he surprised you as he pressed his lips to your stomach, then lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your hipbone, down your thigh, as he slowly, reverently, peeled the lace from your body.

Once they were down around your ankles, you expected to take control again, to push him back and show him what came next, but you didn't get the chance because to your utter shock, Dennis took charge.

A raw, primal instinct seemed to take over.

He grabbed one of your legs, his grip firm and swung it over his shoulder, and before you could even process the sudden shift in power, he dipped his head and buried his face between your thighs.

The first swipe of his tongue was clumsy, but it was electric. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

Dennis was a man possessed, licking and sucking with a desperate, hungry enthusiasm that was both messy and utterly divine. He was plainly inexperienced, yes, but he was an eager participant, his movements becoming more confident, more targeted, as he listened to the sounds you made, as he felt the way your body responded.

Your fingers tangled in the messy strands of his hair to hold him closer, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as a soft, breathless whimper slipped past your lips when he found a spot that made your knees shake. 

His grip on your hips tightened, knuckles white with the effort of keeping you steady as he lost himself in the taste of you, his low moans vibrating against your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine made your head fall back. 

Dennis pulled back for a split second, lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger and a flicker of uncertainty. 

"Am doing this right… right?" He panted, voice rough with need as he turned his face to kiss your leg.

You nodded quickly, thumb brushing over his flushed cheek. 

"Yes, just keep going, baby," you whispered, voice thick with desire.

That was all he needed to hear. Dennis dove back in, his movements got bolder, he licked a slow stripe up your slit, then pushed his tongue inside you, making you cry out and for your free leg to wobble beneath you.

You could feel the heat coiling in your lower stomach, building faster now. 

Your free leg started to shake again as his fingers dug into the meat of your thigh draped over his shoulder and his other hand splayed across your lower back to yank you closer, holding you firmly in place as he worked you toward the edge.

When you finally tipped over the edge, right after another deep, rumbling moan of his vibrated up through your core, spurred on by your desperate whimpers and the way you fisted his hair to yank him closer, your body seized tight. 

A ragged, broken cry tore from your throat, but he didn’t let up, no, Dennis kept licking and sucking, relentless, until you were weakly pushing at his shoulders, overstimulated to the point of trembling but still aching for more of him.

Only when you finally pleaded his name did he pull back. His lips were slick, his breath hot, and when he looked up at you his eyes were dark, and still hungry.

“You taste so good,” Dennis murmured, voice rough. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then nipped gently, making you shiver. “Can I do that again?”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh and shifted forward to straddle him, his hard dick was grazing your slick folds as you leaned down to kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth while your fingers threaded into his hair.

After a beat, his hands found your ass again, gripping like he couldn’t help himself. 

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze and whispered, “Maybe on round two. Right now, I need you inside me.”

You rose a few inches, guided him to your entrance, and then dropped down on him in one smooth motion. Dennis hands tightening on your hips as the stretch made you both brake at once, his guttural groan mixing with your breathless moan as pleasure lit up your whole body. 

"Fuck, Dennis," you breathed, rolling your hips experimentally, feeling him throb inside you. "You feel so good, so… fucking… big."

His eyes fluttered shut for a second, his grip on your ass tightening almost painfully.

 "God, you're perfect," he groaned, his voice wrecked.

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear as you started to move, slow, deliberate grinds that had him panting beneath you. 

"You like that, baby?" you whispered, nipping at his earlobe. "You like feeling how wet I am for you? How perfectly you fill me up?”

He nodded frantically, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "Yes—fuck, yes," 

You picked up the pace, riding him harder now,

"I've been thinking about this all day," you moaned, head falling back as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. "Thinking about how good your cock would feel inside me, how you'd stretch me open and make me scream your name."

"Please," he whimpered, and the sound of him begging made you clench around him. "Please don't stop."

"I'm not stopping until you fill me up, Dennis," you purred, grinding down hard. "Not until I feel you come inside me."

Dennis moaned loudly, his head falling back against the couch, and the sight of him, completely undone beneath you, drove you absolutely crazy.

"Look at you," you gasped, rolling your hips harder, chasing that delicious friction. "Bet you’ve never… you’ve never been with a girl like me, huh?”

His fingers dug into your hips, his breathing ragged, and you could feel him twitching inside you, close, but not quite there yet. 

Then, to your surprise, he suddenly shifted. 

His hands gripped your waist and he hoisted you up as if you weighed nothing, making you yelp as he maneuvered you both. In one smooth motion he had you on your back on the couch, your legs falling open as he settled between them.

He pulled back just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and toss it aside, and the sight of him, chest heaving, muscles taut, eyes dark with need, made your mouth go dry.

"My turn," he growled, and then he was pushing back inside you, deeper this time, the new angle making you cry out.

"Oh fuck—Dennis!" you moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he started to move. "Yes, just like that! don't stop, please don't stop."

He set a relentless pace, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you as he panted against your neck. "You feel so fuck-ing good, honey… S-so perfect."

You moaned, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him deeper. 

"God, yes, fuck me harder, Dennis, I want to feel you for days." Your back was arching off the couch. 

He groaned at your words, and you felt his rhythm falter for just a second before he found it again, harder this time, more desperate. His grip on your hips tightened like he was holding on for dear life, and the intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming.

"You're so—fuck," he panted, the words breaking apart as he thrust into you. 

He wasn't smooth about it, but god, the raw need in every movement made it even hotter.

"You feel so good inside me," you whimpered, nails dragging down his back. "So fucking good, Dennis, please don't stop, baby.”

His breath hitched and he buried his face in your neck, his hips snapping forward again and again. You could feel him trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself together.

Your hand slipped between your bodies to touch yourself, and the moment your fingers found your clit, you clenched hard around him.

"Oh—oh fuck," he gasped against your skin, his whole body shuddering. "You're—I can feel—"

"I'm so close, keep going, just like that—" you moaned which only intensified when he bit you. 

It took three more thrusts for you to come, and when you did, it hit you like a tidal wave. 

You went silent but your whole body was seizing up as pleasure crashed through you, your walls clenching tight around him.

The second you did, you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make you gasp, as he came with a muffled, desperate groan against your skin. His hips stuttered, grinding deep as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

"Oh shii—oh fuck," he panted against your neck, his grip on you bruising as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm.

You were both trembling, breathless, tangled together on the couch. Your legs were still wrapped around him, holding him close as the aftershocks rolled through you both.

"Holy shit," you breathed, your fingers threading through his hair, still trying to catch your breath. 

He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his face flushed and his eyes still glazed with pleasure. 

"Yeah, that was... fucking incredible," he breathed.

He leaned down to kiss you, soft at first, then deeper, and you returned it eagerly, a breathless laugh escaping against his lips as you pulled him closer, letting his weight settle onto you. 

"Damn right," you murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns down his spine. "How am I supposed to go to work tomorrow and face everyone when I know exactly how you feel inside me?"

His eyes widened slightly, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the exertion.

Dennis groaned, half-laughing as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "Oh, don't—I'm never going to be able to focus during rounds now."

"Wonderful," you teased, nipping at his earlobe. "Every time you see me at work, I want you to think about this. About how good you felt buried inside me."

He shuddered against you, his arms tightening around your waist. "You're going to kill me, I'll be trying to read X-rays, and all I'll be able to think about is—"

"Me riding you on my couch?" you finished with a wicked grin.

"Exactly that," he admitted, lifting his head to meet your eyes. The flush on his cheeks deepened. "I'm so screwed."

You laughed, reaching up to kiss the tip of his nose. "Yeah well, at least you'll be able to walk normally tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be feeling this for the next week."

Dennis's eyes widened slightly, a mix of pride and concern flickering across his face. "Is that—I mean, are you okay? I didn't—"

"I'm okay," you assured him, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

"I.. uh, I might've... left a mark," he mumbled, glancing at your shoulder. 

You turned your head to look, catching a glimpse of the reddened impression of his teeth on your skin and a slow smile spread across your face. 

"I don’t mind," you said, meeting his gaze again. "Now I'll really have something to remember this by."

His breath caught, and you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "You're not mad?"

"Mad?" You laughed softly, tracing your fingers down his back. "Dennis, that was hot as hell. Who would've thought you're a biter?"

He huffed a laugh and buried his face against your neck again, carefully avoiding the bite mark this time. "I can't believe we just did that."

You shrugged, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips. "I didn't see today ending any other way. I knew I was going to fuck you since you gave me your last Reese’s pieces."

Dennis lifted his head to stare at you, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Seriously? But that was months ago!"

"Yep," you grinned, running your hands through his hair. "You gave me your last piece of candy without even hesitating. I knew right then I was going to end up in bed with you eventually.

He laughed, shaking his head in amazement. "All this time... over chocolate?"

"Believe it," you said, stretching slightly beneath him and wincing at the pleasant ache. "Now, I don't know about you, but I could really use a shower. Want to join me? Maybe after, I can actually make us some lunch.”

"That sounds perfect actually," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Good," you smiled at him before reluctantly starting to shift. "But fair warning, I might need help standing up."

Extra:

By the time Dennis walked into the apartment, it was pushing 9pm.

He tried to be quiet about it, keys set down gently, door eased shut instead of slammed, but he really should’ve known better.

Trinity was in the living room, curled up on the couch with takeout spread out in front of her, TV flickering lazily in the background. Her eyes slid over to him the second he stepped in.

She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him, taking in the slightly rumpled clothes, the faint flush still clinging to his neck, the general vibe of a man who had not, in fact, spent “twenty minutes fixing a sink.”

She hummed, deeply smug. “Must’ve been one hell of a sink.”

“Oh, shut up.”

A/N:

Hello, hello, hope you enjoyed my attempt to create smut <3<3<3

[loveharlow]

↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ DON'T WANNA FALL IN LOVE

Dennis Whitaker x Combat-Medic!Reader

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ Returning back to PTMC after serving as an active Combat-Medic isn't the easiest, but familiar faces make it easier...newer ones, too

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ swearing, medical trauma, clinical procedures, emotional distress, mild injury

"I told you she wasn't dead!"

Before you could even brace yourself, a flash of blonde hair collided with you. Mel threw her arms around you, squeezing for a second before pulling herself away sheepishly.

PTMC looked the same, never changing. It was still crowded, hectic, and too small but the familiar faces made it worth the while.

"You look so different," Mel smiled, locking her eyes on you, scanning your face frantically. "D-did you eat while you were gone? When was the last time you slept?" She rambled, concerned. "Sorry, it's just, I can see the dark circles under your eyes and—" She stopped herself, taking a deep breath. "Sorry. Sorry. Welcome back."

You managed a small, genuine smile—the first one in months. "Nice to see you again, Mel." You breathed through a small laugh. "I missed you."

"We missed you," a voice broke in.

Samira stepped forward, her expression calm, but there was a warmth in her eyes. She didn't offer a super dramatic hug or a loud greeting. She just placed a hand on your shoulder, looking at you with the silent comradery.

You'd first met Mel and Samira while working at the VA Hospital before moving onto The Pitt. Their faces being the first ones you see when returning back after a two-year long stint as a Combat-Medic was more than comforting.

"Well, that's a face I haven't seen in a while," a familiar voice echoed from the corridor as Al-Hashimi strode out, a grin splitting her face. You'd met her at the VA as well, alongside Mel and Samira. She was a great mentor. But you didn't know she was at PTMC.

"Baran?" You started, surprised, before recomposing yourself. "I mean, Doctor Al-Hashimi, what are you doing here?" You asked, a small smile on your face as you offered the woman a light hug.

"My work at the VA was done." She explained. "I wanted to implement my quality improvements at other ED's, starting with PTMC."

"That's amazing," you supported. "I'm really glad it all worked out."

"Me too," She nodded, straightening herself out. "I'm glad to have you, doctor. We could use the extra hands, right now—"

"Let the kid breathe, Al-Hashimi," a dry voice cut through.

You turned and Abbott was leaning against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest with a smug smirk on his face. His sharp eyes flicked over your stance, taking in the tactical gear, the way your hand hovered naturally near your medical kit, and the stiffness in your frame.

"I figured you’d either come back a hero or end up face-down in a muddy trench somewhere out there," Abbott said, his dark humor something you'd never forget. He walked over, laying a firm hand on your shoulders. "Good to see you didn't let them kill you, kid."

You chuckled under your breath, though painful memories flashed behind the dark of your eyelids, but only for a moment. Abbott was the one who'd presented the Combat-Medic opportunity to you. You were very close to him during your time in The Pitt, starting as part of the night shift. He'd told you all about his time serving as a Combat-Medic in the Middle East, and although he'd lost a limb for it, he always talked about he didn't regret it.

When he'd heard from an old friend that they could use some help, he recalled the spark in your eyes whenever he told his stories and told them that he had just the right person, only if you were willing.

And, well...

"Missed you too, Abbott," you murmured, a sarcastic spark returning to your eyes. "Glad to see your bedside manner hasn't improved a bit."

THE warmth of the welcome you'd received faded the second you really stepped into the Pitt's main medical bay. Everyone had welcomed you back and congratulated you, happy to see you alive and back in one piece.

But you were having a harder time than you anticipated. The loud chatter made it hard to focus, the screams and cries from patients had you centering yourself. But you couldn't show any of that, especially not on your first day back. Not when everyone was happy that you were fine, because that was the way they needed you to be.

Your hands, shaking, immediately went to work, keeping your mind from drifting to the old sounds of artillery and people in immense pain as a war raged outside. You spent the first hour cleaning, sorting, and organizing the surgical tools—lining up scalpel handles, forceps, and retractor blades. You couldn't stand a messy bay, not anymore. In the field, misplaced tools meant one less soldier saved.

You were just finishing wiping down a metal tray when the heavy double doors of the clinic were sliding open.

"Hey, we need a doctor out here now!" A man bellowed. "He’s dying!" At the outburst, your head whipped towards the doors.

Two burly steelworkers burst into the room, hauling a third man between them. He was drenched in dark, slick blood, his face a terrifying shade of gray.

Within a half a second, you cursed to yourself, eyes scanning for any attending in the bay—Abbott, Al-Hashimi, Robby—but you saw no one. Not even Dana who was usually glued to the front desk.

You were the only doctor around able to help.

"Shit," You muttered under your breath, walking away from where you were cleaning supplies and towards the men, pointing them to any empty room. "Put him on that table!" you barked "Now, please!".

The workers trudged him into the room and let him fall onto the metal table. You snatched up a pair of gloves, slid them on, and tore open his shirt with a pair of trauma shears, your eyes instantly assessing the damage.

It was bad—a massive piece of shrapnel had torn through his right upper chest, fracturing the clavicle and lacerating a major branch of the subclavian artery. Blood was welling up violently, but there were spurts of bright arterial blood underneath and his breathing was a horrifying mess of wet gurgles.

"Tension pneumothorax and a major vascular tear," you muttered to yourself.

"A what?" One of the men breathed, exhausted and confused. You shook your head, dismissing him. This guy's blood pressure was dropping fast and his pulse under your fingers was faint. You looked around outside the bay, spotting help.

"Princess," You called, stopping the nurse in her tracks as she turned to you with wide eyes. "Get me a vascular clamp and a chest tube kit," you ordered to her as she nodded. She started rifling through a supply cart just outside of the room, throwing her hands up as she looked at you seconds later.

"We don't have any sterile vascular clamps left in this tray!" she panicked. "A-and the chest tube kits are locked in the back storage, Robby has the key—"

"Where's Robby?" You asked, still focusing on your patient.

"He's in Trauma Two," she told you. "He said that if anyone needed him, to say that he'll be a minute—"

"He doesn't have a minute!" you raised your voice just as you felt movement halt beneath your fingers, eyes refocusing on the man below you.

His chest had stopped rising entirely. His trachea was shifting to the left—his collapsing right lung was building up so much trapped air pressure it was literally pushing his heart out of place.

He was dying. And you the immediate tightness in your chest meant that you couldn't let that happen.

And you didn't think, you didn't have time.

"What's goin' on?" Abbott appeared, basically skirting to a stop at the door of the room. You stuck a hand out in his direction, ignoring his question.

"Give me your multi-tool," you ordered.

With a half second's hesitation, Abbott pulled his heavy-duty tactical multi-tool from his belt and flicked open the needle-nose pliers as you took it from his grasp. You snatched up a bottle of iodine that was laying nearby, dumped it directly over the pliers, and then plunged your gloved fingers straight into the tearing wound in the man's chest.

"Hey—"

"What the hell're you doin'?!"

The workers gasped, backing away in horror. You ignored them, your fingers feeling past the shredded muscle until you felt the warm, pulsing tear of the artery.

Using the iodine-soaked pliers as an improvised vascular clamp, you clamped down hard on the vessel, the arterial spurting stopping almost instantly.

You breathed, letting your shoulders fall a bit. "I need a line," you muttered, your eyes scanning the room.

"I don't see one," Abbott threw out, watching you from where he stood, an unreadable look on his face. He didn't know whether to stop you or help you.

And since was no sterile chest tube, your eyes locked onto a clean piece of flexible plastic tubing connected to an unused suction gauge on the wall. You ripped it down, sliced a section off with your shears, and grabbed a sterile latex glove from the box.

Using your shears, you cut the middle finger off the latex glove, slipped it over one end of the plastic tube, and tied it tight with a piece of surgical silk.

Abbott continued to stand by, watching in awe as you practically just built a makeshift Heimlich valve in front of him out of nothing, clasping his hands as he shifted his stance, glancing back at Princess who was also watching with a hanging jaw.

With a scalpel, you made a lightning-fast incision in his second intercostal space, jammed a pair of forceps in to pop the pleura, and slid your improvised tube straight into his chest cavity.

A loud hiss of trapped air exploded out of the tube, spraying a fine mist of blood against your scrubs as the latex glove finger fluttered violently, letting the air escape. Almost instantly, the gurgling stopped, and the man’s chest rose in a deep breath, his pulse under your fingers growing stronger.

You stood there, chest heaving, covered in blood and still holding the multi-tool pliers clamped inside the man's chest.

"...What the fuck?"

Robby's voice echoed as he marched into the bay. He was wedged between Princess and Abbott as he took one look at you, the blood-splattered walls, the plastic tube sticking out of the patient's chest with a piece of a rubber glove dangling off it, his face turning bright red as his lips curled.

"Are you completely insane?!" Robby shouted, marching up to the table. "Your first day back and you use my ED as your playground?" He reprimanded, throwing a hand out in the unconscious mans direction.

"Doctor Robby—" You started just to be cut off, watching some of the other doctors gather outside of the door.

"I don't even know how many violations I'm looking at!" He laughed humorlessly, hands above his head. "You are using unsterilized, non-medical hardware inside a patient's thoracic cavity! This is malpractice, unsanitary, and you could have killed him!"

"C'mon, Robby," Abbott started with his arms crossed, Robby's fury turning towards the other attending.

He scoffed. "And I'm assuming you, what? You co-signed this?" He accused. "This isn't a goddamn battlefield, we have rules here—"

"The rules would have had him in the morgue five minutes ago," you said, your voice clipped as you kept your hand perfectly still, maintaining the clamp on the artery. Robby turned to you, nostrils flared. "He had a tension pneumothorax, his heart was compressing, and had I waited for you, he’d be dead." You quipped, eyes locked on Robby. "I stabilized the airway and controlled the hemorrhage. As any doctor would."

Behind him, Abbott smiled, lowering his head to hide it.

"With a piece of wall tubing and a pair of pliers?!" Robby yelled, his voice cracking. "I—"

"Oh, let it go, Robby," Abbott interrupted, stepping forward now, a faint grin playing on his lips. "The kid just performed a miracle with a multi-tool and a prayer. Look at the monitor," He motioned towards the machine. "The guy’s breathing, his heart rate is stable, and he’s alive. If it were up to your protocol, we’d be measuring him for a coffin right now."

"He's right, Robby," Al-Hashimi added, walking into the bay with a look of pure awe on her face as her eyes scanned over everything. "While I can agree that this was far from conventional and probably legal, she did what she could." Al-Hashimi defended as Robby shook his head. "Give her a break."

Robby sputtered, looking between Abbott’s proud stare, Al-Hashimi’s smirk, and your unwavering gaze, waiting for whatever happened next. Realizing he was completely outnumbered, he threw his hands up in defeat. "Y'know what? Fuck it," He gave up, sliding through Abbott and Al-Hashimi, and past the small crowd outside of the room to leave. "But when this patient develops an infection, or dies, it’s on your head." He scolded, pointing a finger on you as he spun on his heel and stormed out.

You let out a long breath, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. Abbott walked over, gently taking the handle of the multi-tool from your steady hands. "I'll hold the line while you get some proper sutures to tie that artery off, Doc." He lessened your load, patting you lightly on the back. "Welcome back to the Pitt."

BY the time the evening rolled around, the adrenaline from the morning had entirely burned out, leaving you with a hollow, heavy exhaustion. Your patient was resting comfortably in the back ward, pumped full of antibiotics and properly sutured by now.

You were leaving his room after checking on him, closing the door behind you as you entered the relatively empty hallway—a hallway that wasn't crowded with patients and doctors when a sudden crash echoed from further down the hall, followed by a muffled groan.

You flinched, spinning around and in a split second, you bolted toward the sound.

Rounding the corner, you saw the source of the noise.

Kneeling on the floor, pressing against his leg, was Dennis Whitaker—one of the newer residents you had met earlier in the day. A fully-equipped supply cart was lying across the lower half of his leg as his face twisted in pain.

"Whitaker!" you breathed, dropping to your knees right beside him.

He looked up, his face pale, sweat beading along his forehead. "Y-you remember my name?" His breathing was shallow and ragged.

You sighed, fixing him with a look of pity. "Yes, I remembered your name. Why wouldn't I?" You assured, focusing on his leg, not noticing that his own eyes were glued to you. "Shit, you're bleeding. Let me move the cart," You explained, standing and taking the cart with you, standing it upright before kneeling back down.

"Hey," he managed, a strained, stubborn attempt at a smile flitting across his lips. "I, uh, I heard about what you did this morning, and I just wanted to say that I thought it was really cool—"

"Stop talking," you ordered gently but firmly, your hands already moving. You pulled his hands away from the wound and rolled the end of his pants up.

It was nothing serious but between the sharp objects and the cart and, seemingly the way he fell, his foot was twisted at an unnatural angle, and there was a fairly deep lash on his calf.

"Your knee is dislocated and you need stitches," you said, your voice tight as you pinched your eyebrows together, trailing your fingers lightly down his leg.

Dennis groaned, throwing his head back. "Great. One more thing for Santos to make fun of me for..." He sighed, dropping his head to look at his injury, then you, his jaw clenching as another wave of pain hit him. "So... what's the play, Doc?"

You looked into his eyes, your expression dead serious. "Well, I could drag you back to Ortho and let you wait for one of their slow ass doctors to help you," You started, making Whitaker laugh, a small smile gracing your face. "Or I could do it myself." You offered, locking eyes with the doctor. "It'd be a bit.. unconventional. And it’s going to hurt like hell."

Dennis stared at you, mild fear in his eyes. He admired looked at your face, but more importantly, he looked at the absolute confidence in your eyes.

He had heard about what you did this morning. And surprisingly, it made him trust you.

Whitaker let out a ragged breath, leaning his head back against the linoleum and he splayed out, reaching out and fisting his scrubs in his hands. "I trust you," he breathed out, his voice thick with pain but entirely sincere as he closed his eyes and nodded in your direction. "Do it."

Your heart strangely fluttered against your ribs at his words—I trust you—people usually doubted you because of your age, or feared your intensity and methods. You found yourself staring at him for a moment as he held his eyes shut, waiting for you to fix him, when you spotted a figure at the end of the hall.

You snapped yourself out of whatever trance you'd found yourself in, noting the slight heat in your cheeks, but locking your emotions away. "Doctor Abbott!" you shouted, the older man lifting his head and slowing in his tracks. "I need you in here to hold his shoulders." You waved him over.

"Woo, Whitaker," Abbott amused himself, smirking as he kneeled and steadied the younger male's shoulders. "You sure are taking a lot of falls today, huh?" He teased.

Unknown to you, Abbott had caught Whitaker with his eyes glued to you the second you introduced yourself.

"Stop, please," Whitaker hissed, pinching his eyes open to glare at the older man.

Abbott chuckled, taking one look at the leg and Dennis’s white-knuckled grip on his shirt, and nodded. "Ready when you are, Doc."

You wrapped your hands firmly around Dennis’s ankle and heel, bracing your own foot against the base of the wall to give yourself maximum leverage.

"Hey, Whitaker, look at me," you commanded.

Dennis forced his eyes open, locking his gaze onto yours.

"On three," you said calmly, offering a soft, fleeting smile. Dennis nodded back, shakily, before you took a breath. "Count with me, okay?" You started. "One,"

And before you even reached two, you threw your entire body weight backward, pulling the leg with everything you had, twisting the foot sharply to the left and shoving it violently upward and forward, the bone making an audible 'pop' back into place.

Dennis let out a strangled, roaring scream that tore through the clinic, his body jerking violently against Abbott’s grip as he tried to shoot upright. The veins in his neck and arms bulged, and his eyes rolled back slightly as his body absorbed the pain of the bone resetting.

"H-Holy—!"

"There," you breathed, a massive wave of relief washing over you as you leaned back on your heels. "Now, you should be good to stitch yourself up."

Abbott let go of Dennis’s shoulders, patting the man on the chest. "Good job. You handled that better than most." Abbott glanced at you, a mischievous look in his eye. "I'll...go grab a suture kit."

Abbott got up and walked back down the hall, leaving the two of you alone.

The silence that settled was awkward and suffocating, Dennis laying on the floor, biting the inside of his cheek as you stared at his frame blankly.

You were still kneeling at his feet, your hands lightly resting on his ankle to keep it steady. You slowly looked up, your eyes traveling up his long legs, past his broad chest, until you met his face.

Dennis was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged drafts. But he wasn't looking at his leg. He was staring straight down at you.

His eyes were filled with a mixture of pain, relief, and something else—something warm and soft that you weren't exactly prepared for.

You froze under his gaze, body stiffening. And for a long, agonizingly beautiful moment, neither of you said a word, the only sound being the chatter that was traveling from Central.

As you stared back at him, a sudden, intrusive, thought wiggled its way into your mind—Oh. He’s actually really cute.

You noticed the sharpness of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth even when tight with pain, and the comfort of his presence. After being surrounded by soldiers—big, muscly, serious men—Dennis was intriguing to you.

A fierce blush erupted across your cheeks, traveling all the way to the tips of your ears. Your chest tightened, and your heart began to thump against your ribs.

What are you doing? your brain interrupted. You are a doctor. And you haven’t been in a relationship in years.

The sudden rush of romantic feelings felt completely foreign, and terrifying, after not experiencing them for years like a normal person. You didn't know how to handle a crush.

You abruptly pulled your hands away from Whitaker's ankle as if he had burned you and scrambled to your feet, nearly tripping, your face completely flushed.

"Right, okay, um," you blurted out, your voice a little too high, a little too fast, entirely stripping away your usual cool. "The bone is aligned, and I'm sure Doctor Abbott will be back in a second with the suture...stuff." You rambled calmly. "Just, um, wait for him and don't move. I have to... go check—yeah. And the...yeah, see you around, Whitaker." You bid farewell, turning away and practically sprinting down the hall with your eyes glued shut in embarrassment.

Dennis blinked, completely startled by your sudden exit. He opened his mouth, his hand reaching out slightly. "Wait, I didn't even get to say—" But you were already gone, your feet clattering against the floor as you fled the room. "...Thank you."

Dennis sat back against the wall, confused, staring at the wall across from. He let out a breathless, slightly confused chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

A second later, Abbott walked back down the hall, carrying the suture supplies. He looked at the empty hallway, then looked down at Dennis’s utterly bewildered, dazed expression.

Abbott let out a low, dry chuckle, shaking his head as he dropped the supplies onto the floor.

"Good luck with that one, kid," He said, his voice dripping with dry amusement.

Dennis frowned, looking up at him as the man kneeled beside him, pulling out the supplies. "What's that supposed to mean?" Whitaker asked, concerned now. "Did I do something wrong?"

Abbott started to thread the needle, his cynical, sarcastic demeanor softening.

"When it comes to doctors who have done serious combat time—military, frontlines, SWAT like me—it changes them," Abbott said quietly, his eyes focused on his work. "Out there, your brain drops everything that isn't necessary to live. Romance, crushes, feelings... all that normal civilian stuff? It gets completely thrown out. It’s a luxury you can’t afford when people are dying in your hands every day and there's brutality everywhere you look."

Dennis listened intently, his eyes softening as he looked toward the corridor you had disappeared down.

"She’s...young, too," Abbott continued, looking up to meet Dennis's eyes. "But she’s spent the earliest years of her adult life in situations that most people only hear on the news. And she probably hasn't really had time for anyone, or had anyone look out for her, in a very, very long time."

"...She looked terrified," Dennis murmured softly, wincing as Abbott go to work on his leg.

"She was," Abbott nodded, a faint, empathetic smile touching his lips. "That kid's just spent two years in a warzone. She comes back to the Pitt, her guard is up, her brain is wired for the worst. And then, on her very first day back, she looks at a guy—a co-worker—and realizes she likes what she sees." He shrugs, a smirk on his face. "She's different. Troubled. And while I have no doubt that she could probably patch a torn artery in four minutes flat," He tilts his head, curling his lips. "A normal human feeling is probably the one thing she doesn't know how to handle anymore."

[jacksrabbitt]

blueberry pancakes

summary: spending a soft, slow, sunday morning with your boyfriend dennis whitaker leads to a failed attempt at making breakfast

content warnings: afab, f!reader, gf!reader, super fluffy, dennis and reader are described to have woken up in only undergarments but no smut/suggestiveness otherwise, kissing, dennis is touchy, reader referred to as '(my) baby,' 'love,' 'sweet girl,' and 'darling'; dennis is referred to as 'baby,' 'handsome boy,' and 'honey. that's it!

as you blearily blink open your eyes, the sight you're met with is a rather delicious one.

to your left, dennis is starfished out on his stomach in his big bed, the sheets resting at his hips, his upper body bare. as if he can sense that you've awoken, his arm comes over to drape over your bare waist, hand sliding up to trace over the clasp of your bra.

"can i help you?" you whisper teasingly through a giggle, swatting his hand away just to snuggle under his arm, "good morning, handsome boy."

he chuckles lowly, lifting his arm so you can burrow against him. "ah! your nose is cold, baby," he groans at the feel of the icy thing poking his warm, bare shoulder. "you freak."

you pay his comment no acknowledgment except for a nip to his shoulder. "you're off today, right?" you confirm, earning a nod from him against your head. his lips come down to press warmly to your forehead. "mmm..."

"aw, my baby," he coos gently, clearing his throat to eliminate the sleepiness. "yes, i'm off today. so are you, yeah? amazing."

your hands roam his back, going down to his boxer waistband and back up to his shoulders. "ah, i love you," you sigh, making dennis sigh as well.

"i love you, too, darling," he groans, sitting up against the headboard now. he tugs you atop of him to straddle his hips, leaning forward to press his forehead into your soft chest. his arms lock around your waist, using you like some sort of teddy bear. it's a bear hug in every sense of the word.

you giggle, "dennyyy!" you whine, but he just wraps his arms tighter, like a vice.

"mm, you're too sweet and cozy, baby, i can't help it," he protests, but ultimately releases you from his hold.

he pats your hip. "cmon, up. i'll make breakfast."

once you both crawl out of bed and slip on some clothes--you, some shorts and a t-shirt; him, some pajama pants slung low on his hips--dennis departs to the kitchen to cook while you make the bed. he's quiet, careful not to wake trinity as he grabs a pan and some plates.

you can tell just from the ingredients he gathered that he's making your favorite: his blueberry pancakes. to you, there's nobody who makes better blueberry pancakes than your lover, dennis whitaker.

nobody.

you pad over to him, your socked feet pitter-pattering against the hardwood. you stop behind his taller frame, arms wrapping around his waist as your head falls between his shoulder blades.

"hi, sweet girl," he murmurs while he waits to flip two pancakes, reaching a free hand back to pat the top of your head affectionately. "you didn't have to make the bed, y'know. i plan to snuggle with you in there all day anyway."

you giggle softly. "mm. hi, honey. you're so warm and cozy..." you hum, breathing in the mix of cologne and dennis that clings to him. "it's just habit to make the bed. sorry, denny."

he chuckles. "it's okay. you're feeling so lovey this morning, aren't you, baby?" he coos, turning around briefly to kiss your hairline. his big hands cup your face as he coaxes your big, sleepy eyes to meet his.

when they finally do, he coos once more. "fuck, you're pretty," he sighs before pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your left eyelid, your right, then your nose, and each of your cheeks. then, last but not least, your pretty lips.

you pull away gently after a moment, smiling up at him sweetly. he can literally feel his heart melting, turning into goo in his chest right then and there. you're so fucking cute to him--maybe it's cuteness aggression.

"oh, shit! den, the pancakes!" you squeal, reaching behind him to quickly take the burning pancakes off the pan and plate them.

you giggle uncontrollably as he panics. "oh, shit, baby!" he exclaims, voice cracking with distress. he laughs nervously, tossing the two burnt-to-a-crisp pancakes in the trash. "thank goodness you caught that, baby. otherwise trinity would've eaten us alive for setting the fire alarm off."

you can't stop laughing, replaying in your head the panic on his face when he realized what happened. "denny- you- ha! you looked you scared-"

he picks you up, tickling your sides, happy to listen to your squeals and giggles. "such a brat," he teases. "would you still be laughing if i actually burnt the apartment complex down, huh?"

you squeak. "yeah, i would be, cus ya looked so funny!"

"you're so mean to your poor, old boyfriend, love. where'd my sweet girl go, huh?"

"old? you're 27, den."

"i have an old soul," he pouts, burying his face in your neck. "you know me."

despite yourself, you can't help but smile fondly and bring your fingers to his hair to scritch softly at his scalp beneath his curls. "yeah, i do know you, honey. real well."

[timothyolyphant]

im being so brave about this

[escapi3m]

Non-displaced

Pairing: Frank Langdon x f!reader

Summary: a car accident. an er bay. and the moment you realize loving someone means letting them worry.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries related to a car accident (nothing too graphic).

Notes: established relationship.

word count: 1,343

a/n: Inspired by my recent very real car accident (how fun) however, instead of Frank I had my lovely roommate to put me back together 😭

You laid in the hospital bed in the ER bay, staring up at the ceiling and cursing yourself for the entire situation. It wasn’t your fault, at least that’s what the police told you, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that if you had been a tad more attentive, you wouldn’t be here.

You prayed that Frank wouldn’t find out. Not yet. You loved that man dearly, but you knew when it came to any issues involving you, he tended to panic. He had taught you every safety precaution in the book, especially when it came to driving. He always talked about how many car accident injuries came through the ER every day. And here you were, one of them.

Your collarbone ached like hell, and the blood on your forehead began to seep through the gauze a nurse had applied earlier. The accident happened so quickly, you hadn’t even been able to wrap your ahead around what happened before someone pulled you out of the car and you were suddenly on your way to PTMC.

Please, please let it be any other doctor. He’ll worry too much. He always does. I don’t want to be a distraction.

A couple minutes later, the curtain was pulled open and thank God.

“Whitaker!” you forced brightness into your voice, though it came out thin, a little shaky.

Dennis spoke your name cautiously before clearing his throat.

“Car accident, huh?” he said calmly.

“Yeah, someone ran a red,” you affirmed.

He nodded.

“Sorry to hear that, we’ll get you fixed up,” he raised his brow, “do you want me to get Langdon?”

Your eyes widened, “no!- no, sorry, I just…he’ll freak out.”

Whitaker understood. You knew he would, he worked with Frank everyday, he knew his character. However, it seemed that neither your wishes nor his would matter, because as Whitaker began to slip on gloves to start the exam, Langdon snuck in behind him. He was quiet at first. You didn’t even notice him as your eyes flicked back to the ceiling and your thoughts began to swirl.

Then you heard his voice. Frank saying your name in the most devastating tone.

Your eyes immediately found his.

For a second, you didn’t move.

The room felt smaller. Too quiet.

Your breathing hadn’t felt like too much of an issue until this moment.

“Frank, I—” The words died in your throat.

“Whitaker, you can go,” Frank asserted, his tone low and commanding.

Whitaker looked like a deer caught in headlights, his eyes silently asking for your approval. You gave him a nod, and he turned to leave.

This left you alone with your handsome boyfriend, who stood rigid at the foot of the bed, dark eyes frantic as they traced every visible injury, his expression torn between wanting to strangle you and wrap you in bubble wrap for the rest of your life.

“Hi,” you greeted. Your voice was weaker than you had hoped.

“You didn’t call me,” he breathed, clearly upset.

“You were busy and I’m okay.”

He shook his head immediately.

“No, you’re not. And this is important,” his voice cracked with frustration. “Things like this are fucking important.”

You saw the mix of emotions wash over his face. His brow scrunched as he lifted his hand to his forehead, trying to find the words, his voice low when he finally spoke again.

“You’re hurt…and I’m a doctor”

You ignored his statement. Though technically as your boyfriend he shouldn’t be treating you at all, you knew emotions and technicality weren’t always the best combination.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you muttered, jaw tightening.

“That’s the problem,” he snapped, “You never let me!”

You flinched slightly when he yelled which in turn made your chest ache and eyes squint.

You watched the immediate regret wash over his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he muttered moving closer to the hospital bed.

He paused for a moment, eyes on yours again but this time appearing softer. You tried to analyze his expression as he collected his thoughts.

He reached out a placed his hand around your wrist.

“God, I’m not mad. I just can’t stand to see you hurt.” His expression was unbearably defeated.

Frank got to work shortly after that, changing the gauze on your forehead, apologizing and whispering endearments every time you winced. The way your heart swelled from every soft you’re doing great and good girl made the pain in your body feel like an afterthought.

He listened to your breathing intently and, with a sigh, said, “seems like a slight pneumothorax.”

Then came your chest, where he palpated carefully until he reached one spot on your collarbone and you yelped.

“Holy fuck.”

He removed his hands immediately.

“May have a fracture. Can you lift your right arm above your head?”

You tried. You really did, but pain shot through you, white hot and unforgiving, and your arm dropped back to the mattress.

“My poor girl,” he sighed, placing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Okay. You’re going to need some X-rays and I’ll order a chest CT just to be safe.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. You didn’t think anything you could add would be the right thing. All that came out was, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he shook his head, “shit, no, don’t be.”

“I’m sorry I snapped, I was scared, when I saw your name on our charts earlier, I fucking lost it.”

His gaze lingered on the bruising from the seatbelt that began to creep across your chest and up your neck. He stared at the bruising like it was evidence of a crime he hadn’t been there to stop and you realized then that this was what scared him most. Not the injuries. The minutes he hadn’t been able to protect you.

A couple seconds later he shifted reaching to grab some pain killers.

“Here take these, they will take the edge off,” he spoke placing the pills in your hand.

You took them and exhaled, “my car is pretty fucked”

“Well I don’t care about the car,” he admitted, “I care that you’re breathing.”

Before you could respond, a nurse peeked in, letting you know radiology was ready. Frank squeezed your hand once more before stepping back, slipping effortlessly into doctor mode.

“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” he promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As they wheeled you down the hall, pain meds beginning to dull the sharp edges, you realized something important. That all along it had been your fear of imposing on to other people that kept you swallowing your pain on your own. However, watching Frank unravel to show that you mattered demonstrated that by keeping others in the dark you were only hurting them.

You hadn’t imposed on him by getting hurt.

You hadn’t burdened him by needing care.

You had simply been loved.

And when Frank met you outside radiology, eyes tired but unwavering, you knew he wasn’t angry. He was just grateful he hadn’t lost you.

So it turned out you weren’t as invincible as you had hoped and your collarbone was in fact fractured. You were quick to be fitted with a sling to stabilize the break.

“Non-displaced fracture,” he said. “Which is good. Painful as hell, but good.”

You huffed weakly. “Love that for me.”

He smirked lightly, “listen to me, okay?”

You nodded meeting his gaze. “Sling stays on all the time, six to eight weeks. You can take it off briefly if you’re seated and stable, but no lifting, no reaching, no trying to be brave.”

Your jaw was on the floor.

“This sounds like a nightmare”

“You’ll get through it” he affirmed with steady eye contact, his hand resting against your jaw.

He continued, “but this means you will need help, meaning you will be staying with me. It’s about time you lived with me anyway”

You didn’t think your jaw could drop any further but it did.

You cleared your throat, “so this is a medical recommendation?”

“Doctor’s orders”

[bounty-jes]

loverboy

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Dennis Whitaker x f!reader

content: dennis and reader are married, she/her pronouns for reader, pet names (sweetheart, baby), dubious medical talk, cursing, reader took the Whitaker surname, no use of y/n, implied bisexual reader (bc im in love with dana)

word count: 5.3 k

summary: four times Dennis’ coworkers wanted to meet his wife and the one time they did

notes: as a midwestern girlie myself, i would 100% bake for these people. like, they deserve it and food is THE love language of the midwest. ALSO yes i know that it should be dennis’s but i fucking hate the way that looks so you can read dennis’ instead (i am allowed to do this as a person whose name ends with an s)

line dividers from @hyuneskkami

1. Robby

Dennis Whitaker isn’t what most would consider a private person. His coworkers know about his brothers and his hometown and his nieces and nephews, he just never mentioned a love life of any kind. They had assumed it was because his love life didn’t exist. It’s typical with med students, focused on school and their internship. Too busy to find time for another person in their hectic lives. No one judged him. Really, they understood. Then, a few weeks after his graduation, Dennis walks into work with a gold band shining on his left ring finger. 

Most of his coworkers didn’t even notice it at first. The ED is a place where people wear gloves more often than not. Bare hands are rarer than covered ones. Robby is the first one to spot it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just shakes Dennis’ hand and shoots him a quiet congrats, kid. It’s not until Trinity spots the new jewelry that everyone finds out. Because Trinity Santos cannot keep her mouth shut to save her own life.

“You’re married!”

“Um, yeah?” Dennis rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He’s not sure if it’s always been a habit of his or if he picked it up from Robby. What he is sure of is that he hates the way every single doctor and nurse within earshot turns to study Dennis. Like he’s their newest toy. The grin on Princess’ face almost makes him wish he had stayed in bed with you this morning. (He wishes that every morning, though.)

“When did that happen?” It’s Mel’s voice this time. No judgement. No gleam in her eye. Just genuine curiosity that makes Dennis want to hug her. 

“After I graduated. We, uh, we’ve been dating since high school.” And Dennis hates how much his voice shakes. He should be able to boast about you to anyone who will listen because you’re the most amazing person he knows. But his cheeks are hot and his throat feels just a little tight. Dennis can see Trinity open her mouth, no doubt about to make fun of him for marrying his high school sweetheart. Then Dana is stepping in front of him, shooing away nosy residents with a wave of her hand and a single noise. Robby’s hand is on her shoulder again. 

“If you ever want to bring her with you after work, feel free.” Robby’s voice is soft and deep, a smile on his face that says nothing except pride. Dennis nods slowly and Robby squeezes his shoulder once before pulling back.

Dennis practically stumbles through the door. It’s late. A bit later than he wishes it was. The shift ran long because of a multi-vehicle crash on the highway. They didn’t lose anyone, but it was a hard-fought battle. Dennis can still smell blood in his nostrils. 

“Denny? That you?” Your voice is like a balm on the exhausted open wound that is Dennis Whitaker. He makes his way toward the living room of your tiny shared apartment to see you sitting on the couch. The television plays some nature documentary that he’s sure you’re not watching. You look over the back of the couch and smile so warmly that Dennis thinks he might melt. “Welcome home, baby. Dinner is staying warm in the oven for you.”

“I love you so much.” He can’t help muttering as he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You just laugh, reaching back to pat his hip before pushing off the couch. 

You follow Dennis into the kitchen, sitting at the rickety dining table with exactly two chairs at it. He pulls out the food you left in the oven, carrying it over to the table, just short of collapsing into the chair. You watch as he eats, crumbs falling back onto his plate, unable to hold back a smile. You’ve known the man for two decades and he still doesn’t know how to eat without making a mess. 

“So…how did it go?” You reach out to run a finger over Dennis’ wedding band. The gold is scuffed and scratched in a few places. You bought your rings together at a thrift store, old and used but no less loved. He flips his hand over, intertwining your fingers.

“Trin was loud. But Robby said you’re invited to our after-work hangout. If you ever want to.” Dennis pauses, running his thumb over your knuckles with such gentle reverence you would think he’d studied you in undergrad instead of theology. “They, uh, they want to meet you.”

“Do you want me to meet them?” You ask quietly, keeping your eyes on Dennis’ hand in yours. He squeezes slightly and you already know the answer. As much as Dennis loves his coworkers, there’s something about you being his and only his. Not having to combine his home and work lives. It gives him an escape. You just squeeze back, finally meeting his eyes. “Wanna wait a little longer?”

“I’m sorry.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. You just smile, running your free hand through his curls. He lets out a breath you’re sure he hadn’t known he was holding. “You are the most amazing wife ever, Mrs. Whitaker.”

“And you are the best husband I could ever want, Dr. Whitaker.” You pull back, standing from the chair with a creak of the old wood. “Now, come on. Shower, then bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

2. Dana

“What d’ya got there, kid?” Dana’s voice cuts through Dennis’ thoughts and he looks down at the large foil pan in his arms. Like, so big he needs both arms to carry it. He smiles that signature shaky smile and awkwardly readjusts the pan in his hold.

“Treats. From Mrs. Whitaker.” He can’t help the way he straightens up a bit when he says it. He loves that he gets to call you that now. Dennis told you at least five times the night before that you did not have to bake anything for his coworkers. You steadfastly ignored him as you carefully measured out the ingredients. He only stopped after five because you looked so cute with flour on your nose. Dennis peels back the lid to reveal chocolate and caramel and oats in some kind of layer bar, already cut and carefully arranged in the foil pan. Dennis doesn’t know what exactly went into them. He’s no chef. If it were up to him, Dennis would eat strictly fast food, takeout, and frozen dinners. “They’re carmelitas, I think?”

Dana reaches in and grabs one, taking a bite before Dennis can even say anything. She lets out a noise that Dennis really doesn’t want to hear from his coworker and shoves the rest of the square in her mouth.

“Whitaker, tell your wife that if she ever wants to divorce you, I am more than willing to take your place.” Dana mutters, grabbing another bar as she continues chewing. “Seriously, these things are gonna kill me and it’ll be worth it.”

“Aren’t you married?”

Dana just laughs, turning away without another word. Dennis can only shrug, continuing his journey to the staff break room to place the foil pan on the small counter by the fridge. He pulls the little paper sign you made out of his bag, placing it next to the tray before heading toward his locker. 

It takes about thirty seconds for every single nurse and doctor in the Pitt to realize they’ve been offered a sweet treat. Even the night shift stops by the break room on their way out. Dennis personally gets pats on the back from Dr. Abbot and Robby and about ten other people who he’s not sure he’s ever met before today. It feels…nice? A bit strange, to be thanked and congratulated for something he didn’t even do.

The day is dreadfully slow. As much as Dennis hates the idea of people in pain, it's starting to grate at him by the end of the day. Only two ambulances came in, one of which was from the nearby old folk’s home. And most of the people in the waiting room either ate something bad and are overreacting or are straight-up rude. It’s trying, but Dennis supposes it’s better than losing patients.

By the time he finally makes it around to the break room at the end of the day, hoping for a bite of the sweet treat you made, only crumbs are left in the bottom of the foil pan. He smiles. Not the shaky one he gives when people ask him questions (even when he knows the answer), but something soft and solid. Mostly because he knows how happy you’ll be when you find out that the staff of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Emergency Department are, on most days, hungrier than a pack of wild hyenas. 

“I think our grocery bills are about to go up.” Dennis murmurs against your head as he places his customary greeting kiss there. You look over the back of the couch to see him empty handed and you grin.

“Are you telling me I’m required to bake for your coworkers now?” You tease, turning to lean forward against the back of the couch. Dennis just raises a brow, grinning down at you. You two know each other better than you know yourselves some days. “I’m not complaining, baby. They can be my guinea pigs when I try new recipes. And you know me. I have no idea how to cook for less than twenty people.” Dennis laughs and you think it’s the most wonderful sound you’ll ever hear. “Plus, I’m not the one who pays for groceries.”

“About that—” Dennis tugs his phone out of his back pocket, clicking open the bank app. He grimaces at the Loans tab and focuses on his Checking. “I got my first paycheck. I thought I could help out with rent this month.”

You smile softly, reaching out to play with the longer curls at his nape. “Dennis, we agreed. I graduated and got a job so you could focus on your student loans. I pay rent and bills, you get groceries and my own resident fix-it man.” You press a kiss to his cheek.

“I want to help you out.”

“I know, baby. But I want to help you more.” Your eyes close as you tug Dennis’ forehead against yours. He hums out a long sigh and you laugh softly. He’ll bring it up again and it’ll go exactly the same. You think that’s okay if it means you get to hold him like this.

3. Trinity

Around an hour before his shift ends every day, Dennis starts counting down the minutes. It’s a bad habit. He knows. It disappoints him more often than not. When the shift handoff goes long or there’s some kind of last minute trauma. So, yeah, it’s a terrible habit to have. But he can’t help it. He’s not counting down until his shift ends. He’s counting down until he can see you again.

“Hey, Whitaker!” The voice that comes from behind Dennis is unmistakably Trinity’s. He’s honestly surprised she actually used his name. “The residents are going to the bar on Grant.” 

“Uh, good for you?” Dennis murmurs, glancing back at the clock. 6:52. He’s probably only got thirty minutes before he can leave if handoff goes well. Not likely, but he can hope. That means no more than forty-five minutes until he can see you again. Dennis loves his job. He just hates how often it keeps the two of you apart. 

“Huckleberry.” Dennis turns away from the clock, back to Trinity. She has the most unimpressed look on her face that Dennis has ever seen. “All the residents.” Dennis just tilts his head, nodding along slowly. Trinity sighs as he doesn’t answer and reaches out to grip his shoulders. “That includes you, Doc.” 

She says it like it’s obvious, but Dennis hadn’t actually considered the idea that he would be invited along. That he would go. He sees these people almost every day for over twelve hours. Does he really want to spend even more time with them?

(Yes. Dennis loves the people he works with. It took Dennis almost ten years to feel as comfortable around you as he does around his coworkers friends. Probably something to do with trauma bonding in a place where horrid sights outnumber the people who can help them.)

“Oh. Uh, sorry. Can’t. My wife is expecting me at home.” Dennis says, maybe a bit too quickly. It sounds like an excuse even to his own ears and Trinity has never been one to give up.

“C’mon, invite Mrs. Huckleberry along then. I, for one, would love to meet the woman who agreed to marry you.” She grins, jabbing at Dennis’ ribs with her shockingly sharp elbows. He can’t help smiling.

“I know. I’m lucky.” Dennis looks back over at Trinity to see her pretending to gag, fist in front of her mouth. He rolls his eyes and swats at her arm. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wife. Don’t worry, it only took me twenty years.”

“Twenty—I thought you were high school sweethearts.” Trinity stares at Dennis with wide eyes, brow furrowed tight as she looks him up and down.

“Well, yeah. But we’ve known each other since forever. I mean, there was only one school. And our year had a really small kindergarten class. It just…took me a while to finally ask her out.” Dennis smiles fondly at the memory. He had been continuously tripping over his words when you grabbed his—admittedly very sweaty—hands and said you’d love to go on a date with you, Dennis Whitaker. It was like his entire world paused for that single moment, captured in your warm gaze. Not that Dennis could ever tell Trinity that. She teased him enough already. 

“Nevermind. I don’t want to meet her if this is what I have to put up with.” Trinity actually shoves at his face with her hands, groaning as he laughs. 

“Do you really want to meet my coworkers?” Dennis asks, lights off as you both lay in bed. His warm chest is pressed against your back as he holds you against him. You always have trouble sleeping when he gets home late.

You shift, turning to face him. Light from the city outside your apartment illuminates his face. The window has curtains, Dennis just hasn’t gotten around to hanging them up yet. Always busy with work or spending time with you. Things that are more important than a piece of fabric. You don’t mind if it means you can see his face like this. 

“I mean, you seem really close. And it’d be nice to put a face to a name.” You lift a hand, running your fingers through his curls. He showered when he got home and his hair is still wet. He’ll wake up later, complaining about the damp spot on his pillow and move even closer to share yours. You’ll pretend to be annoyed. “But if you’re not ready for that, I can wait.”

“God, I don’t deserve you.” Dennis’ voice vibrates against the back of your neck, humid breath warming the skin. He wraps his arms tighter around your waist, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You let him, even though you would never leave. You think that even if Dennis tried to push you away, you would stay glued to his side. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Those were the vows you made when you married Dennis Whitaker. You had been practicing them in your head for almost a decade. 

“You’re stuck with me anyway, love.” You lift one of his hands to your lips, kissing the back softly. Sheets rustle as you tug them up over your shoulder. You press back against Dennis’ chest and hum softly. “Now go to sleep already.”

Dennis doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you impossibly closer and lets his eyes fall shut. Approximately three hours later, he shifts you both on the bed so his head rests on your pillow, murmuring something about how his pillow is wet. You pretend to be annoyed.

4. Mel

It’s a quiet day in the ED. Not that Dennis would ever say that out loud and risk incurring the wrath of whatever deity watches over the hospital. If any. So he keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the charts he’s been avoiding. Dennis prefers to chart by notepad, so he always ends up transcribing for hours on end. It’s a great way to practice his typing, he supposes. 

“Hey, Whitaker?” 

Dennis glances over to see Mel at the computer next to him, wringing her fingers nervously. He hums in reply, folding his notes away. Any excuse to avoid charting. His eyes feel like they’re about to slide out of their sockets.

“Why didn’t you tell any of us you were getting married?” Mel’s voice shakes slightly in that way Dennis has learned is low-level anxiety. The kind that builds the more you ignore it. In the half second before Dennis can speak, Mel is opening her mouth again, ears pink. “I just—I mean, we were all so surprised. And…well, I’ve never been to a wedding.” Dennis can’t help the tiny smile that grows on his lips, just barely quirking up. “Sorry, that was probably rude.”

“No, it’s just…” Dennis has to think for a moment. He loves you. He wants to show you off, let everyone know that you’ve already been snatched up. But, at the same time, he doesn’t want you to be connected to this part of his life. He doesn’t want the blood on his hands to stain his time with you. You’re his oasis from the world of antiseptic and death that he lives in every day. Compartmentalization, he’s heard it called before. It feels ugly to call it that. He doesn’t want to keep you hidden away in a box. But how the hell does he say that out loud? “Do you have someone that makes you just forget about all the bad things?”

The ED feels like it stops. Mel doesn’t answer for a moment, but her face is easy to read. She’s thinking about it. Like she wants to consider her answer before responding. Like it’s important. It makes something warm bloom in Dennis’ chest. 

“Becca. My sister. She, uh, yeah.”

“My wife, uh,” Your name rolls off his lips and he realizes that Mel is the first person he’s said it to. It’s always been my wife or Mrs. Whitaker. To define you as an individual, not simply an extension of Dennis, loosens something in the tense muscles of his shoulders. “She’s like, a break from it all? I just guess I don’t want to expose her to all this, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Mel’s voice is soft as she rolls closer. Her hand hovers near Dennis’ arm like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch him. Dennis leans to the side just enough to make contact and Mel’s hand presses against his bicep. “I understand.”

And it’s that easy. 

The two don’t speak after that, silently typing away in a never-ending attempt to catch up with charting. Keys clack as doctors and nurses alike scurry by, busy with their own tasks and patients. It creates a pattern of background noise that lets Dennis fall into a rhythm in his charting. He glances over at Mel once. She smiles like she understands. 

“I think you should meet my coworkers.” 

He says it suddenly as you curl against him on the couch. The television buzzes quietly in the background, forgotten as you shift to look at your husband. (Oh god, he’s your husband. That fact still amazes you sometimes.)

“What?” Your voice wobbles a bit as you hold back a surprised laugh. Dennis moves underneath you, something nervous rumbling in his chest. You run a hand up his neck, carding your fingers through his curls. He leans into the touch “Hey, you mean that?”

“Yeah, I—” Dennis breaths in slowly and releases his breath with the same careful consideration. “Mel asked today. About why, y’know? I was explaining it to her and it felt…like an excuse? I don’t want to keep you in a box. Like I’m ashamed of you or something—”

“Den, Dennis. Look at me, baby.” You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes shine wetly in the soft lamplight. The shadows on his face flicker as the TV continues to play, forgotten across the room. No matter how beautiful your husband may look in this moment, you hate to see him anything but happy. So you smile and press a soft kiss to one of his cheeks. “I know you’re not ashamed of me, Dennis.” You press a kiss to his other cheek. “And I get why you’re hesitating. It’s just been us since we moved here. It’s hard to change like that.” Another kiss, this one to his forehead. “But nothing will ever change that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are the love and light of my life.” Dennis’ lips press to yours softly and you both laugh into it. This is exactly how you think it should always be. By Dennis Whitaker’s side, both of you smiling like idiots. 

+ 1

Your phone rings while you’re at work. It’s not uncommon. What is strange is that it’s Dennis that’s calling you. He doesn’t call while you’re both at work, one of the many unspoken rules the two of you have. So when you see his smiling face light up your screen, you immediately answer it, panic growing in your chest. 

“Denny? What’s up?” You try to keep your voice even, taking long, deep breaths. 

“Mrs. Whitaker, this is Dr. Robinavitch at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m calling about your husband.” The voice that comes through is deep and rough. A voice that wasn’t made for yelling but has adapted to it nonetheless. The panic writhes around in the pit of your stomach now, like a living thing. 

“Is Dennis okay? Did something happen to him?”

“Whitaker is fine. He was hit by a gurney and fell. He hit his head on the floor and has a mild concussion. We’ll probably keep him overnight just to make sure there are no complications.” The voice is stern and straight to business, but there’s a softness to the edges of his words. You hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “Dennis will be fine.”

You take a deep breath. Then another. The phone digs into your fingers as you grip it tightly. You take another breath and force your fingers to relax. Dennis is fine. He’s okay. Breathe. “Can I come see him?”

“Of course.”

Dr. Robinavitch quickly gives you directions to the hospital, even telling you which parking lot is closest and would have the most parking this time of day. You jot it all down as he speaks, messy handwriting you probably won’t be able to decipher later. Not that you need to. You call a cab to pick you up. Dennis had to get to work early, so you let him take the shared car and you took the bus. 

The line in the waiting room is long and the more you wait, the more panic grows up your throat. You scratch nervously at your neck as you glance around. It smells like metal. Red is everywhere. Drops on the floor from a kid with a bloody nose. Staining the towel of an older man as he holds it against his wrist. Blooming across a woman’s blouse as she cradles bruised knuckles. You look away. It’s not that you’re a stranger to blood, you just…prefer to be far away from it. 

“How can I help you, hon?” You hear. The woman behind the glass looks you up and down once. Then again. Makes sense. You’re not obviously injured. You feel your cheeks heat.

“Hi. Um, I’m visiting a patient. Dennis Whitaker? He works here.” 

“Mrs. Whitaker?” The woman brightens just slightly, the customer service mask slipping just enough for you to see a glint in her eye. It disappears just as quickly and she points toward the double doors. A young woman steps out, dark hair pulled back. “Santos! Mrs. Whitaker!”

Santos turns toward you immediately. Yeah, that’s definitely a glint. You suddenly know that this is Trinity. It’s the shirt under her scrubs that gives it away. Dennis has always liked that Trinity wears them. He always calls her in for pedes cases when Trinity’s shirt has a cartoon on it. Today you can see the tuft of Tweety Bird’s feathers atop his head.

“Mrs. Whitaker.” Trinity’s voice has a lilt to it that you recognize from Dennis’ brothers when they would tease the two of you. She seems to stalk closer and you meet her eyes slowly, anxiety still quietly simmering in your chest.

“You must be Trinity.” You hold your hand out for her to shake, offering up your first name. Trinity’s grip is solid, hard. Like she’s testing you. The thought makes you smile. Dennis’ oldest brother had done the same thing when the two of you announced your engagement. “Everyone keeps calling me Mrs. Whitaker. Must be confusing. You can use my first name.”

Trinity just shakes her head as she leads you toward the double doors. They buzz open as she scans her badge and it’s just as chaotic as it had been in the waiting room. More, even. Trinity swiftly guides you down a dizzying series of turns until you’re stopped in front of a room. You can feel eyes on you from the large desk in the middle of the open area. You try your best to ignore them, focusing on Trinity.

“That’s what Huckleberry calls you, so it stuck.” Trinity shrugs, pushing the door open. Another woman sits at his bedside, blonde hair braided back and glasses perched on the long ridge of his nose. Mel, maybe? Then, you turn back toward Trinity, one brow raised high. 

“Huckleberry?”

“Hey, baby.” Dennis’ voice comes from the cot on the other side of the room. You immediately turn toward him, surprised at the slow thickness of his voice. Your name rolls off his tongue and it sounds so sweet that you’re almost embarrassed. This is a mild concussion?

“Hey, Den. How’re you feeling?” The woman in the seat next to Dennis’ bed stands, letting you sit. You read the nametag, Dr. Melissa King. She smiles wide and bright. The chair is plastic and probably designed to be uncomfortable, but as you grab Dennis’ hand and he smiles up at you, you know this is where you want to be. 

“Been better. Why’re you here?” There’s a dinosaur bandage on his forehead, just above his brow bone. You reach up to soothe it softly, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the shiny plastic. Dennis leans into it, giving you that familiar soft smile. You can’t help smoothing back his curls.

“Dr. Robinavitch called me. Said you fell.”

Dennis just hums. You glance around the room and realize it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure when Mel and Trinity left. You think you can remember seeing Mel drag the younger woman quietly out of the room. But as your gaze sweeps across the window, you can see a few people gathered around what seems to be the main desk. They occasionally glance over at the room. At you two. 

You can name some of them. The older blonde is obviously Dana. You look down at Dennis to see him following your line of sight. You grin. “Dana, right? I don’t know, Denny…I might just have to leave you if she asks.”

“Don’t even joke about that. She’d probably take you up on it.” You both laugh softly, Dennis squeezing your hand softly. The door clicks open quietly and an older man steps inside. He’s wearing glasses that you can only assume are readers with how far down his nose they are. “Dr. Robby.”

The man steps closer, tablet held under one arm as he looks Dennis over carefully. “Whitaker.” His voice is fond. Soft and warm like a parent. Or maybe just a teacher who cares too much. Robby turns toward you, holding out a hand. You stand and take it. “Mrs. Whitaker. Nice to finally meet you. Michael Robinavitch, we spoke on the phone.”

“You as well.” The chair is just as uncomfortable the second time you sit in it. “Thanks for watching out for Dennis. He’s told me all about you. Really admires you and the work you do.” Dennis groans on the bed, cheeks red. You grin, squeezing his hand tighter. Robby smiles as he watches the exchange. You don’t notice, too busy watching as Dennis tries to hide his face with a pillow. You pull it away before he can suffocate himself. “It’s the truth, Den. Did you want me to lie to your boss?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Robby smiles easily, typing something on the screen in his hands before turning back to Dennis. There it is again. That glint. “Ready for visitors, Whitaker?”

Dennis groans yet again. 

The night is spent with you never leaving Dennis’ side. He groans and grumbles as his coworkers share embarrassing work stories with you that he had purposefully not shared. You respond in kind, telling them about his sweaty hands when he asked you out and how he somehow managed to get a calf to imprint on him. Dana proposes to you twice, grin sharp. You only blush a little. 

You think you get it, why Dennis is already so close with these people. You loved Broken Bow. Still do. But the people there were always pretending to be perfect, putting up fronts so the neighbors wouldn’t know their dirty secrets. Here, in this hospital, everyone is just themselves. They laugh loudly, bully each other playfully, smile wide. You think you get it. Why Dennis has never brought up moving back to Nebraska. Why he wants to stay here. You do too. With him. With this new family the two of you have created. 

“Hey, Mrs. Huckleberry. You’re comin’ with us next Tuesday. That place on Grant. Whitaker knows where it is.” Trinity says as she files out of the room. Something about patients and how every single doctor in the ED cannot be visiting with Dennis. It’s not a question. Not even a request. You laugh.

“Sure thing, Trin.”

Extra

“My sister just texted me. Her wedding is next September.” You mention casually. Dennis nods, pulling out his phone calendar and jotting down the dates he’ll need off. You grin as another text pops up. “She wants to know when you’re gonna put a ring on my finger.”

Dennis doesn’t even look up from his phone as he responds. “After I graduate. You should marry a doctor, not a med student.”

Your eyes widen just a fraction and you smile so sweetly it feels like your teeth are already rotting. You can’t help grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to the rough palm. 

“Yes.” You murmur against his palm. He tilts his head and you grin. “You can ask me again when you graduate, but I promise my answer will be the same. So, yes, Dennis Whitaker. I will marry you.”

His eyes widen and you laugh as his cheeks burn red. God, you love this man.

[ghostgvrl]

dennis whitaker x fem!reader (nsfw headcanons)

warnings: soft dom!dennis, cunnilingus, spit kink, dirty talk, piv, making out, pervert!dennis, spanking, somnophillia/free use.

a/n: some nsfw dennis whitaker headcanons because i can’t get him out of my head!!! he lives in my mind rent free now <3

18+ MDNI!

𖥔 ݁ ˖ he adores your pussy. he doesn’t care how it looks or what color it is, he loves how soft and wet she gets for him, that being said, this man is an eater!!! even as a teen he would go behind the barn and pump his cock to the thought of eating a beautiful woman’s cunt.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ he’s a biiiiig talker! loves telling you how good you feel, how good you’re making him feel and vice versa. dirty talk is his thingggg!!! “f-fuck baby you’re so fucking perfect. she’s fucking sucking me in..holy shit, there’s my good girl.” he also has quite the potty mouth when he’s feeling euphoric, he can’t help it! :(

𖥔 ݁ ˖ dennis is a spit whore. he lovesssss it messy. especially when you’re making out as he’s fucking your brains out. it makes him so fucking horny and it has the same effect on you.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ i know a lot of people won’t agree with this, but in my professional opinion, dennis is a big dick boy! he’s a country boy, so in my mind, that man is hung. probably 7 inches when he’s soft and 8 when he’s hard. and he has a cute blonde curly bush at the base, circumcised, his cock is a pretty pink color and his tip is a very pale red. <3

𖥔 ݁ ˖ he’s a closeted freak/pervert. like i said, he grew up on a farm, he didn’t have pornhub but he did have his older brothers and fathers playboy magazines! because of the lack of pornography, it made him very imaginative.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ he’s a moaner and a whimperer for sure, like no doubt about it. especially when he’s close! he’ll keep pounding into you harder ‘n faster and moan in your ear as his hot, sticky load pumps inside of you.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ one of his favorite things to do is sit you on his face while he pumps his painfully hard and aching cock, his tip practically dripping with pre-cum. he’ll fuck his tongue in your hole as his nose catches on your clit perfectly. <3

𖥔 ݁ ˖ once you two are in a serious relationship and boundaries have been set, you let him use you in your sleep and he fucking adores it. he’ll wake up for his shift at 6:00 and the first thing he does is eat your cunt. there’s something about eating you out when you’re sleeping that drives him insane. you’re so soft, so sweet, so pliant in his hands. and then when you wake up he’ll fuck you while you’re on your side, his hands coming down to play with your cute nipples.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ i am a soft dom!dennis truther idc!! he loves to put you in your place every once in a while (only when you deserve it of course) he has some muscle, so he loves to throw you around and spank you when you’re being bratty. he only gives in because your pussy is weeping for him. she’s so well trained!

[snoopyoftheday]

snoopy of the day

[honeypiehotchner]

i've got it -- jack abbot x fem!reader

Jack said "i'll pay for it" and i blacked out. here's this. (the gif is def brett richards but ignore that!)

Summary: A short trip to the ER one night spirals into an unlikely accidental sugar daddy relationship with a certain night shift attending that you never expected.

Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only!!, medical innaccuracies (never been to the ER for a mild allergic reaction so just <3 look past any mistakes), slight miscommunication trope, jack is WHIPPED from day 1, sugar daddy jack yes god, lots of complicated feelings abt money, reader is trying her damnest to still be independent, so much fluff, robby has his whimsy back in this, jack is trying his hardest to be Normal abt you (he is failing), oral f!recieving, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (and the crowd...cheers? wear a condom!)

WC: 16.5k (I SAID I BLACKED OUT)

The last place you expect to end up on your birthday is PTMC’s ER and yet, that’s exactly where you sit.

For the record, you think you’re fine. Your friend thinks otherwise, hence the fact that you’re now at the ER and not still at the restaurant. At least she drove you here instead of calling an ambulance -- you do not have the money for that -- but she didn’t stay with you. Which you kind of understand. ER’s aren’t the best place to be, and it’s late and she has to work super early and you told her to leave. 

You just also hadn’t entirely expected her to go without any pushback, but what can you do?

Still, it just seems par for the course. The course being your entire life. There’s never any fight, no one ever really wants to stay. It’s-- Well, you’d say it was weird if it wasn’t your normal, everyday life.

But it’s fine. Again, you’re the one who told her she didn’t need to stay and that you would be fine because you are fine. So, you’re having a little allergic reaction. So what? It’s not like your throat is closing up or anything. It’s just been like, sort of, itchy. And maybe you have hives. Maybe.

The ER isn’t empty by any means, but there are empty chairs and in your ER experience, that’s a rare and good sign. You hope it means this won’t take long at all, and that you aren’t exactly high priority.

Until you’re called back before a lot of people who definitely checked in after you.

You go through the motions of triage, explaining what’s wrong, insisting that you’re fine, but apparently the hives look bad and apparently the little cough you have might be a bad sign, because before you know it, you’re in a room of your own.

You huff, which turns into some coughing, and you grimace. Your throat does not feel great.

You don’t have to wait long at all before the curtain pulls back so abruptly that you flinch, and then lock eyes with an absolute silver fox of a doctor. Suddenly your breathing issues have nothing to do with the alleged allergic reaction that you might be having.

“I’m Dr. Abbot, it’s nice to meet you, though I’m really sorry it’s under these circumstances.” The corners of his lips quirk in a small smile when he turns to look at you. “What brings you in tonight?”

“Um…” you swallow uncomfortably. “Possible allergic reaction?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Possible?”

“I don’t have any allergies,” you say. “Not that I know of, anyway. But I was eating dinner and then my throat started to feel really scratchy and water wasn’t helping it, and then like, apparently there’s hives on my neck--”

“Okay,” Dr. Abbot listens intently, straightening up. “Are you having any trouble breathing now?”

You shake your head. “No, my throat is still scratchy, but I can breathe fine, I just keep coughing a little because it feels like something is stuck.”

He nods. “Okay. Let me know if that changes, as soon as it changes. I don’t care if you think it is, let me know. Okay?”

You nod this time. “Okay. Got it.”

“Now,” he smiles softly, walking to your bedside. “What was for dinner? And do you mind if I take a look at that rash you keep scratching at on your arm?”

You freeze, literally caught in the act, nails still digging into your forearm before you slowly move your hand away. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, sitting down on the stool beside your bed. “Don’t apologize. Can I?” You nod and his fingertips touch your skin. “What was dinner?”

You explain what you had and at what restaurant, and Dr. Abbot listens. He lists some possible allergens, but that it’s impossible to really know. It could even be a case of cross-contamination, but since you don’t know of any allergies in general, it’s hard to say what it could be exactly.

All the while he’s examining your skin, leaning so close you can feel his breath. His fingertips ghost over the hives, applying pressure here and there, which apparently tells him something, but what exactly, you have no idea.

“You ever taken Benadryl before?” he asks, leaning back to look up at you.

You nod. “Yeah, just when I’m like deathly sick.”

He laughs. “Good. I’m going to get one of my nurses to bring some in because you do have some pretty good hives on your neck, now making their way onto your arm here. The bad news is it absolutely looks like an allergic reaction of some kind, but the good news is it seems to be an extremely mild one. I am going to need to keep you for a couple hours to monitor you, make sure the Benadryl works and that your breathing doesn’t change. Is that okay?”

You nod. It’s not like you have anywhere else to be. “That’s fine, yeah.”

“Okay,” he smiles, squeezing your hand once, and it’s only then that you realize you had begun to start scratching again.

It’s also when you realize he’s wearing a goddamn wedding ring.

You wedge both of your hands under your thighs, looking away as you let out another small, “Sorry.”

Even in your peripherals you can see he gives you a strange look before he shakes his head. All he says is “I’ll be right back” and then he disappears.

You lean your head back against the pillows and sigh, loudly. Which turns into a cough, but it’s small, and doesn’t hurt anymore.

And then it’s like Dr. Abbot appears out of fucking nowhere, curtain flinging back, his eyes wide as he peers in. “Are you okay? Trouble breathing?”

“No, sorry,” you lift your head, putting on what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I was just…”

He watches you steadily for a moment. “Okay. Let me know if that changes.”

You nod again. “Roger that.” Why did you just say that?

He smirks as he leaves again, and this time you toss your head back into the pillows a little more aggressively.

You cannot look so flustered every time he speaks. He’s married, for Christ’s sake, and he is not flirting with you. He is your doctor.

You expect the next time the curtain opens for it to be a nurse with your Benadryl, but it’s Dr. Abbot yet again. He has a cup of water in one hand and the little packet of Benadryl in the other.

“Are you okay taking pills?” he asks, handing you the water, and you ignore the way your fingers brush. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, watching him as he sits down on the stool again. He definitely doesn’t need to be the one giving you the medicine, let alone sitting down at your bedside to do it, but you don’t call him out on it.

You take the two pills from him and swallow them with some water, feeling his gaze on you but keeping your eyes focused on the door. When you finish, you sneak a glance over at him, and he’s watching you. Still.

“Good.” He says it so softly that you almost don’t hear it. “I’ll come back in a bit to see how you’re doing, but if anything changes, you can press this button right here and it’ll send a signal to the nurses’ hub. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t budge, so you add, “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

He pulls the curtain behind him as he leaves, and part of you wishes he had turned the lights off, too. It’s late as hell and you were already tired to begin with from working as many extra shifts as you can get your hands on. The allergic reaction certainly isn’t helping your tiredness.

It feels like barely any time passes before Dr. Abbot comes in to check on you again. It does seem odd, just how often he’s checking in, but maybe it’s a slow night. There were empty chairs, after all.

You sit silently as he checks your hives from his place on the stool. He hums a little as his fingertips ghost over your skin. You answer his questions about how you’re feeling. Better, less itchy, your throat doesn’t hurt anymore. You blink slowly and Dr. Abbot notices, smiling at you, but this one is strangely soft.

“Feeling sleepy?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry, forgot Benadryl hits me kinda hard.”

“That’s okay, it’s normal,” he assures you. “Did you drive here?”

“No, my friend dropped me off.”

His eyebrows furrow. “She didn’t stay?”

“She has to work super early shifts,” you wave him off. “It’s fine, I’ll just Uber home or…or something.” Which is still not ideal because it’s money you don’t want to spend, and maybe you could get your friend to come back and pick you up, but you don’t want to wake her up if she’s asleep already.

He eyes you warily. “Why don’t you sleep this off for a bit, and then we’ll talk about getting you home. Okay?”

You’re too tired to argue, honestly. You clearly haven’t taken Benadryl in ages because it’s hitting you like a freight train right now.

You don’t argue, but you do say, “Are you sure?” and Dr. Abbot just nods, patting your arm.

“You stay put, I’ll come check in on you, but I want those hives to go down some more before you leave,” he says, which, you have no idea how this works, so this is probably typical protocol, who knows.

“Okay,” you shrug. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he smiles. “You’ll be okay here. Get some sleep.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

+++

You’re still sleeping soundly by the time six a.m. rolls around, which leads to a lot of questions, all directed at one Dr. Jack Abbot.

“So…” Robby leans onto the desk next to where Jack is charting. He showed up a bit early today for who knows what reason, but clearly one objective is getting on Jack’s nerves as soon as possible. “Want to tell me what’s up with the patient in 12?”

“Allergic reaction, not sure what caused it,” Jack rattles off the usual descriptions necessary at handover, except he won’t be handing you over to anyone. “Her friend dropped her off.”

“So you’re waiting for her friend to come get her…?” Robby asks, eyebrows furrowed and head shaking. 

“No,” Jack says. I’m taking her home, he wants to say, and nearly does, but he can’t say that because he hasn’t even asked you if you want that. You said you’d Uber, but you didn’t exactly look like that idea appealed to you for some reason. 

“Jack,” Robby sighs. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Jack bites out, logging back on to triple check something that he definitely doesn’t need to triple check. He knows he has a bad habit of getting attached to certain cases, but those cases are usually veterans and their families. Not…not pretty young women who come in alone and insist they’re fine when they’re clearly on the cusp of anaphylactic shock (how you didn’t end up in shock, Jack still doesn’t know, but he’s glad you didn’t get worse).

“She’s a patient,” Robby says flatly. “She’s your patient.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Jack repeats, eyes scanning over your file some more when his eyes lock on the date. Your birthday.

Your birthday was yesterday now, when you got here. You didn’t mention anything about that.

Strange.

He logs off and turns to Robby. “I’ve got her cleared for discharge and I’m going to go let her know now. Happy, boss?”

Robby holds his hands up in mock surrender.

Jack turns and heads toward your room, well aware that he shouldn’t have let you stay this long. You’re taking up a bed that they probably need, but in his defense, this is the first time in a long time that there aren’t any beds lining the walls when dayshift comes in. He counts it as a win. And justification that you’re fine to take up one bed. They still have the pedes room empty, anyway.

He knocks on the door before opening it, sliding the curtain back gently, remembering the way you flinched earlier. 

“Hey,” he says, smiling without thinking. You’re awake and sitting up, which is a good sign. But you’re glaring at him. “How are you doing?”

“Why am I still here?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest. “You were supposed to let me sleep off the Benadryl, not sleep through the night.”

He chuckles, grabbing the stool and wheeling it over so he can sit at the end of your bed, putting some distance between you this time. “Because you clearly needed the rest. I came and checked on you every hour; you were out cold.”

You grumble something and then huff. “Well, I need to go, I have to work in like…four hours. So. Can I go?”

He doesn’t like the idea of you working after a night in the ER, but he also knows he can’t exactly tell you not to. Medically, you’re fine. “Yeah, you’re free to go, that’s what I was coming to tell you, actually.”

“Great.”

He fucked this up. He doesn’t know how, and he’s not sure why he’s even thinking that there’s something to fuck up. You’re his patient. But still, it feels like he’s ruined everything. Whatever everything is.

“Uh, here’s your paperwork,” he says awkwardly, handing over the sheets. “Just a review of what you were treated for and with what, and who saw you.” He pauses. “If you need a note for work--”

“I’m fine,” you say, taking the papers. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Well, if you--” How does he fix this? Why does he feel like there’s something to fix? “If you feel any worse again, come back, or…”

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Or if you just want a check up,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as ridiculous as he feels. “You can stop by any night.”

He hears your breath hitch and he graciously ignores it. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you murmur.

He nods again. “No problem. I’ll uh…let you get out of here.” So I can do the same. And go crawl in a hole.

He leaves without another word, trusting that you can get yourself to the exit without him. 

He finishes handover with Robby, welcomes the rest of the dayshift as they come waltzing in, and then he gets the hell out of there. 

He almost goes to the roof, but thinks better of it. He grabs his stuff from his locker, shaking his head at himself the whole time. He leaves the ED through chairs like always, grimacing when he sees it’s filling back up already. Dayshift will have their hands full, no doubt.

He’s just walking up the sidewalk to the parking deck where his truck is when he spots you. Still here. Sitting on a bench in the park across the street.

Jack doesn’t think. He just looks, crosses the street, and walks right up to you.

You’re looking down at your phone and muttering under your breath. He doesn’t want to startle you, but that’s probably inevitable. Still, he tries not to, and clears his throat to (hopefully) announce his presence loud enough.

It works. You lift your head and your wide eyes stare back at him. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes. “Everything okay?”

You open your mouth and he can already see the I’m fine forming around your lips. He expects it. He expects you to tell him to get lost, that he’s being a creep. But you don’t.

You shut your mouth, roll your lips into your mouth, and sigh. “No, my uh…My friend works on the other side of the city, and I know her schedule so I know she’s already halfway to work, so I can’t ask her for a ride, so I was just going to Uber to my place, but my fucking-- The app keeps declining my card. It’s never done that before, so I’m trying to figure out what the fuck it’s doing, but it keeps saying it’s not accepted and--”

“I’ll pay for it.”

You blink, his words forcing the rest of yours to die in your throat. “What?”

“I can pay for it,” he says again. Then adds, “If that’s okay with you.”

Your mind is clearly still stuttering, gears grinding to a halt, trying to catch up. “Why?”

Jack can’t help it, he laughs. “Because you’re my patient and I’d really recommend you get home soon and rest before your shift at work,” he says. He still doesn’t want you to go to work. He wants you to show your boss the discharge paperwork and take the day off. 

But, he realizes, maybe you can’t afford to do that.

“Here,” he says, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He produces one of his old credit cards, one that he hardly ever puts anything on aside from gas for his truck. He holds it out to you. “Use this one. See if it’ll accept it.”

You blink again. After far too long of a pause, your hand reaches up and you take the card. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says, shifting on his feet as he watches you put the information in. Some weird part of him hopes you save the card. Some weirder part of him wants you to take the card entirely. 

But, of course, you don’t do that. You put the information in, wait for it to process, and then you hand the card straight back to him.

The app accepts it. Your phone dings as a driver is found.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you look up at him with a soft smile. “Thank you so much, seriously. And I’ll delete the card after--”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shakes his head. “Consider it a belated birthday gift.”

You hang your head at that with a small laugh. “Thanks.”

He smiles again. “Get home safe, okay?”

He figures it might be a step too far and too weird to wait here with you until your ride shows, so he makes his exit.

But if he waits in his truck in the parking deck until he sees you get in your Uber, well, that’s his business and his business only.

+++

How much variation can one have in their ramen? It’s about all you can afford at the moment, so you’re trying to think of some things to add in to make it less pathetic and…repetitive to eat every single day.

You’ve gotten some frozen edamame, and some cheap frozen gyozas, because why the fuck not. A poached egg would be nice, but eggs aren’t exactly in the budget at the moment, so instead you stare wistfully at them as you pass by.

And that’s your Big Mistake of the day, because instead of watching where the fuck you’re going, you’re looking at the eggs like they’re your long lost husband. Which means you collide right into the person your delusional friend thinks is your long lost husband.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you blurt, your hands reaching out to steady Dr. Abbot just as he’s doing the exact same for you. It’s a hilarious gesture on your part because he isn’t the one who needs help staying on his feet. You’re the one about to fall over. 

“Dr. Abbot,” you gasp, stepping away from him, your basket swinging on your arm. “What are you doing here?”

The question makes him pause and his lips quirk. “Um…buying groceries? Is that allowed?”

Fucking duh. “Yes! Sorry, I just meant-- Never mind.” You glance at his basket and see he’s put two steaks in and some butter, but nothing else. “Wow, steak dinner,” you joke. “Celebrating something?”

You expect him to say yes, my wedding anniversary or something of the sort. Because he’s still wearing a ring-- because, of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? It’s only been two weeks since you were in the ER. And it’s not like you know anything about his personal life, wife included.

He laughs, looking down at his basket like he forgot what he’s buying. “No, not really, just craving steak. I sometimes have one after I work a double. As a reward, you know.”

“Right,” you nod, like you understand what he means. Like when you pull a double at your job, you do the exact same thing. Like you can afford to do that. “Well, enjoy.”

“I will, thank you,” he says. Then, he commits the highest form of treachery. He glances at your basket. “Ramen?” he starts, then you see his brain register the other items. “Fancy ramen?”

“Gotta make it healthy somehow,” you joke.

He nods slowly, eyes cutting to the side at the eggs. You wonder if he noticed the way you were staring at them. “I sometimes do a fried egg with mine,” he comments. “Adds to it.”

“Yup,” you say. “It does.” But have you seen the fucking price of eggs right now? “Anyway, I should-- I need to get going, but um, enjoy your steak and days off, I’m guessing.”

He accepts your abrupt end of the conversation with a humble nod. “Will do. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

“You too,” you say over your shoulder, making a beeline down a random aisle just to get away.

You end up down the cereal aisle which isn’t such a bad idea. You have some milk left at home, but even if it’s gone bad, you can eat the dry cereal. 

You stare at all of the boxes like they’ve personally offended you, wondering when these prices went up too. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe you’re just dealing with a lot of extra expenses right now, and it’s fried your brain. Probably.

You grab the cheapest, off-brand bag you can see. It’s ridiculous and massive and definitely meant for parents of four kids, but it’s cheap and it’ll last you. So.

You wander aimlessly around the rest of the store, debating over some other snacks and food that you don’t really need, but you do want. In the end, the not-needing wins, so you head for the checkouts.

The self-checkout is crammed for some stupid reason, so you pick a mostly empty line and hop in. You hate not using the self-checkout, but it’ll have to do.

“I swear I’m not following you,” a voice says from behind you.

You glance back and see that it’s Dr. Abbot and you laugh a little, awkwardly. “Sure,” you tease. “I totally believe you.”

He cracks a small smile then, setting his things on the conveyor belt behind yours. The steaks, butter, and now eggs, milk, and bread have joined. Along with a four-pack of beer.

“Healthy,” you raise your eyebrows. “Don’t know what I expected from a doctor who works nights, though.”

“Funny,” he says. “How are you doing, by the way? I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“I’m okay,” you reply, stepping forward as the person in front of you pays. “Thanks for asking.”

“You never came back to see me,” he says, his eyes just a little sad and his voice a little too soft.

“I didn’t get any worse,” you shrug, ignoring the way his statement made your chest grow tighter and butterflies kick around in your stomach. “And a check-up isn’t really in the budget, Dr. Abbot.”

“Please,” he says, exhaling. “Call me Jack.”

You give him a strange look before greeting the cashier as she scans your things through.

You did the math on your phone as you put things in your basket, but the fucking taxes get you every time. And now you’re not sure if you overshot or not.

You try your debit card and, as you dread, it declines.

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself. “One second, sorry.”

“No problem,” the cashier says, and to her credit, she doesn’t sound like she feels any sort of way about it. She probably deals with this a lot.

“Here, I’ll try a different card,” you smile, hating every second of your fucking life. You didn’t want to put this on your credit card, but fine. If you must.

Except that fucking declines too. Fuck. Did you freeze it so you’d stop using it while you paid some of it off and forget to unfreeze it for emergencies like, say, a surprise ER trip and work cutting your hours?

Probably.

“Um…” You can feel the back of your neck starting to sweat from the embarrassment of it all. “I’ll just have to-- I’ll come back, or--”

“I’ve got it,” Jack says, stepping forward and handing cash over to the cashier before you can stop him. He does at least glance at you and ask, after he’s handed the money over, “If that’s okay?”

It’s not, not really. Because you already owe him for the Uber, and you don’t want to owe him for this too, but you really need the fucking food. So, you swallow your pride and say, “Yeah, thanks,” instead.

You shove your things into a bag as Jak takes his change from the cashier. He pockets it, thank god, because you think you might’ve exploded if he tried offering it to you.

She scans his stuff and he pays with a card, and you really don’t know why you’re still standing here, but you are. You’re just…frozen. He’s been so nice. But. Your eyes catch on the wedding ring.

He puts everything into two bags and thanks the cashier before smiling over at you. “Ready?”

You just nod numbly, walking with him toward the exit. “Thank you,” you say as the two of you are outside. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a problem,” he says, pausing with you on the sidewalk. “It’s the least I could do.”

You’re not sure what he means by that, and you don’t ask. 

“Let me walk you to your car,” he blurts. “It’s dark.”

The parking lot is extremely well-lit, but you let him have this one. There’s no real harm in it. “Sure. I’m over this way.”

You realize that it isn’t as well-lit where you’ve parked, so you’re glad you let him walk you.

You unlock your door with your key and lean over the console to set your groceries in the passenger seat. You straighten up to see Jack still standing there, looking a bit awkward himself.

“Well,” you murmur. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Hopefully not in the ER,” he says, dropping his head with a chuckle. “As much as I’m glad I was able to help you, I really don’t want you to be a patient again.”

“You and me both,” you mutter, remembering the bill you have to chip away at. “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.” He gives you a stern look and you roll your eyes. “Jack. Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight,” he smiles, then turns and walks through the cars.

You sigh so heavily that you feel it in your bones, sliding into the driver’s seat, pulling your door closed with you. You tip your head back against the headrest with a stupid, giddy smile that feels ridiculous and floaty.

And then, you turn your keys in the ignition.

Now, ideally, the car will start after a second. Normally, the engine fucking starts. Except this time, all you hear are clicks. The clicks of doom.

“Fuck,” you say out loud because you, unfortunately, know exactly what the clicking means.

The fucking battery is dead. Because of course it is. Because of course you needed one more goddamn thing to happen that will cost money that you don’t have.

You lean forward and rest your forehead on the steering wheel, hitting it just a little too hard, but you’re too tired, stressed, and frankly fed up to even care.

How the hell are you supposed to get home now? You can’t call a towing service because how the hell are you supposed to pay for that? And despite the fact that you know what’s wrong with your car, you have no idea where the nearest car parts store is. Sure, you can Google that, but right now it feels like lifting your head is too much effort.

You try turning the key one more time, just to see if it was a fluke. Clickclickclickclick. Fine.

Then, there’s knocking on your window, and it makes you jolt so hard you nearly slam your head into the top of your car.

You turn your head, heart racing, but it’s just Dr. Abbot. Jack.

You open the door just as Jack is saying, “I heard the battery. I have jumper cables if you want…?”

“Please,” you exhale, not even caring that you sound desperate and that this will be yet another thing you’re indebted to him for.

“Give me a second, I’ll pull my truck around.”

“Thanks.”

He gives you another one of his ‘no need to thank me’ smiles and walks through the cars again. Soon you hear a truck starting, and you realize he parked just a few cars over from you on the other aisle.

You step aside so he can pull into the empty space beside your car. You try (and fail) to not look at him and think about how handsome he looks while he drives.

To keep your eyes under control, you bend down and flick the switch to pop the hood on your car, walking around the front to lift it up.

Jack walks over with the cables, hooking them up despite you reaching for them. “I’ve got it,” he says, not unkindly. “You jumped a car before?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “My old car was a piece of shit. Even with a brand new battery, it would decide it wanted to be jumped sometimes.”

He whistles as he turns and finishes hooking up the cables. “Damn.”

“Yeah, at least this is the first time this one has needed it,” you reply. “But I haven’t put a new battery in it since I got it like…two years ago, so.”

“Might be time then,” Jack says. “Alright, we’re good. Want to try starting it now?”

“Roger that,” you say, and you’ve got to stop saying that around him. It must be your go-to when you’re flustered, which is just ridiculous. You need a better phrase.

You slip into your driver’s seat and try the key again. It stutters once, but then it starts, and your body sags with relief. 

You leave the car running and step out to thank Jack again. He’s looking at your engine with furrowed brows, though, and that’s not what you want.

“No…” You groan. “What’s that face for?”

“One sec,” he says, then heads over to his truck, leaving you there at the hood. You hear rustling and turn to look, but his door and your door are blocking your view.

Next thing you know, he’s leaning into your driver’s seat, saying something about checking some light on the dash.

You have no fucking idea. You don’t remember seeing a light pop up when your car started, but then again, you were just elated that your car allowed itself to be jump-started at all.

Then he’s done, as quickly as can be, shutting his truck door and joining you at the hood. 

“You need an oil change,” he says.

“I know,” you roll your eyes. “About a hundred miles ago. I’ll get it done soon.”

You can tell by his face that he definitely doesn’t believe you, but it’s not his problem. You reach over and disconnect the black cable, raising your eyebrows at him so he’ll go disconnect it from his truck. He goes without arguing, and then waits for you to disconnect the red before he disconnects his. He takes the cables from you with what you think looks like an apologetic smile.

“Thank you for the jump,” you say. You don’t want him to feel apologetic, you just…

“It’s no problem, seriously,” he says. He starts looping the cables and loosely knotting them. “Do you need any help with the battery, or…?”

You just give him a wry smile. “I’m a big girl, Dr. Abbot. I can get a new battery for my car.”

“Right, sorry,” he nods, taking a step back. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Jack,” you say, meaning it this time.

He waits until you get in your car and drive away before he even gets in his driver’s seat. You see the little smile on his lips in your rearview mirror.

When you get home, you find a second bag of groceries tucked beside yours on the floor of your passenger seat.

You huff as you take both inside your apartment, setting them on the kitchen counter. You glare at the bag that has eggs, bread, and milk in it as if it disgusts you. Maybe what disgusts you about it is the fact that you aren’t upset about it, not really. You need the food. You just hate that he did so much for you tonight. And that other night in the ER.

You take everything out and shove the eggs and milk in the fridge, tossing the bread into the cabinet. And that’s when you see it, floating down from where it was likely stuck to the bread because of the static electricity.

A receipt. Or the torn-off end of one with some scribbled writing on the back.

Call if you need anything. Or if you just feel like calling. -Jack

You almost snort at the message, but it is sweet. You imagine Jack furiously writing it in his truck before sneaking the groceries over, hands shaking as he writes his name and number.

You put a new contact in your phone -- Jack Abbot (ER Dr) -- but you don’t text him. You’ll save that for another day. Maybe.

+++

By some grace of some higher power, your car starts the next morning -- after a little bit of stuttering. Plus, you were able to figure out the nonsense with your credit card, so you make the drive to get a new battery.

The guy at the autoparts shop takes pity on you (or maybe he’s flirting, but you aren’t interested) and he changes the battery out for you, free of charge. You know how to change it on your own, but since he offered, you let him. Sometimes you just don’t feel like dealing with shit.

You at least have half a tank of gas still, so there’s that. It should last you for a while, as long as you’re careful about getting to and from work. You can walk, it just takes thirty minutes, but it isn’t a bad walk by any means when the weather is nice.

The key phrasing here being when the weather is nice. And you swear, you fucking swear, the weather was supposed to be nice today. There was nothing in the forecast about rain.

But there fucking should’ve been, because here you stand, looking out the front windows of your job -- a small coffee shop that can only give you part-time hours right now -- as it fucking pours.

You can’t even stay in here because the shop is closed now and the security alarm needs to be set. You need to leave before your boss texts you and asks why you haven’t already left.

But you have a long ass walk ahead of you in this shitty weather and you’d rather die. Honestly.

At least it isn’t thundering. Although, maybe being struck by lightning would be nicer.

“Fuck. Me” is the most eloquent thing you can think of as you exit the shop and lock up, waiting to hear the alarm beep three times over the sound of the rain. You hate when it stops beeping like it should because that means nothing is wrong which means you have to leave.

You didn’t even wear a jacket with a fucking hood this morning.

After a few more minutes of (foolishly) hoping the rain is going to slow down, you say fuck it and head out, soaked through your clothes within a minute.

You’re going to have to put your fucking phone in rice when you get home, rice that you aren’t even sure if you have, because if you did, you’d eat it.

You make it to a nearby awning of another shop when a thought occurs to you. A very stupid, ridiculous thought.

You grumble as you dig your phone out of your pocket, surprised that it’s even somewhat dry. You find Jack’s contact and open a new text thread.

Hey, you start, and then you realize you should introduce yourself so you give the whole spiel and then, anyway are you at work rn?

His reply comes within seconds. Not yet. Why?

The raindrops on your screen keep causing you to type the wrong thing and then before you know it you’re fucking calling Jack Abbot.

“Fuck!” He picks up far too quickly. “Hi.”

If he heard your expletive, he doesn’t mention it. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say automatically, and then you grimace. “Well, no, not really--”

“Where are you?”

You rattle off the street name. “I was at work, but we’re closed now, and I didn’t drive today because I’m trying to save gas and I thought the weather would be nice, and now it’s fucking pouring and I’ve walked like, five steps and I’m soaked, and I just--” You take a deep breath, hating the way your voice cracks. “I could really use a ride.”

“I’m on the way,” he says, and you realize that it already sounds like he’s driving. “Are you somewhere dry right now?”

“Yeah, I’m under the florist’s awning,” you sniffle. “Sorry about like, being a nuisance in your life lately, geez.” You add a laugh, hoping he’ll join you, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything, and in that moment you regret calling. You almost think he’s hung up, but you can still hear his truck. His turn signal. His breathing.

So, you stay on the phone, for who the fuck knows why, stewing in your embarrassment, and already planning on how to tell him this will be the last time. And that you’ll even let him block you if that’ll make it…better. Or something.

You finally hang up when you see his truck rounding the corner.

He does a three-point turn so the passenger door is at the curb, and you should not find that as hot as you do.

Next thing you know, he’s leaning over the bench and opening the door for you from inside, waving you in. You jump in, probably slamming the door but you’re too soaked to care.

“Fuck me, I didn’t even think about getting your truck all wet--”

“It’s fine,” Jack says quickly, and a little too short. “Some rain won’t hurt her. Are you cold?”

You don’t know why, but you feel scolded. You sink into the seat and buckle yourself in, shaking your head. “No, I’m fine.” It’s a lie. “Thank you.”

He turns the heat on anyway, then turns all the vents toward you.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He just nods. The truck doesn’t move.

“Oh!” you blurt. “My address. Do you have a GPS--”

“You’re not a nuisance.”

You blink. “What?”

“On the phone,” he says, turning to look at you. “You apologized for being a nuisance, but you’re not one. You don’t need to apologize for calling me when you need something. That’s why I gave you my number.”

“Why?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why what?”

“Why did you-- Why do you want to help me so much?”

He smiles softly at that. “Because it doesn’t sound like you have a lot of people in your life who help you.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that. Because the problem is that he’s right. You don’t. Not close by, anyway. And you can’t really ask for help because the whole point of you moving out here was to be independent. It won’t look great if you start asking for money if the whole point of moving was to have some space and find your footing on your own.

You stay quiet just a beat too long. Because then Jack adds, “Or maybe I just like you, or something.” 

Your eyes snap to his and he’s smiling still, but a bit playful now. 

“Or something,” you repeat, a smile tugging at your lips. “Should’ve known you throwing money around was you trying to flirt.”

“You saying it wasn’t working?”

You open your mouth to protest, but you can’t. You turn your gaze away and wave your hand at him. “Just drive.”

He chuckles, “Yes ma’am.” He puts the truck in gear and starts moving. “I do need your address, though.”

You tell him your apartment complex, again asking, “Do you want me to put it in Maps?”

He scoffs. “Maps. I know my way around.”

You don’t know why, but you find that hot. Really hot.

But your traitorous eyes glance back at his left hand, and the wedding band is still there. It makes something heavy settle in your stomach, and you unconsciously shift closer to the door.

You’re not sure if the air shifts in the cab of his truck, but it sure feels like it.

The ride is silent except for the rain as Jack takes all the correct turns, knowing exactly where to go without you pointing or anything. When he pulls into the complex, you direct him over to your building, and he pulls up as close as he can to the doors.

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him with a probably too obviously forced smile. “See you.”

Jack opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but you can’t hear him over the rain, and then you slam his truck door closed. On accident. It’s just raining really hard and you don’t want to get his truck wet any more than you already have. That’s all.

It’s definitely not because you’re mad at him for not mentioning the ring and not because you’re mad at yourself for not bringing it up and for forgetting it was even there.

You stomp up the stairs and into your apartment, glancing out the window once you’re inside, and feeling another wave of anger at yourself when you realize you’re disappointed that his truck is already gone.

What the hell are you doing?

+++

Jack doesn’t hear from you for a week. He tries not to feel anything about it. 

But he’s feeling everything about it. Obviously.

“Rough night?” Robby asks, backpack still slung over his shoulder, mistaking Jack’s faraway stare for something else. The confusion is clear on the dayshift doctor’s face. The board is tidy, chairs is mostly empty, only a couple beds line the walls out here.

And Jack looks haunted. He knows he does. “Nope,” he says, forcing a tight smile and pushing off the nurse’s hub. “You’re welcome for cleaning up your mess from yesterday.”

Robby barks out a laugh at that. “You’re welcome for giving you something to do.”

Jack scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Looks away and thinks about you again.

Robby, who is way too nosy for his own good, catches the shift. “Seriously, are you good?” He pauses. “Is this about her?”

Jack whips his head around so fast he swears he cracks his neck. “Who?” 

Robby’s smile is soft. Knowing. “The patient you let sleep in and then ordered an Uber for.”

Jack hasn’t even told Robby about the grocery store, the car battery, or the rainy day car ride. All Robby knows is that day and the Uber, and Jack is obvious from just that alone. He can’t imagine how it’d all sound if Robby knew everything. Jack probably looks like a creep. Objectively.

“It’s nothing,” Jack says, and he doesn’t know what the hell he even means by that.

“Did something else happen?” Robby presses. Too nosy for his own damn good.

“No,” Jack says automatically, which he knows is a mistake.

Robby’s eyebrows lift skyward. “Have you seen her again? Jack, buddy, you’re holding out on me!”

“Nothing has happened!” Jack snaps, not unkindly. And saying it out loud reminds him: nothing has happened. So why does he feel like something is broken again? Like he needs to apologize and fix it? What is there to fix?

“Well you’re acting like a lot has happened,” Robby teases him just a little more. “Or like there’s trouble in paradise.”

It’s barely been a month and a half since your ER trip. There is no paradise for there to be any trouble in.

Still, Jack rubs his forehead. “There’s not. She’s just--” Quiet? But are you quiet? Or is this normal? Jack has no idea. He has no idea why he can’t bring himself to just…call you. Or text.

Dana chooses the perfect time to arrive, catching the way Jack’s anguished voice said she. The dayshift charge nurse comes over with a shit-eating grin. “Girl troubles? You’re better off asking a brick wall if you’re trying to get advice out of this one,” she jabs her thumb in Robby’s direction.

Robby leans over with a smile, getting eye-level with Dana. “And a very good morning to you too.”

“Morning, chipper,” Jack smiles at Dana. “No girl troubles.”

“Liar,” Robby coughs.

“Come on, Dr. Abbot!” Dana cackles. “Tell me your woes, let me see if I can help.”

Jack glances warily at the too-eager Robby, and then back at Dana who seems genuine in wanting to help. He takes a deep breath. “I gave her a ride home a week ago and she hasn’t spoken to me since.”

Dana raises her eyebrows, eyes a little wide. “Ride home from where?”

At the same time, Robby says, “I thought you ordered her an Uber?”

Dana’s eyes go really wide then. “An Uber from where?”

Jack clarifies. “No, the Uber was over a month ago, when she was in the ER. The car ride was a week ago-- remember the day it fucking rained like it was a hurricane? She was working and had walked that day.”

“So she…” Robby shakes his head, trying to puzzle this one out. “She asked you for a ride? How?”

“I gave her my number.”

Robby’s face breaks into a smile. Dana practically screeches, “When!”

“When I…” Jack sighs, lowering his voice. “When I ran into her in the store and then her car battery died so I had to jump her car and then I gave her my number in case she…needed anything else.”

“Oh my god,” Robby whistles. “Jack, you are--”

“Don’t say it,” Jack nearly growls. He never blushes, but right now, he can feel the heat crawling up his neck.

Dana graciously doesn’t mention the blush or how far gone Jack is already. “Okay, so, she has your number from that time, she texts you and asks for a ride home in the rain, you give her a ride, and…?”

“And?” Jack echoes. “What?”

“You tell me, Abbot, you were there!” Dana laughs. “What happened next? Did you go up with her--”

“No!” Jack hurries to clarify that too. “Jeez, Dana, what do you take me for? I dropped her off and then came into work.”

“You didn’t say anything to her.”

“No, we spoke.”

“So what the hell did you say!” Dana laughs louder. “Jesus Christ above, it’s like pulling teeth with you. Don’t laugh, Robinavitch, you’re just as bad.”

Robby’s jaw drops at that, clearly wondering why he’s getting any heat right now.

Jack chuckles and recalls the conversation. Everything he said to you. Everything you said back. It dawns on him slowly. “She was confused about why I was helping her, called herself a nuisance, so I told her to not think about it that way. I’m helping because I want to, and because I…” He sucks in a breath, looks away. “Because I like her, or something.”

Dana’s grin only widens at his admission. She gazes up at him like a proud mother. He can tell even though he won’t look at her. “What did she say?”

Jack smiles. “That she should’ve known I was flirting.”

“And?”

“And…I don’t know.” Jack crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I drove to her place, and she was watching me, but she just…got quiet at one point.”

Dana hums for a moment. Glances down at his hands. She narrows her eyes when she looks back up at him. “Jack.”

He finally looks her in the eyes again. “Yeah.”

“Were you wearing your ring?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I always wear it.” Dana knows this. He doesn’t understand what this has to do with anyth-- “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” Dana laughs, shaking her head at him. “You’re welcome for the revelation. Next time disclose the wife before flirting with another woman. Poor girl has probably been sitting at home kicking herself for this all week.”

“Shit,” Jack says again, as if it has more meaning this second time around. In a way, it does, because he doesn’t want you to be beating yourself up over this. Over him being an idiot and not disclosing that he’s a widow who still wears his ring.

Robby claps him on his shoulder. “See you in a few minutes for handover, brother. Then you can call your girl.”

Jack opens his mouth to argue that you’re not his anything, but Robby is already following Dana off to the lockers.

+++

It’s a little after noon. You’re cleaning your apartment for the third time this week when Jack calls. You’re too far in the zone to screen his call, realizing far too late that it’s his voice on the other end.

“Hey,” he sounds a little shocked that you even picked up at all. “Can we talk?”

You nearly hang up. That’s far too serious of a question coming from a man who is married and who you’ve had only a handful of interactions with.

But, because you’re stupid, you say, “Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”

“I do have a wife,” he says.

You’re so caught off guard that you reply, “Good for you?”

“Or…had, I guess.” 

Great. So he’s divorced. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse, and it’s hard to tell from his tone. “Okay?” You rub your temple. “Look, Jack, if this is about last--”

“I’m a widow,” he says, and that stops you cold, your eyes widening. He lets out a weak laugh. “Sorry for saying that in the most roundabout way possible.”

“Oh,” you elegantly reply. Then, inelegantly, you add, “Fuck, I mean, sorry. I’m so sorry, Jack, for your loss.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s been years. But that’s why I have a ring.”

“Of course,” you breathe, leaning back against your kitchen counter. “That’s okay. Obviously it’s okay. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”

“No, it’s not your fault, and that was a logical conclusion to jump to,” he says honestly. “I just should’ve told you before I said I liked you and was flirting with you.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “Might’ve saved me a freak out.”

You can practically hear his frown. “I’m sorry.”

“Enough of that,” you murmur, waving your hands in your empty apartment. “Thank you for telling me.”

“If it’s not-- If you’re not…I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he breaks off with a soft laugh. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“Absolutely,” you reply. “I’d love that.”

Jack asks if you can do dinner that evening. Thankfully, you’re free, but honestly, you would’ve found a way.

He’s leaning against his truck when you come down from your apartment. He’s in dark jeans today, and a white t-shirt that almost looks a little too tight. You try not to ogle his arms too much, but it’s his fault for crossing them. Does he have any idea how good that makes his biceps look?

“Hey stranger,” you say, which is the worst attempt at flirting you’ve ever heard, but it’s what your brain spits out, so you commit to it. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I didn’t want to wait until you nearly bowled me over by the eggs again,” he teases.

You gasp. “Rude!”

He smiles, walking around to the passenger door to open it for you. He nods into the truck. “Hop in. We have a little drive.”

“Ooh, how mysterious.”

He chuckles as he shuts the door. You watch him as he rounds the truck and he catches your gaze through the windshield. You don’t hide your smile. You watch him even as he gets in the driver’s seat.

“Do I get to know where we’re going for dinner?” you ask, buckling in. “Or is it a surprise?”

“Depends,” he says, turning the key. “Do you like surprises?”

You smile. “I’ll allow this one.”

“Thank you,” he says. As he pulls onto the road, he asks, “How was your day?”

You tell him about the deep-cleaning. “I clean when I’m stressed, so I was in the middle of that when you called actually. I wasn’t planning to pick up.”

If he’s hurt by that, he hides it. Mostly. “Oh.”

“Well, I thought I was on the cusp of an affair,” you joke. “But it’s fine, the stress wasn’t entirely you. Work is cutting hours again, my friend might be moving states, and I’m just--” You cut yourself off with a laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says genuinely, turning his head to glance at you. “I asked because I want to know this stuff.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, a similar gnawing feeling in your stomach that isn’t hunger. “How was your day?”

“Good,” he nods. “Little stressful, but the ED always is. Dayshift left a fucking mess for us to clean up.”

You roll your eyes, saying, “Assholes,” automatically, like you know. Like you get it.

Jack just smiles harder. “Yeah, exactly. They’re assholes.”

When he turns to enter the highway, you give him a strange look. “How far are we going?”

“Just a couple towns over,” he explains. “Just faster this way.”

You hum.

“I’m starting to think you don’t like surprises.”

“I said I’d allow this one.”

“Ah,” he laughs. “So you don’t.”

“Not at all,” you admit, sinking into your seat. “But I’m trying to be cool.”

“You are cool,” he says honestly. “You don’t need to try.”

“Okay,” you breathe. And then, helplessly, you cave and ask, “Where are we going?”

He laughs, not at you, and not unkindly. “I’m taking you to this little family run restaurant I love. They make great pizza. The owner is a friend of mine.”

You relax a little, knowing the exact plan, and something warm settles in your chest at the information. A friend of his. A place he loves. And he’s taking you.

His arm has been resting on the console between the two of you this entire time, and it’s only now that you brave the distance and place your hand over his. He looks over at you with the sweetest smile, turning his hand over to press your palms together. You lace your fingers through his. He squeezes your hand, and it’s like all the nerves melt out of your body.

+++

Dinner with Jack becomes a regular thing. Once, sometimes twice a week. He always takes you somewhere new. He always pays. And you always let him.

It’s nice to not have to worry. You hate to admit it, but it is. You don’t have to worry about gas money, or money for the dinners, because when you offered to pay for both one time, he looked at you like you’d just slapped him.

“I’ve got it,” he always says. “Don’t worry about it.”

You try not to.

But he pays for so much. You forgot to delete his card off your Uber app and ordered a ride one day, the charge automatically approved, and then you saw the card number. You freaked out and texted him, apologetically saying you’d pay him back.

Don’t worry about it, he wrote back. Sorry I can’t give you a ride right now.

You rolled your eyes. I know you are not apologizing for being at work.

He took a minute to reply, but when he did, it said, Wouldn’t dream of it. Home safe?

You mentioned still paying off your ER bill, and miraculously, you got a letter from the hospital the next week saying your bill had been paid. You knew without a doubt that it was Jack’s doing, but you also didn’t have any definitive proof, so you didn’t press him about it.

But it lingered in your mind. Another thing you feel like you owe him for.

You mentioned work cutting hours again, leaving you with a poor excuse for part-time and rapidly dwindling savings, and Jack asked if you needed anything. You told him no, you were fine, you were just venting, but clearly it stuck with him.

Because the next time you have dinner, he says, casually, “I made you an authorized user on my credit card.”

You nearly spit out your wine, and then nearly kick him for that because this is a nice place. You’re in a dress and heels, for Christ’s sake. You can’t spit-take wine across the table.

“Why did you do that?” you hiss.

“I didn’t mean to make you snort wine--”

“No, the card!” You lean over the table. “Why am I an authorized user?”

He looks at you incredulously. “So if you need something, you can buy it.”

“You’re insane,” you laugh. “You know that, right?”

He’s smiling a little, but he’s still not following. “I just don’t want you to have to ask.”

“I’m still going to ask,” you say. “If I use the card.”

“You don’t have to,” he concedes, but you can tell he doesn’t like it. “But I want you to. Genuinely.”

You shake your head at him. “God.” Your emotions are thrashing inside your brain and heart like tidal waves. Frustration, annoyance, attraction. Because he’s practically handing you his credit card. You’re ridiculous. You’re setting feminism back by four decades.

“Okay,” he says warily, eyeing you across the table. “We can talk about it later?”

He sounds so unsure of himself, but you nod. “Oh, yeah. We’ll talk about it later.”

Dinner is fine, if a little awkward at times, both your fault and his. The drive back to your place is a little better because you practically wrap yourself around his arm while he drives with the other.

He parks at your apartment and you make no move to get out of the truck. Neither does he.

He clears his throat. “Look, I’m-- I’m sorry if that was too much, earlier. With the credit card. I just don’t want you going without when I have more than enough and I can just share it with you. I hate that your hours are getting cut, and I know rent and food and life isn’t cheap, so I just-- I want you to be taken care of. That’s all.”

You listen to each word, drinking it in, watching his jaw work as he speaks. He’s looking ahead, for once not staring at you with the intensity of a thousand suns. It’s how you know he’s being honest. And vulnerable.

“Jack,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

He finally does, and you see sincerity in them, but you also see fear. 

“I’m not mad,” you begin, cupping his face. “I just think it’s a little funny that you’re giving me your credit card before you’ve even kissed me.”

He lets out a laugh that sounds relieved almost. “Well, believe it or not, my plan was to kiss you tonight.”

“Yeah?” you tease. “Sorry I ruined it.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin it,” he says seriously. He leans a little closer. “But the card hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” he nods, eyes flicking down to your lips just as his tongue darts out to wet his own. “So I’m still kissing you before I give it to you.”

“Oh, you are?”

“I am,” he chuckles, one hand sliding up to gently cup the back of your head. “If you shut up and let me.”

“Well, maybe you should--”

He reads your mind. He shuts you up with the kiss, pulling your face to his just as he moves closer, like he’s desperate to close the distance. Weeks of dinners together, of phone calls on the way home from his shift while you’re on your way to yours, of kisses on your cheek and hands. Finally.

“Took you long enough,” you murmur when he pulls away. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that.”

“I was too slow, huh?” he smiles, thumb grazing your cheek.

“I like slow,” you admit quietly. “It’s been really nice.”

“Good,” he whispers, eyes scanning every inch of your face, memorizing. “I really like you, you know?”

“I kinda figured,” you smirk, earning another kiss. When you break away this time, you say, “I really like you, too.”

+++

When Jack’s credit card -- with your name on it -- arrives in the mail the next week, he brings it to you after his shift. 

You pull him up to your apartment, calling him crazy the entire way, because he should be asleep right now, not bringing you a damn card.

“The card could’ve waited,” you mutter, taking the envelope from him and putting it on the counter. “You’re probably exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” he smiles through your fussing. “What are you doing awake anyway? Do you work today?”

You grimace. “Ha, no. About that…”

His curses under his breath. “No.”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Last hired, first fired,” you chuckle despite how fucked it all feels. “I’ve just been trying to wake myself up earlier so I can apply to jobs and shit. But I’m so fucking stressed that it makes it hard to sleep at night, so I’m up super late, and yeah. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“Sounds like it,” he murmurs. “You look exhausted.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean,” he pauses, seeing your teasing smile and kisses it. “Do you want to take a nap?”

“I have shit I should do,” you sigh. “You can, if you want. I won’t be loud or anything.”

“No,” he shakes his head at you, rubbing your arms. “You’re napping with me. Doctor’s orders.”

“Fine,” you grumble, but you’ve really put up no protest at all, which is how he knows you’re exhausted.

He follows you over to your bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s been in your apartment, but it is the first time he’ll be in your bed. 

You’re still in your pajamas, so you crawl under the covers immediately.

Jack hovers in the doorway for a moment before saying, awkwardly, “Do you have anything I can sleep in?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know, like, do you want me to be wearing clothes, or--”

You laugh so loud it bounces off the walls. “Sorry, oh my God,” you sit up. “Do you want some sweatpants or something?” Then, because he swears you can read his mind, you say, “You can just sleep in your boxers, you know. It’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you nod. “As long as you’re fine with me taking my shorts off.” You hardly ever sleep with any pants on anyway, usually opting for just a t-shirt and your underwear.

“It’s your bed,” he says. “Also, um…”

You look up at him with raised eyebrows while you tug your shorts down. You drop them onto the floor and lay back down.

“I need to tell you something.”

You sit back up. “Okay.”

It sounds serious because, well, it kind of is. And Jack kind of can’t believe he hasn’t told you this yet, but he never had reason to. He’s always wearing pants around you. He never wears shorts. And it never came up in conversation. So.

“I lost my leg, when I was a combat medic.”

Your expression changes only slightly, from worry to understanding. You knew he was in the military, just not the amputation part. “Okay.”

“Not my entire leg, just below the knee. I have a prosthetic.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Just so it doesn’t…freak you out or anything.”

You smile softly. “I’m not freaked out.”

“Okay.”

“Do you need anything?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What?”

You just shrug, like this is all normal, standing up so you’re meeting his eyes. “Do you want to take the prosthetic off to sleep? That’d probably be more comfortable. And do you need any painkillers or anything?”

He deflates. “Please, actually. If you have any.”

You kiss his cheek. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

You disappear back to the kitchen and he stands there in your bedroom, stunned. He’s still standing there when you return, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Ibuprofen in the other.

“You okay?”

He kisses you. He doesn’t know what else to do.

You melt into it, nearly dropping the water and medicine in the process. “What was that for?”

“You’re really great,” he blurts, which isn’t what he wants to say. What he wants to say is I love you, but it’s too soon. Probably.

“Thank you,” you smile. You turn and place the water and pill bottle on your nightstand. “Do you need help or…?”

“No, no, I’m good, I just,” he pauses, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you back in. The words nearly slip out again, but he keeps them in. “Thank you.”

+++

The first time you use his credit card, it’s to buy groceries. You worry about it the entire time, and half expect it to decline when you hold it up to the reader, but it doesn’t. It goes through faster than any of your other cards ever have.

Thank you for the credit card, you text him right after. Got my groceries for a couple weeks.

Thank you for using it, he writes back. Buy yourself something fun please.

You use it to buy yourself a (probably) overpriced coffee and sweet treat a few days later. You send him a picture. 

Fun items purchased.

He replies a couple hours later when he’s woken up from his post-shift nap. Good. Do it again.

You roll your eyes at the message, but send a red heart anyway.

A few weeks later, you find a different job at another random cafe, this one inside a big chain bookstore. Still not full time hours, and not at all what you really want to be doing with your life, but it’s something. It means you can pay rent with your paycheck, but then that means you have to put everything else on Jack’s card. Because your paycheck will only cover rent, and just barely.

Jack hears about it. Sorry for using your card for a billion things this week. You had to fill your car up with gas, get the oil changed finally because it started making a weird noise and you freaked out, and some of your food molded faster than expected so you had to go back to the grocery store. All in two days.

He sends ? back. Then adds, It’s your card.

Jack.

I’m serious, he says. Don’t apologize for using it. That’s why I gave it to you.

Yeah but now I owe you. A lot.

He calls you.

“Aren’t you at work?” you say in lieu of a greeting.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quickly. You can hear movement in the background, lots of voices and some beeping. “You understand that, right? I’m not going to ask for any of this money back. I’m not keeping a tab.”

“You’re sure?” You hate how pathetic your voice sounds.

“I’m sure,” he says softly. “Baby, how long have you-- You haven’t been thinking that this whole time, have you?”

Your reply is weak. And quiet. You’re too anxious about this to even realize it’s the first time he’s called you baby. “Maybe. Kind of.”

“No,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I should’ve-- You don’t owe me a penny, okay? No more of that. The card is yours to use, don’t worry about the limit. And don’t you dare try to pay me back.”

“Okay,” you murmur. Don’t worry about the limit. What the fuck is the limit?

“I said don’t worry about it,” Jack replies, and you can practically hear him smiling. “Get some sleep, okay? Why don’t we get breakfast tomorrow, you and me.”

“Okay,” you nod. “Okay. Want me to meet you at the hospital?”

“You can,” he says. “If you’re up for everyone wanting to meet you.”

You chuckle at that, hanging your head. Everyone’s been asking about meeting you, apparently. At least those that didn’t see you that night you first met Jack. “Sure, why not,” you say. “But tell them we won’t be staying long. You need to eat and take a nap.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You kind of love when he says that. “See you in the morning.”

“Sweet dreams, baby.”

+++

Jack doesn’t mention to any of his coworkers that you’re meeting him here after his shift ends. He thought about it, but then another trauma came in, and he didn’t have the time.

He almost forgets that you’re coming, but the second he hears your name leave Lena’s mouth, he remembers. And lights up inside.

“Your girl is in chairs,” she says, her tone veering toward sing-song. “Big plans?”

“Oh yeah,” Jack chuckles as he heads for the doors. “Breakfast.”

He opens the doors and spots you instantly, standing against a wall despite over half the chairs in the room being empty. His gaze softens when he sees you, not exactly looking well-rested, but beautiful. Always beautiful.

“Hey,” he says when he reaches you. 

You put your phone away and smile tiredly at him. “Hey,” you murmur. “How’s it going?”

“Better now,” he admits, bringing you in for a kiss. “You can come back and hang out with Lena -- our charge nurse. I’ll be just a little longer with handover.”

“Oh! Sorry I’m early, I can chill here so I won’t be in the way--”

Jack grabs your hand and laces your fingers together. “You’re not in the way. Come on.”

You concede and let him pull you back. He introduces you to Lena who is lovely and says there’s a chair with your name on it. 

“Robby just came in, should be out here in a sec,” Lena adds to Jack. “And Dana is probably not far behind.”

You’ve heard about Robby, the dayshift attending and chief of the ED. And also one of Jack’s best friends, despite (it seems) neither of them admitting it in those words.

“Thank you,” Jack says. “And sorry in advance for all the questions they’re going to ask,” he says to you.

“No problem,” you grin. “I’ll just ask for all the embarrassing stories about you.”

“Of course you will,” he sighs. “Right, I need to do some last-minute things, but I’ll be right back, and then hopefully we can get out of here on time, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, content as can be, which is a good sign, but Jack also knows he’s going to return to you being told stories he does not want anyone to know about -- let alone you.

He drops a kiss to your cheek before he leaves. He covers everything as quickly as he can, and then rushes back, just to find you giggling with Robby and Dana like you’re all old friends. It makes something twist in his chest.

“There he is,” Dana grins like a Cheshire cat when she spots Jack returning. “Why didn’t you tell us she was coming in?”

Jack slides into place beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t know I needed to tell you about my breakfast plans.”

Dana and Robby just share a look. 

“Well, it was very nice to finally meet you,” Robby says to you. “I’m going to go put my shit down so you two can get out of here.”

“Awh,” you pout playfully. “But Dana was just telling me about how helpless you both are with romance.”

Robby cackles and shakes his head as he leaves. Dana rounds the counter to start putting her things away and getting ready for the day ahead. 

“Lena had to run, but she caught me up to speed,” Dana says. “Don’t forget to sign everyone off before you go.”

Jack nods. “Let me do that right now.”

You watch as he works, and as Dana sets up her station for the day. Robby comes back a few seconds later, drumming his hands on the hub as he gazes up at a screen above your head.

“So, what’s for breakfast?” he asks, cracking a smile when he looks back down at you. “Any place special?”

“Dunno, Jack’s buying,” you tease, nudging your boyfriend’s arm.

Jack’s just happy to hear you making a little joke about it after the anxious texts he got last night. “I made the plans, of course I’m buying.”

“You always pay.”

Robby and Dana share another one of those looks.

“Like an old married couple,” Dana mutters fondly.

“Yup,” Robby nods, still with that shit-eating grin on his face.

“Okay,” Jack straightens up. “Let’s get our shit done so I can leave.”

Handover doesn’t take long. What takes up most of the time is the gentle teasing that Robby and Dana interject here and there. Eventually, it’s all sorted and Jack heads off to the lockers to grab his things, leaving you (reluctantly) with Dana and Robby.

He comes back to find you in tears. Doubled over. Laughing your ass off.

“Did you break her?” Jack asks Robby, but he’s fighting an absurd smile because Robby is also wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Dana looks as smug as can be. “What the hell happened? I was gone for barely a minute!”

You stand up, swaying from the giggles that are still slipping out. “Oh my god. That was good, Dana. Should I tell him?”

“Tell me what?”

Dana just shrugs and gestures with her hand. Tell him if you want.

You round the hub and thread your fingers through Jack’s free hand, wrapping yourself around his arm. You lean close and kiss his cheek. “She said you’re basically my sugar daddy.”

Jack feels a blush heating up his neck almost immediately. “Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving.”

“Have fun, sugar!” Dana calls out, her and Robby’s shoulders shaking with laughter as you and Jack exit through the ambulance bay.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Jack mutters (lovingly) once the two of you are outside. You took an Uber here (his orders) so the two of you could just take his truck to breakfast and then home.

“They loved me,” you protest, still wrapped tight around his arm, and it’s the best damn feeling he’s ever had. “Dana told me I should come the next time you guys go out.”

Oh God. Jack has avoided those nights for a long time. But maybe with you there, it’d be more bearable.

“Okay,” he says. “Next time there is one, I’ll let you know.”

“You better,” you smile. “Or Dana will have your head.”

+++

The guilt about spending Jack’s money doesn’t go away. It probably never will. But he never once makes you feel bad for it, always insists that you don’t need to worry about the limit (because he knows you won’t come close to it anyway, not with the way you spend and how he can pay off half of it each month), and he all but requires you to make fun purchases with it at least once a week.

It starts with just coffee. Or other fun drinks and food. Until he tells you those are just necessities to fuel your body. He means actual fun things.

So, you amuse him. You get a new pair of shoes because your others have had a hole in them for a while. But you make the mistake of telling him about said hole because then he just labels that as a necessity, too.

You try again with a new blanket. The heating in your apartment has been a little fucked the entire time you’ve lived there, but you think it might actually be going out this time. You, again, make the mistake of telling Jack that. The blanket becomes a necessity, and he comes over to look at your thermostat to see if he can fix it. (He can’t. You file another maintenance report.)

Third time’s the charm, or so you hope, so you start to think outside the box. Something fun. Something just for you. Something different.

It’s almost midnight when you think of something. You and Jack have been texting here and there while he’s at work, but it’s mostly devolved into him asking you why you’re not asleep yet. You tell him you’re busy trying to buy something fun. He leaves you alone.

Until he sees the charge go through on the card.

I’m going to pretend I don’t know what this is, he texts you, with a screenshot of the notification that clearly shows him that you spent nearly two-hundred dollars on lingerie.

Probably in your best interest to forget you saw that, you write back.

Saw what? 

You giggle to yourself in your room. Goodnight!

You’re torturing me, he says. And then, Sweet dreams baby.

You didn’t pay for express shipping, but the lingerie arrives at your apartment just two days later. Perfect timing for Jack’s two days off in a row.

The plan was already for him to come to yours after his shift and pick you up so the two of you can spend his little mid-week weekend at his place. You finish packing your bag, lingerie included, just in time for him to buzz your apartment.

You let him up and then pull on your shoes, so you’re ready to go as soon as he knocks. He takes your bag for you and holds your other hand as he walks you down to his truck, none the wiser to what you have packed.

The day is slow and cozy and restful. You shower with him when you get in. The two of you then take a small nap, and you wake up just a little before he does so you can start on lunch. He hears you in the kitchen and comes out with his crutches, only just recently beginning to use them around you.

The two of you lounge on his couch the entire day, tangled up together, dozing off here and there with the TV in the background. You order in for dinner.

And after eating, you head into the bathroom to change into your favorite piece of lingerie that you ordered. Jack’s favorite color -- and coincidentally the one you thought looked best -- with lace in all the right places.

You come back out to the living room to find Jack has cleaned up already. It’s not even 9pm yet, and you’re both ready to go to bed.

But not to sleep. At least, that’s not on your mind.

You find him in the kitchen, setting the coffee pot for the morning.

“Hey soldier,” you murmur, sliding your arms around his waist. “Ready to lay down?”

He sighs, body relaxing against you. “Yeah. Ready to hold you.”

You press a quick kiss to his neck and his breath hitches for only a second.

You help him turn all the lights off as he goes to check that he locked the front door. You meet him in the bathroom to brush your teeth next to one another, all of it very sweet and domestic.

By the time you lay down beside him, you’re fine with just this, with just being held by him in the quiet.

Jack settles and pulls you into him by an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck with a happy little sigh.

His hand slides under your shirt to rest on your stomach, and you bite your lip, suppressing a smile as his fingers find the lace. He freezes.

“What,” he says, voice low, “are you wearing.”

You try to hide your giggle as much as you can, but it slips out a little as you say, “Nothing, let’s go to sleep, you’re really tired.”

His hand slides higher, cupping your lace-covered breast. “I’m wide awake now, baby.” His breath tickles your ear as he kisses behind it. “Now,” he pinches your nipple. “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing,” you reply, still feigning innocence despite the grin on your lips. Thank god you’re not facing him. “Come on, you’re tired.”

Next thing you know, you’re flat on your back with Jack hovering over you. Even in the dim light you can see the hunger in his eyes.

“I’m not tired anymore,” he repeats. “And now I have a problem.” He drops his hips, pressing his half-hard erection to your core, and you gasp.

“Seems like a one-man issue,” you smirk, shrugging innocently. “Don’t know why you’d need me.”

He nearly growls as he leans down to capture your lips. When your hands move to tug on his hair, he promptly pins them above your head.

“Keep them there,” he says against your lips. You nod, still kissing him. He pulls back just a little to say, “Good girl.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as Jack kisses down your cheeks, your neck, your chest. He reaches your stomach and pushes the t-shirt-- his t-shirt up until he sees the lace. He hisses through his teeth, looking at you with fire in his eyes.

“Should’ve known you were up to something,” he says absentmindedly, his fingers moving to the waistband of his shorts that you’re wearing. “You never wear shorts to bed.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice how weird I was acting,” you laugh softly. “I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”

He drags the shorts down your body, tossing them to the floor. He presses his lips to your thighs, in awe of how you look. 

“Can I move my hands?” you smirk. “Kinda want to take the shirt off.”

He just looks up at you with a smile, crawling up the bed to tug the shirt over your head, too. He tosses it somewhere, leaning back to take you in. His gaze makes you squirm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His hands roam your body, feeling every inch. “I almost don’t want you to take it off.”

You bite your lip. “I thought you’d say that.”

His eyebrow raise with the realization. One hand travels down to find out what you mean. His eyes close as a moan breaks through his lips, and a gasp falls from yours. The pads of his fingers circle your clit gently before dipping between your folds, just barely teasing inside you.

“Jack,” you gasp, back arching just from the minimal touch.

He removes his fingers instantly, pressing his entire weight on top of you as he claims your mouth. “I’m taking my time with you,” he whispers. His hands pin yours above your head again. “Stay still, yeah?”

“No promises,” you smile, but when he gives you a look, you nod. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl.”

Staying still is harder than he thinks it is. It’s near impossible to not arch into his touch, especially with his teasing. You try to sink into the bed instead of up toward him, but it takes all of your effort.

And it’s killing you that he doesn’t want to take the damn lingerie off. You kind of assumed he wouldn’t want to, but feeling his lips and tongue through the lace is torture. You don’t want the barrier, but he’s determined to keep it on.

“Wait,” you gasp when his lips ghost over your nipples. His head raises immediately. “Can you--” You pause, swallowing. “Can you take your shirt off? I want to see you.”

He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Of course.” He tosses his shirt away, but leaves his boxers on. “Better?”

You want the boxers gone too, but you decide not to push your luck. You just nod. “Yeah. Better.”

He resumes his path from earlier, lips hovering over your nipples. He sinks his teeth ever-so-slightly into your breast, just enough to feel you tense underneath him. He soothes it with a kiss.

He does the same to your thighs and hips, so close to where you need him, but never close enough. He’s only just about to hover over your clit when your hips act on their own, thrusting toward his mouth, your clit just barely catching on his nose.

His hands immediately grip your hips to push them back down, tsk’ing with his tongue. “What did I say?”

“I know, I know, stay still,” you whine, still trying to move your hips, trying to find any friction. But your hands have stayed where he asked. “You’re torturing me.”

He soothes his thumbs over your hips, chuckling. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Exactly!” you cry, lifting your head to look at him. “Please fuck me.”

His smile turns into a grin. “So polite.”

“Jack.”

“I want to do something else first,” he says. “But you’ll get your wish, trust me.”

You toss your head back on the pillows dramatically. You feel him moving, but you’re too busy with said dramatics to care.

Until you feel him licking from your entrance to your clit.

“Oh my god,” you moan, your hips trying to thrust upward again, but he’s ready for you, and he holds you in place.

He alternates between teasing your clit and teasing your entrance, never doing much to either to make you reach your climax. It’s only when he settles on just your clit, flicking his tongue in the way he knows you like, that you start to get close at a rapid pace.

“Jack,” you try to warn him in your tone, but he knows. 

You half expect him to stop. To not let you have it. That’s why it comes as such a surprise when he goes faster, throwing you over the edge, and he doesn’t stop.

You know you look wild, hips thrashing on the bed as he fights against you and holds you down, continuing to lick and suck you through the orgasm. His tongue dips inside your entrance and you swear you feel a second wave of your climax hit, the sensation making you see stars.

You’re not sure how long it is before he lets up, you just know you’re floating by the time he crawls up your body. His erection presses against your stomach as he kisses you, coaxing you back to earth.

He pulls back just to watch you, the blissful look on your face, and how hard it is for you to open your eyes. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing the skin under your eyes until you finally look at him.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “Doing okay?”

You nod. “More than okay.” And then, because you can’t help yourself, “Are you going to fuck me now?”

He just laughs, capturing your lips again. “Yes, baby, I’ll fuck you now.”

“Thank god,” you breathe. “I’ve been waiting all day.”

He gives you another one of his stern looks, and sometimes you wonder if he knows the looks do nothing to deter your sass. Maybe that’s why he gives you them.

“I’m still taking my time,” he reminds you, lips quirking when he sees the bratty look fall from your face. 

You open your mouth for some other retort, but he pins your hands again, earning a gasp instead.

“Stay still,” he says again. “Let me do all the work.”

You want to protest about him doing it too slow, but you keep your mouth shut just this once.

He’s still wearing his damn boxers.

You should’ve known he wouldn’t fuck you immediately. He’s always had this thing. He has to use his fingers first, get you ready for him. Never mind the fact that you’re used to him now, and that you have a vibrator that you use when he’s working. You don’t need him to use his fingers first. But does he listen? No.

Instead, he takes his sweet time. He works one finger into you slowly, then moves to two. He spreads and curls them, huffing out a little laugh when you arch against him. He makes sure to give your clit the friction it needs before adding a third finger. When he does finally add the third, your hands fly from their designated space, clutching his arms on pure instinct.

“It’s okay,” he coos, using his free hand to guide both your wrists back to where they should be. “You’re okay.”

You shake your head against the pillows. “M’close.”

“Then cum,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I can feel you.”

Your eyes open, fixing him with a glare. “I want to feel you.”

“You will,” he promises with a chuckle, kissing you again. “As soon as you cum again for me.”

He curls his fingers at just the right moment, pressing hard on your g-spot before easing up, and doing it again. And again. Over and over, all while grinding his palm into your clit, and he can feel it happening, your walls fluttering, building up and up.

“Come on, doll,” he whispers against your cheek. “You’re right there. Show me how pretty you are.”

You whine against his mouth, your body still fighting it for some reason, but then he starts to kiss your neck. He feels you tense another notch.

“Come on,” he murmurs, hand still working at that same, steady pace. “Need you to cum so I can feel you, please baby. Please, for me.”

That works like a charm, your whole body shuddering with the force of your second orgasm, held together only by Jack’s weight on top of you. He’s kinder this time, riding the waves out only just before he’s slowing to a stop, not wanting to overwhelm you before he can even be inside you. He waits for one last quiver before he gently eases his fingers out of you, covering your face in more kisses.

You’re gasping for air, looking even more relaxed, and pulling him down with both your hands to capture him in a kiss.

His hips unconsciously thrust against you, his clothed erection losing its patience. “Okay, okay,” he mutters. “I need to-- Let me grab a condom--”

“Or,” you pause, lifting your hips again, pressing your clit to his cock. “We could go without.”

He looks at you for a long moment before he mutters, “Fuck,” and kisses you again, immediately coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. “You’re going to kill me,” he keeps muttering. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure. I’m very sure.” You’re on birth control and he knows this, but you’ve both wanted to be better safe than sorry.

Right now, you just want to feel him. All of him.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Jack,” you laugh. “Get inside me. Now.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grins, all goofy and lovesick, just the way you like. He kicks his boxers off and just presses the length of him against your folds, both of you groaning at the warmth.

He doesn’t enter you right away. Instead, he does something more obscene, just running the head of his cock through your folds, using the remnants of your orgasms to coat him. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, and you’re ready to pin him down when he does the same to you.

“We’re not rushing this one,” he says, ever so stern, but you can see the cracks starting to form. He keeps your wrists pinned beside your head. “Because if you rush me, I won’t last.”

You try not to smile at that. 

Slowly, so slowly, he pushes inside. His head is barely past your folds when he stops, eyes shut, taking a deep breath. Your hips try to rock and his eyes pop open, fixing you with another look.

He pushes just a bit further and you gasp at the stretch -- maybe you aren’t as used to him as you think you are -- head tossing back against the pillows again.

“Breathe, baby,” he soothes, releasing your wrist to hold onto your hips. “Let me in.”

You try to relax, wondering how the hell you’re wound this tight when you’ve already cum twice. You know it makes no sense, but he feels bigger like this somehow. Just him. No condom between you.

“Jack, please,” you whine. “I need you.”

“I’m right here, baby,” he murmurs. “Right here.” 

He pushes the rest of the way inside, hips flush with yours, and holds you there, just feeling you. It’s involuntary, the way you clench around him, and you hear his breath catch when you do.

“Be careful,” he chokes out. “You’re trying to milk me.”

“Maybe,” you reply, breathy and light. “I can’t help it. You feel so-- so big.”

“I told you--”

“Just shut up and fuck me.”

He leans over you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. He shifts inside you, rubbing right against your g-spot, and you gasp from the feeling, from the weight of him like this. “What are you forgetting?” He nips at your jaw. 

“Please,” you add quickly. “Please-- Fuck!”

He grins against your neck as he starts thrusting steadily. Not hard, but not soft either. He’s only pulling out halfway before pressing back inside, making sure to feel every inch of your walls. 

And then he starts talking.

“Can’t believe you bought this,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your ear. “You know how hot it is that you bought this for yourself? With my money?”

“Jack,” you gasp. “I didn’t--”

“I love when you spend my money,” he admits. “I want you to spend all of it-- it’s yours. I’m yours. All yours.”

Your hands move, but he doesn’t stop you. You wrap your arms around him, lifting your hips to change the angle as you wrap your legs around him, too. He groans at the change, thrusting harder.

“God, I love you.” He can’t believe he’s letting it happen now, letting this be the moment that he tells you, but it’s out there now. “I love you so much.”

“Fuck, Jack,” you pull his lips to yours. “I love you too. I’ve been trying so hard not to say it too soon.”

He kisses you gently, slowing his hips to savor the taste of you. “Me too,” he whispers. “But I love you too much to keep it to myself anymore.”

“Me too,” you smile, kissing him again.

He’s lost in the feel of you, starting the same rhythm again, steady and thorough, the way he knows is your favorite. Because he knows everything you need. He’s spent the majority of this last year just memorizing you. All of you.

He knows when your moans reach a certain pitch that you’re close, he knows what it means when your nails start to dig into his shoulders, and he knows what you need to get you over that ledge.

And once he gets you there, he follows right behind, hips stuttering, vision blurring from how good you feel, how good it feels to cum inside you, not into a condom. Your breath hitches in a way he’s never heard before when you feel him empty inside you, and then you groan, locking your heels together, pulling him even deeper.

He’s dizzy with it, his head falling into your neck as his hips lazily thrust as much as he can with how tightly you’re holding him. There’s barely any room to move, but he does, just a little, just riding it out with you.

He stays there, on top of you, hearts racing as one. Your fingers card through his hair gently, scratching his scalp just a little, just to soothe him.

And then you start laughing. He’s confused at first, wondering what the rumbling is, but then he hears your giggles, and he lifts his head, smile fighting its way to his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, but you’re still laughing. “I just can’t believe you told me you loved me for the first time while you were inside me.”

His head drops to the pillow beside you with a groan. His reply is muffled. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t be!” you laugh harder, trying to pull him back up. “Jack, I’m not mad. It’s really sweet. I’d been holding back from saying it for a few weeks.”

“Me too,” he says. “But I meant to say it not during sex.”

“Oh well,” you shrug, not a care in the world. “You still can.”

“Oh, I will,” he promises. “I will say it all the time just to make up for this.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” you assure him. “But I won’t mind hearing it all the time.”

“Good,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “And I meant what else I said, too. I really love it when you spend my money.”

“Does that seriously get you going?” you giggle. “I didn’t realize it was like that.”

“Of course it does,” he groans, feeling erection struggling to go down while he’s still inside you and talking about this. “I love it so much. And I love that you got this.”

“I look hot in it, huh?” you smirk. “It being your favorite color was just a bonus.”

“Thank you,” he says, hands roaming again, tracing the lace details again, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour doing that. “I think we might need another shower.”

“Mm, probably a good idea,” you nod. “Can I ride you?”

He groans again, head falling back into your neck. “If you even let me make it to the bathroom, then yeah. Sure, baby. You can ride me.”

“Then let’s go!” you laugh, trying to shove him off of you. “You’re going to have to help me get out of this. I’m not even sure how I got into it.”

He lifts his head, licking his lips as his eyes scan your body. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

[miley1442111]

the pitt masterlist

dr. michael robinavitch

gone 4 months after the mass casualty and the incident that ended with your estrangement to your brother dr. robinavitch, you're finally on your last day. a surprise visit from gloria means everyone finds out and a certain doctor has to pull you outside for a chat.

officially together you and robby get found out, which leads to a HR meeting, and a possible break up...

its okay this week has been terrible, someone makes it worse and you break. robby is there to pick up the pieces.

dr. jack abbot

someone else you come back from a shitty weekend to an even shittier monday with rumours of your kind-of-boyfriend being into someone else. it only gets worse when an aggravated patient gets his hands on you, and jack doesn't even know.

heading home a terrible week continues with the start of a terrible shift where a waiting patient decides to grab you as you walk in. jack finds out. chaos ensues.

live without you moved to UMPC ED, and obviously you don't need jack, and he totally doesn't need you.

-> the apartment jack visits your apartment, and robby realises something too.

admitting a fight leads to a confession, and jack abbot finally admits something he wants.

the first night the first night you stay over at jack's place goes well, and simultaneously badly.

always you have to go home for a wedding. jack comes to support. you think it's the end of your relationship, he proves it's not.

dr. frank langdon

dr.worrywart frank is not an openly affection man. what happens when that changes? the entire ER falls into the role of detective. robby and dana figure it out, of course.

-> dr. worrywart returns finally, paternity leave is up (pretend it exists in america), and dr. worrywart is back in full swing

dr. cassie mckay

waiting...

send in reqs for anyone from the show!