admin loves daniel but he has a girlfriend, he jokes and claims that gf and admin are the same person...but what if it's not a joke anymore?
redbullracing
liked by danielricciardo, yourusername and 416,088 others
tagged: danielricciardo
redbullracing me when the boss man tells me i'm not allowed to post thirst traps of drivers hands on social media
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danielricciardo yeah stick it to the man
landonorris red bull admin about to lose their job
sebstroll why do i feel like red bull admin is on THIN ICE
redbullracing because admin IS on thin ice 🥶🥶
itsnotcharles admin has a crush on daniel and is quite literally risking their job for it
liked by redbullracing
yourusername
liked by yourbestfriend and 368 others
yourusername topic is: I❤️NY
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yourbestfriend ohhh she finally posts the mystery man
yourusername 😉😉😉
f1wagupdates
liked by paddockgf, hamiltonn44 and 6,792 others
f1wagupdates Daniel Ricciardo seen in NYC with a new girl attached to his hip! No name yet but they must be serious if he brings her to the states weeks before COTA 🤔 leave your thoughts in the comments!
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ghostlewis rip red bull admin, hope she's taking the news okay
gaslygal and here lies the red bull admin x danny ric romance 😥 gonna miss those interactions
paddockgf watch as red bull admin stops posting about danny ric now
redbullracing added to their story
yourusername
liked by chloestroll, yourbestfriend and 415 others
yourusername tonight
view all 26 comments
yourbestfriend how long are you in NY for??
yourusername idk man i just go where the job takes me
redbullracing
liked by landonorris, f1 and 571,993 others
tagged: danielricciardo
redbullracing save a horse ride a da- sorry, ride a cowboy
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danielricciardo yeehaw baby
paddockgf sorRRY?? RIDE A DANIEL? admin is openly flirting with him on social media now
landonorris woah admin keep it g-rated
redbullracing just close your eyes young one
yourusername 🥵🥵🥵
liked by pierregasly and landonorris
danielricciardo
liked by redbullracing, pierregasly and 611,935 others
danielricciardo texas photo dump (did i do it right? pierregasly)
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pierregasly 👌🏽👌🏽
hamiltonstire how is it that hes not even driving and he's still the most popular guy in the paddock
landonorris whos the girl
danielricciardo rbr admin
landonorris pretty sure you shouldn't be kissing red bull's admin
danielricciardo i do what i want
redbullracing danny ric ladies and gentlemen, everyone's (my) favorite cowboy
redbullracing added to their story
redbullracing added to their story
danielricciardo
liked by yourusername, redbullracing and 488,913 others
tagged: redbullracing
danielricciardo black and white
tracktalk admin is on a date with danny ric !!!!!! the jacket, the hat!! it's all the same as red bulls story post 🥺🥺
paddockgf wait okay maybe that Marina girl on twitter was right, this girl sort of looks like yourusername
landonorris she kind of looks familar, have i seen her around the paddock before?
danielricciardo are you dating the rbr admin too?
yourusername added to their story
danielricciardo
liked by yourusername, redbullracing and 613,892 others
tagged: yourusername
danielricciardo great day for a birthday
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redbullracing why does she look familiar
danielricciardo have you looked in the mirror recently?
yourusername i love you thank you
landonorris happy birthday yourusername i also love you
danielricciardo are you flirting with the red bull admin? on social media?
landonorris i learn from the best
paddockgf YAAAA IT'S CONFIRMED
russellstires someone tell the fbi to hire that marina girl
“I need your help,” he hissed, snaking a careful arm around your waist, blinking twice when he hit bare skin, but realizing it was the way your dress was cut, “play along,” he said, “please.”
“So is this the girl you’ve been hiding from us, Raf?” Came a smooth voice, and you saw Alex Munoz, candidate for state senator, smiling, his hand intertwined with his wife. She smiled at you, but her gaze was hard, even as she held out her hand to you. You weren’t sure if you should shake it or bow and kiss her ring.
“Woman,” you corrected him, shaking his wife’s hand, “I’m Y/N, I work with Rafael as an ADA.”
He raised a curious brow, smile still on his lips, “Isn’t there a no-fraternization rule in your office? Or does Jack McCoy let it slide in fear of looking like a hypocrite?”
His tone was kind, voice with a hint of laughter - but it was akin to the sweetness in children’s medicine - anything to make the bitter taste go down easy, “We don’t work in the same department, Alex. We met through a collaboration on a recent case, but she handles Major Crimes cases. Not SVU.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” you gave a smile, placing your chin on Rafael’s shoulder, “but I will be watching the election, along with the rest of New York. It should be…interesting. Best of luck.”
They said their goodbyes and left, Rafael’s shoulders sagging, “Thank you,” he murmured, and you pulled him aside, feeling their gaze still on you, and you pressed a hand to his cheek, keeping him from looking, “are they still watching?”
“Yes, and I want to know why you are so friendly with the person you are investigating,” you pretended to be busy fixing his bow tie.
“Should you really be asking me that?”
“Should you have really asked me to get involved?” He sighed, brow wrinkled.
“He’s an old friend. But it was a long time ago,” Rafael said bitterly, “they both have proven that.”
You frowned, “Well, you have better friends now, and they can eat their hearts out.”
He scoffed, “Like who?”
You raised a brow, “like me. And you know what would really get under their skins?” He didn’t get a chance to reply, as you leaned close, feeling his breath stop, and saw his eyes darken, and you asked a silent question. He answered by pressing your lips to his. His hands raked up your sides, pulling you closer, while your own settled around his neck, toying with the ends of his hair. And you parted with a smile, “they do not look pleased.”
“I don’t think I care about them right now,” he breathed, and you paused, looking at him. And you saw his genuineness in his gentle gaze and parted lips.
“Good,” you pressed another kiss to his lips, before taking his hand and beginning to lead him out, “neither do I.”
Heyy could I request something ? I got this idea from a video I saw where the guy said he didn’t want to wear the wedding ring because it felt uncomfortable. Maybe Max tells reader this and the reader gets upset and kinda does the same to provoke him ?
Thank you 🌷
A Matter of Principle
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: Max says his wedding ring doesn’t matter in order to symbolise your love, but when yours disappears too Max learns that jealousy has a way of making symbols feel very real.
5.2k words / Masterlist
Max stopped wearing his wedding ring so casually that at first you thought he'd simply forgotten it.
You noticed it over breakfast, his left hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through something on his phone, his thumb moving absently across the screen. The pale band of skin around his finger was still there, a faint outline where the ring usually sat, but the gold itself was missing.
“Where’s your ring?” you asked.
He glanced down at his hand as though he hadn’t noticed until you pointed it out.
“Upstairs I think.”
“You think?”
“On the bedside table.” Max took another drink, entirely unconcerned. “I took it off last night.”
You waited for him to explain, but he returned his attention to his phone, forehead creasing at whatever message he was reading. You told yourself there was nothing unusual about it. He sometimes removed it when he trained, and once or twice he’d forgotten to put it back on before leaving the house, although usually he noticed within an hour and sent you a message about it.
This time, however, the ring remained on the bedside table.
It was still there when he left for the factory the following morning. It sat beside his watch, placed neatly on the dark wood rather than abandoned carelessly, which somehow made its absence from his hand feel more deliberate.
“You’ve forgotten this again,” you said, holding it out to him as he came back into the bedroom to retrieve his wallet.
Max looked at the ring, then at you.
“I didn’t forget.”
Your fingers slowly curled around it. “You’re not wearing it?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly, without the sheepish smile you had expected, and something unpleasant tightened beneath your ribs.
“Why not?”
Max sighed, already sensing that the conversation was becoming more serious than he believed it needed to be. He stepped closer and placed his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumbs over the soft fabric of your jumper as if affection alone would smooth the concern from your face.
“It’s uncomfortable, it catches on everything,” he explained. “Especially when I’m driving or training. I keep noticing it and I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway,” flexing his fingers as though the ring had been causing him some terrible physical hardship rather than a faint inconvenience.
“You’ve worn it for nearly two years.”
“Yes and it’s annoyed me for nearly two years.”
You stared at him but he just smiled, trying his best to make it sound harmless. “Not because it’s our wedding ring… just because it’s a ring.”
“It never seemed to bother you before.”
“It did. I just didn’t say anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
“I’m not taking it personally.”
“You are.”
“Well you never said anything.”
“Because I knew you'd be upset.” His answer came too easily. You looked at him for several seconds, waiting for some awareness of how unhelpful that confession was, but Max merely took a small step back.
“So you knew it would hurt me, and you decided to do it anyway.”
His expression tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s very close.”
“I just told you.” Max lifted one hand to your cheek. “It has nothing to do with you. I love you. I am married to you. I am completely committed to you and a ring does not change any of that.”
“It represents it.”
“To other people maybe.”
“To me.”
His hand fell away from your face and he looked briefly frustrated, although he tried to conceal it. Max had never understood attaching enormous significance to objects. He cared about actions, loyalty and the things that existed privately between you, the parts of your marriage that did not require an audience. To him the ring was a symbol of something he already knew with complete certainty and symbols had always mattered less to him than facts.
The fact was that he loved you.
The fact was that he came home to you.
The fact was that he had stood in front of everyone who mattered and promised that there would never be anybody else for as long as he lived.
He didn’t understand why a narrow band of gold should carry more weight than all of that.
“It doesn’t make me more married when I wear it,” he said carefully. “And taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“I suppose I was asking you to care that it means something to me.”
Max’s expression faltered, but only briefly. He stepped back towards you and placed both hands on your waist again, drawing you close despite the stiffness in your body. His voice softened as he kissed your forehead, evidently believing the affection should reassure you more effectively than any further discussion.
“I care about everything that matters to you,” he murmured. “But I think you’re taking this personally when it has nothing to do with you.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You keep saying that as if it helps.”
“It should help. I love you.”
“I know.” you repeated
“Then trust that.”
You did trust it. That was almost the most irritating part.
It’s not like Max was trying to appear single. He wasn’t ashamed of you, nor was he concealing your marriage from anybody. He spoke about you constantly, often without realising he had done it, he’d developed a habit of beginning stories with my wife even when your marital status had absolutely no relevance to what followed. There was no hidden intention behind his decision as far as you could tell.
Still, it hurt.
Perhaps because you remembered how he’d looked at the ring on your wedding day, turning your hand beneath the light with a tenderness that had made your chest ache. Or maybe because he’d spent weeks before the ceremony pretending not to care about the design only to privately contact the jeweller three separate times to ensure the engraving was exactly right. Possibly because after the wedding you’d caught him looking down at his own hand with a small, private smile, as though the ring proved something he’d once been afraid he would never have.
It had meant something then.
You didn’t understand why it suddenly meant nothing now.
“I don’t want to argue before you leave,” you said, placing the ring back on the bedside table.
Max studied your face. “Then don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve hurt you.”
You gave him a thin smile. “You should go. You’re already late.”
He kissed your forehead before leaving, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to end the conversation there, but he still left the ring behind.
Over the next week you tried to let it go. You reminded yourself repeatedly that he hadn’t changed. There no secret motive for you to uncover, no suspicious behaviour hiding beneath his decision and no sudden reluctance to acknowledge your marriage. Max spoke about you constantly, often with an unmistakable pride that made even strangers aware of how thoroughly his life had rearranged itself around you. He introduced you as his wife when everybody in the room already knew who you were, kept photographs of you tucked into places he thought you’d never noticed and called you after almost every meeting, flight or race because he seemed to measure the passing of his days by when he could speak to you again. He still reached for your hand beneath restaurant tables, and he still pulled you against him in his sleep as though even unconsciousness made him possessive of the space between you. He continued to behave exactly like your husband.
He simply did it without looking like one.
Other people noticed.
His mother asked whether his fingers had swollen from training. One of the mechanics jokingly asked if he’d already lost it. A journalist’s gaze dropped conspicuously towards his hand during an interview before she carefully rephrased a question about how married life was treating him.
Max answered every comment with the same calm explanation.
He didn’t like jewellery.
The ring was uncomfortable for his style of work.
It did not mean anything.
You smiled whenever somebody looked towards you for reassurance, unwilling to admit that each repetition made the irritation beneath your skin burn a little hotter.
The final push came at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were standing beside Max while he spoke with a group of executives, only half following the conversation as you watched a woman at the edge of the group look him over. She was subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Her attention lingered on his face, his shoulders and then, predictably, his bare left hand.
Her smile changed.
She stepped closer.
You watched her direct questions exclusively at him, laugh too brightly at comments that were not particularly funny and touch his forearm while making a point. Max remained oblivious, answering politely and occasionally glancing towards you, but he didn’t move away from her touch until he saw your expression.
Then he shifted immediately, placing a hand at the small of your back and drawing you closer.
“This is my wife,” he said, although you’d already been introduced.
The woman looked briefly embarrassed. “Of course.”
Max’s hand remained firmly against you for the rest of the conversation.
In the car afterwards he glanced towards you several times before eventually saying, “You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re annoyed.”
“I’m apparently always annoyed now.”
“She knew I was married.”
“After you told her.”
Max frowned.
“She looked at your hand, saw no ring and thought she could try.”
“And then I told her you were my wife.”
You turned towards the window. “Exactly.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”
“I— I, maybe.” You stuttered slightly, and then looked back out the window.
The ease of your agreement made him suspicious, but he decided to let it go as you said nothing else.
The following morning you removed your wedding ring.
You didn’t announce it, you didn’t leave it pointedly on his side of the bathroom counter or place it somewhere he would be forced to notice. You simply slipped it from your finger while getting dressed and put it inside the small jewellery box in your wardrobe.
For the first few hours Max didn’t realise. He kissed you goodbye, left for a meeting and sent you two irritated messages about traffic. When he returned home in the afternoon he found you in the kitchen arranging flowers that had been delivered earlier that day.
He walked behind you, wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.
“Who sent these?”
“The foundation.”
“For what?”
“The charity dinner next week.”
He reached around you to examine the card, and his gaze fell upon your hand.
His entire body went still.
You felt the change immediately, although you continued trimming the stem of a flower.
“Where’s your ring?”
The question sounded remarkably similar to the one you’d asked him a week earlier, except there was none of your tentative confusion in his voice. Max sounded sharp, alert and instantly displeased.
“In my jewellery box.”
“Why?”
“It was uncomfortable.”
He released you slowly. You could almost feel him arranging his response, separating what he wanted to say from what he was allowed to say. When you finally turned around, his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on your bare finger.
“Your ring has never been uncomfortable. You’ve taken it off because I stopped wearing mine.” Max sighed frustrated.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Perhaps it’s annoyed me for years and I never said anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
His gaze lifted to yours. “You’re doing this to prove a point.”
“I’m just doing the same thing you are.”
“No you aren’t.”
“Why does the reason matter if the ring doesn’t? How is it different?”
“Because you like wearing yours.”
“You don’t get to decide whether I like wearing it.”
“I know you like it.” His voice tightened. “You play with it when you are nervous. You touch it whenever somebody asks about the wedding. You never take it off unless you’re showering or sleeping.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“You didn’t change your mind. You’re trying to irritate me.”
You returned your attention to the flowers, choosing another stem. “Why would it irritate you? A ring doesn’t make me more married, and taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know I love you. You know I’m committed to you. I shouldn’t need jewellery to prove that.”
Max stared at you in silence.
Hearing his own reasoning returned to him should have ended the argument. Instead, it seemed to make something darker and more complicated move behind his eyes.
“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.
You tried not to smile. “That sounds personal.”
“It is personal.”
“Interesting.”
“Put it back on.”
You looked at him then, unable to conceal your disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“So you can decide that you don’t want to wear yours, but I have to wear mine because you’ve told me to?”
“I didn’t tell you that you had to.”
“You just said, ‘Put it back on.’”
Max looked increasingly frustrated, not with you so much as with the fact that he had walked directly into a trap constructed from his own words. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, glancing again at your empty finger.
“You’re my wife.”
“And you’re my husband.”
“I know.”
“People can’t tell that when they look at your hand.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“And I’ll tell them,” you shot back quick.
“That’s not the point,” The words escaped before he could stop them.
Your eyebrows rose. “No?”
Max closed his eyes briefly.
He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew every argument he wanted to make could be dismantled with something he’d already said to you, and more importantly, he knew you knew it too.
You waited, but he had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t admit that the sight bothered him without giving validity to everything he’d dismissed, and he was too proud to concede the argument when he still believed his original reasoning made sense.
“All right,” you said eventually. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The following days became a quiet war.
Neither of you wore your ring and neither of you mentioned it. Max’s discomfort however, became increasingly obvious.
At dinner with friends he watched the waiter smile at you for a little too long while describing the specials. When you thanked him, Max’s hand immediately settled possessively on your thigh beneath the table. At a party an acquaintance you’d met only once before touched your elbow and asked whether you were attending alone. Max appeared at your side before you could answer.
“No,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist. “She’s here with her husband.”
The man blinked. “I didn’t realise.”
You pressed your lips together to hide your amusement.
Max did not find any of it amusing.
Without your ring every innocent interaction seemed to catch his attention, he noticed men looking at you in bars, strangers finding reasons to start conversations and old friends becoming slightly too familiar. Most of them likely would have behaved exactly the same way had the ring been there, but Max no longer had that immediate, visible claim to comfort himself with.
It made him restless.
It also made him clingy.
His hand rarely left your waist in public, he introduced you as his wife with unnecessary frequency. He kissed you more openly, sometimes in the middle of conversations, and stood so close behind you that the front of his body remained pressed to your back.
You knew precisely what he was doing.
He was replacing the symbol he had dismissed with constant physical reminders that you belonged together.
The hypocrisy was so obvious that you expected him to surrender.
Instead, the disagreement became something neither of you could address without reigniting the original argument. Max refused to wear his ring, and you refused to wear yours, while both of you quietly resented the other for making the same choice.
The situation finally broke at the next race weekend.
A set of images from a sponsor dinner appeared online showing you and Max standing several feet apart during a conversation. In one photograph his bare left hand was visible and in another, so was yours.
The speculation began almost immediately.
Most people dismissed it, but enough accounts repeated the suggestion that your marriage might be in trouble for the rumour to reach journalists. A reporter asked Max about it during a media session, disguising the question as casual concern.
Max’s face hardened instantly.
“My marriage is fine,” he answered.
The journalist began to clarify, but Max interrupted.
“It’s more than fine. My wife and I are very happy and there’s no story.”
When he came back to the hotel that evening, he was furious. You were sitting on the sofa when he entered, his phone clenched in one hand. He tossed it down on the table and began removing his jacket with agitated movements.
“They’re saying we separated.”
“I saw.”
“We could’ve released something.”
“A statement announcing that our marriage is intact but neither of us likes wearing jewellery?”
Max looked at you sharply. “This is not funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
“They’re saying you’ve moved out.”
“I’m sitting in our hotel room.”
“They don’t know that.”
You held his gaze. “You can tell them.”
The reminder of his own words made his jaw clench.
“I did tell them.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“There is a problem when thousands of people think my wife has left me.”
“Why do you care what they think?”
“I don’t care about them.”
“Then who?”
Max turned away, pacing towards the window before facing you again.
“I care that somebody might believe you’re available.”
There it was again, the truth he kept revealing in pieces without ever allowing himself to examine it fully.
“You know I’m not.”
“That’s not the point.”
You stood slowly. “That’s exactly what you said to me.”
“I know what I said.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, and I still believe it. I know you’re committed to me. I know a ring doesn’t change that.”
“But you hate other people not knowing.”
Max didn’t answer.
“You hate the possibility that someone might look at my hand and think there’s space for them in my life,” you continued. “You hate having to explain that I’m your wife after they’ve already approached me, and you hate that people are looking at photographs and questioning whether our marriage is secure.”
“Obviously.”
The answer was quiet, but it came without hesitation.
“That’s how I felt when you took yours off.”
“It’s not the same.”
Your frustration finally broke through. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I didn’t take it off to hurt you!”
“And I didn’t take mine off to make people think I’d left you, I took it off because you made me feel foolish for caring about it.”
Max stopped. You had said versions of the same thing before, but never so directly. His anger faltered as he looked at you.
“You treated the ring like it was meaningless,” you said. “You made me feel shallow.”
“I never said you were shallow.”
“You kept telling me that your love should be enough, as though wanting the symbol as well meant I didn’t trust you. I never thought you were going to cheat on me. I never thought you wanted to look single. I only wanted you to understand that it meant something to see you choose to wear it.”
Max’s eyes lowered towards your hand.
“And when you refused,” you continued, your voice less steady now, “I started looking at mine and feeling stupid. Every time I wore it beside you, it felt as though I was publicly claiming something you’d decided was too inconvenient to acknowledge in the same way.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“I know… logically I know, but it’s how it made me feel.”
He came closer, but you stepped back before he could touch you. The movement seemed to wound him more than anything else you’d said.
“I need some air,” you murmured.
“It’s late.”
“I’m going downstairs, not leaving the country.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I’d like to go alone.”
Max’s face changed. His protective instinct battled visibly with his awareness that following you would only make the situation worse.
You picked up your phone and left before he could decide.
The hotel bar was quiet, occupied mostly by guests finishing late drinks after the event. You found a seat at the far end of the counter and ordered water, wanting space more than alcohol.
You’d been alone for less than ten minutes when a man took the seat beside you. You recognised him vaguely although you couldn’t remember his name. He worked for one of the sponsors and had spoken to you earlier in the evening while Max was occupied.
“Escaping the crowd?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He smiled. “I was hoping I might see you again.”
The intention behind the comment was clear enough to make you straighten.
“I’m married.”
His gaze dropped predictably towards your hand.
“I heard there might be some uncertainty about that.”
“There isn’t.”
The firmness of your answer should have ended the conversation instead he leaned one arm against the bar. “Then your husband is a very lucky man.”
“We both are.”
“Does he know you’re down here alone?”
You turned towards him fully. “I don’t need my husband’s permission to sit in a hotel bar.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
Before the man could respond, a familiar voice came from behind you.
“She also doesn’t need to explain herself to you.”
Max stood several feet away, his expression too controlled to be anything but anger. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had followed you before he could stop himself.
The man rose. “We were only talking.”
“I heard enough.” When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unbridled jealousy sat beneath every word.
“Max,” you warned.
His gaze shifted to you, softening for only a second before returning to the man.
“She told you she was married.”
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Then leaving should be easy.”
The man muttered something beneath his breath but walked away. Max watched until he disappeared through the doors, then turned towards you. His restraint was already fraying.
“What were you thinking?”
Your disbelief was immediate. “Excuse me?”
“Sitting down here alone without your ring while people are saying we separated.”
“I told him I was married.”
“He didn’t care.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you angry about?”
“That he looked at you as if he had a chance!”
His voice rose enough to draw attention from the other end of the bar. Max noticed it too, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to lower his voice, but the emotion was still there, sharp and impossible to hide.
For a second neither of you said anything more. Then Max looked around the room, like he had only just remembered where you were.
“We’re not doing this here,” he said.
You should have argued. Part of you wanted to, just to make him stand there a little longer with all that jealousy burning under his skin, but the truth was, your own chest felt too tight, and you hated the idea of strangers pretending not to listen.
So you walked past him towards the lifts.
Max followed half a step behind you, close enough that you could feel him there, but not touching you. That somehow made it worse. He was usually all hands when he was like this hand on your waist, fingers at your back, some small claim disguised as care. Now he seemed to know he had lost the right to do it.
The lift ride was silent.
The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the argument picked up exactly where it had left off.
“You don’t get to be angry at me for this,” you said, turning on him.
Max was already facing you, one hand still on the door handle. “I’m not angry at you.”
“You are.”
“No I’m angry because he thought he had a chance, he sat beside you because he thought you were alone and when you said you were married he looked at your hand and decided he didn’t have to respect it.”
“That is exactly what happened to me when that woman approached you.”
“I know.”
“You dismissed it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we still having this argument?”
Max stared at you, breathing hard as the anger gradually drained from his face. In its place came something far more exposed.
“Because I was wrong.”
The admission was not enough to soothe you immediately, particularly after weeks of stubbornness.
“You could have said that days ago.”
“I always understood that it upset you,” he continued. “I guess I just didn’t fully understand why.”
“And now?”
Max looked down at your hand. “Now… I still think a ring doesn’t make us married,” he admitted. “I still think what we have is more important than whether other people can see it.”
You waited.
“But I hate that they can’t see it.”
There it was, not quite an apology, but close.
You leaned back against the table. “Why?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.
“Because you’re mine.”
You gave him a warning look laced with a smirk.
“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “Not that I own you, but you’re my person. You’re my wife, and I don’t like somebody looking at you and thinking that place beside you might be available.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.” Max stepped closer. “But I like that it tells them before they ask.”
You studied him for a long moment Max came to stand between your knees, his hands settling on your hips. Unlike all the other times he’d touched you over the past week there was no performance in it now, no deliberate need to show anybody what you were to each other. It was only the two of you in the small room.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You made me feel ridiculous.”
“I’m really sorry.”
He bowed his head towards yours, “I thought you were putting too much meaning into an object when you should already know how I feel. I didn’t really consider that wearing it was one of the ways I showed you how I feel.”
“And?”
“And I have been an enormous hypocrite.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Max’s mouth twitched. “I knew that would make you happy.”
“A little.”
He brushed his thumb over the place where your ring usually rested.
“I don’t like jewellery,” he said. “That part is true. I still find the ring uncomfortable sometimes.”
You gave him a flat look.
“But I would rather notice it a hundred times a day than make you believe I don’t value what it represents.”
“Then we can find one that isn’t.”
He looked at you. “What?”
“A thinner band. A different material. Something you barely notice. I never said it had to be the exact ring we bought for the wedding.”
Max frowned as though this practical solution had somehow never occurred to him. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“The ring matters because you’re choosing to wear it. I don’t care whether it’s gold, silver, silicone or something you found inside a cereal box.”
“A cereal box?”
“Perhaps not that.”
He smiled properly then, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“I’ll wear the original when we go somewhere important,” he said. “And we can find something more comfortable for every day.”
“That sounds fair.”
“But you have to put yours back on.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
Max corrected himself reluctantly. “I would very much like you to put yours back on.”
“And not because you nearly had an aneurysm when a man assumed I was single?”
He slid one hand around the back of your neck, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours.
“I trust you,” he murmured. “I don’t trust other people to behave properly around you.”
“You can’t be angry with them for not knowing I’m married when you’re the one who said I shouldn’t need a ring to show it.”
“I can be angry about whatever I like. I simply can’t blame you for it.”
You smiled. “Growth.”
His mouth found yours the kiss beginning soft before deepening with the same possessive edge that had coloured his behaviour all week. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and you felt the last of the tension in his body finally ease when your arms settled around his neck.
When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth once more.
“Will you wear it tomorrow?”
“I haven’t brought mine,” you said.
“It’s here.”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I put it in the hotel safe.”
“You’ve known where it was this entire time?”
“Yes.”
“And you brought it with us?”
His expression became faintly sheepish. “I didn’t like leaving it at home.”
The confession was so painfully hypocritical that you stared at him.
“You carried my wedding ring across countries while insisting it did not matter?”
“Hey, I’ve already admitted I was wrong don’t I get some credit for that?”
“Will you wear yours?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s uncomfortable?”
Max sighed dramatically. “Until we replace it.”
You pretended to consider it.
“Then yes.”
The relief on his face was almost comical.
Later he retrieved your ring from the safe and placed it in your palm without immediately asking you to wear it. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee pressed against yours while he waited.
He held out his hand.
You took his ring first.
For a moment you simply turned it between your fingers, tracing the engraved date hidden along the inside. Then you slid it slowly back onto his finger. Max watched you with an intensity that made the moment feel strangely reminiscent of your wedding, stripped of the ceremony and the guests but not of its meaning.
He picked up yours next.
“I don’t need this to know you love me,” he said, looking at you rather than your hand.
“I know.”
“And you don’t need mine.”
“No.”
“But I will wear it because it matters to you.”
You softened. “And I’ll wear mine because it apparently keeps you from glaring at every innocent man who speaks to me.”
“None of them were innocent.” He growled.
“Max.” You laughed as he slipped the ring back onto your finger.
His thumb passed over it once, then again, and you watched the familiar satisfaction settle over his face. He lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing directly above the band before lacing your fingers together.
The rings didn’t make you married. They didn’t create the loyalty between you nor did they guarantee it. They couldn’t carry the full weight of every promise you had made or every private thing your marriage had become, but as Max stared down at your joined hands, both bands finally returned to their places he seemed to understand that symbols did not have to replace the truth to matter.
pairing: fernando alonso x ollie bearman x alpine!reader
summary: fernando isn’t used to feeling this hunted
a/n: @sinofwriting is like entirely to blame for this…also I completely forgot about his birthday 🤷🏻♀️ so we’re just gonna pretend I wasn’t late with this one 😂
Masterlist
Private Messages: The Old Guard
fa14fan
liked by user, user, user, and 1,729,096 others
fa14fan: and here we see this years rookies all together
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user1: so young and with such full careers ahead of them…
↳user2: I can't wait to watch them grow 😂
↳user1: right??
user3: isn't avid the only rookie this year?
↳user4: I'm sure you're a fun one to have at family dinners
↳user3: hey!
↳user5: I'll stop calling Kimi and Ollie a rookie when they finally grow out of their baby faces
↳user3: ok that's fair
user6: he's so nice and smiling for literally everyone but Liam
↳user7: a beef that's gonna span generations
↳user6: for real
user7: a single father working hard to provide for his children
↳user8: is he looking for someone? Cause I volunteer
user9: ok I know he's helping all the rookies but like his bond with Ollie and yn??? That's something special
↳user10: it really truly is
Private Messages: Ollie and YN
Private Messages: Pierre and YN
lando
liked by olliebearman, yn, charles_leclerc, and 3,182,112 others
lando: one last dinner before summer break
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user11: god i haven't wanted to be somewhere so badly before
user12: I can take them
yn: show of hands — lando pays
↳maxverstappen1: ✋
↳oscarpiastri: ✋
↳charles_leclerc: ✋
↳pierregasly: ✋
↳lando: oi!
user13: oh my god look at Fernando with Ollie and YN
↳user14: they ARE THE best mentor and mentees
↳user15: I love them
↳yn: and we love you random citizens
↳user14: oh my god 😱
Private Messages: The Old Guard
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,899,627 others
f1gossip: as the season heads into the summer break, fans spotted rookies Fernando, Ollie, and YN catching a plane away from Hungary together.
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user16: our rookies all together!
↳user17: love that for them
user18: did…did Ollie and yn just invite themselves to Fernando's plane?
↳user19: what do you mean?
↳user18: Nando had been talking about how he was looking forward to a quiet plane ride
↳user19: …a quiet plane ride with Ollie and YN?? Not likely liked by user18
user20: did he know they were coming along?
↳user21: I don't know which answer is funnier honestly
↳user22: I do and it's him not knowing
Private Messages: The Old Guard
yn
liked by pierregasly, aussiegrit, jensonbutton, and 2,827,445 others
Notes: Oof, I've been sitting on this one for a while. Not beta-read. Never beta-read.
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Early established relationship; office make-out
Summary: It’s a real shame that Rafael will be stuck in his office…But you could always drop off something sweet.
He leaves three things on your voicemail: A reason, an apology, and a murmured petname—mi vida.
You have to google what that means, and when you do, it kicks off butterflies in your stomach. Of course, most messages from Rafael do, even when he’s standing you up for a date.
Well. Does it count as standing up if he called and told you that he wouldn’t be able to make it after you showed up at the bar where the two of you were meant to meet up?
Probably not—it is probably, technically, just cancelling. And it’s something that you’re rapidly coming to realize is simply a reality of dating Rafael Barba.
You toy with your phone as you consider what to do next. You’re already out, you can just grab a bite, maybe a drink. It’s a real shame that Rafael will be stuck in his office…But you could always drop off something sweet.
--
"What are you doing here?"
"Oh, uh—" You look between Carmen and Rafael as they both wait for you to answer, a guilty smile curling your lips. "I just figured you'd have a late night. I was dropping off something for you to have later." You hold the bag up as you say so, melting a touch as Rafael's surprise shifts to warmth.
"Come in," He nods you closer. You give Carmen another flighty smile before hurrying closer, sliding past him and into his office. You take a quick look around as Rafael closes the shades on his door and windows. You've been in there a time or two, but only for a couple of minutes at a time. Your eyes sweep across the open files spread over his desk, accompanied by legal pads, a couple of pens, his open laptop.
"I'm sorry," You blurt as he rounds closer, clarifying when confusion washes his handsome face again. "I mean, I didn't mean to interrupt your flow or anything, I—I was planning to just leave this with Carmen."
"Well," He takes the bag from you. "I'm glad you didn't just leave it with Carmen."
"I would've if you hadn't come out."
"I heard your voice," He sets the bag down on his desk before he takes one of the chairs in front of his desk, carrying it around to set it beside his and setting his hands on the back of the seat. "C'mere."
You settle down in it, smiling as Rafael joins you, unpacking the cherry empanada and breaking it in two. You reach for the smaller piece, but Rafael tuts, holding out the larger of the two.
“Rafael,” You tut, waiting for the smaller one regardless, “All of this was supposed to be for you, that’s why I only got one. Gimme.”
Rafael pouts before he does as you ask, passing you the smaller piece. He leans in as he does, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You smile at the touch, leaning back and relaxing in your seat.
"Are you headed for a late night?" You ask, fighting the urge to get a closer look at his files.
"It would appear so," Rafael sighs, glancing toward his desk. "We got some evidence late from the defense."
"You can't ask for an extension?"
"We did."
“Yikes. Sorry.”
“Mm. What’d you get up to today?” He asks before raising the empanada for a bite.
“Oh, you know, work. Put off some errands I’ve been meaning to run.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Honestly? I just didn’t feel like it. It’s been so gross out,” You wrinkle your nose, nodding toward the window. “I hate that you’re working late, but at least you’re working late in air conditioning.”
“Tell you what,” Rafael dusts his hands of the remaining flaking pieces of pastry, “We’ll do them together this weekend.”
Your brows tip up in surprise, and Rafael chuckles, “What?”
“You wanna come grocery shopping with me?”
"I'd love to. You can learn a lot about someone from how they buy their groceries. Besides," He nudges his knee against yours. "I haven't seen you all week."
You swallow a comment with your next bite, but Rafael seems to read your silence all too well, tacking on:
"I know that's my fault."
You shake your head. "Fault isn't—I mean, it's work, Rafa. Besides, it's not like I didn't know what I was getting into."
"Still."
"No 'still.' You set those expectations early. And you don’t do this all the time. Just, you know. Some of the time."
Rafael smiles, and appears to be winding up to say something else when there's a knock at the door. He tips his chin up, calls out, "Yes?"
Carmen opens the door, offering you an apologetic smile before turning the full force of her attention back to Rafael.
"Carisi called, said he found new footage of the victim. He’s sending it over.”
"Thank you."
You lean back in your seat as Carmen shuts the door, popping the last of the sweet morsel into your mouth.
"I should get out of your hair."
"Stay a couple more minutes."
You give Rafael a chastising smile, nodding toward his computer when it chimes with an email.
"You should check that. I'm sure it's important."
"So are you."
"It's different."
Rafael lets out a soft, dissatisfied grunt as he turns to his laptop. You gather the scraps of packaging, throwing them out before you turn back to give Rafael one more goodbye. Or, at least, you mean to—but the man is hunched over his laptop.
"Have you been sitting like that all day?" You tut.
“Hm?...Oh—most of it, I guess.”
You hesitate, swiping your hands against your pants before rounding behind his seat. His head tips back toward you, but his eyes stay set on the screen.
“Can I touch you?” You murmur. It takes him a moment, but Rafael nods. You reach down, sliding your hands over the back of his neck. You watch him draw in a deep breath, his shoulders lifting and falling with it. You work your fingers under his collar, massaging at the base of his neck. You hear and feel his soft hum, and you increase the pressure just a touch, sweeping your thumbs up and rubbing in small, firm circles.
You consider stopping when Rafael doesn’t move or make another sound—and then his laptop screen dims, and you eye his reflection. Your lips pull with a self-satisfied smile as you see his eyes closed, his lips parted slightly. You use the palm of one hand to massage the base, sliding the other up into his hair and gently combing your fingers over his scalp. You glance toward the computer as it chimes again, and you lean back reluctantly, smoothing Rafael’s hair back and lifting your hand out of his collar.
“Okay,” You sigh, “Really getting out of your hair this time—literally.”
You step back out from behind his chair, ready to leave, but Rafael catches hold of your hand. You look down at it, then catch his eye as he pushes his chair back, tugging you to stand between his legs. You drag your feet just a little, brow furrowing as you take in his face. There’s a slight flush in his cheeks; his eyes are dark as he smooths his other hand over your thigh, hooking it around the back to guide you even closer.
Rafael raises your hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles before he rises from his seat, chest brushing yours. His eyes sweep across your face before he leans in, catching your lips in a kiss.
You think, at first, that it’ll be a quick goodbye kiss—but the slide of Rafael’s hands around your back tells you that he intends it to be otherwise.
There’s a tang of cherry on his tongue as he dips it between your lips, a soft groan falling from him as you tip your head to the side, deepening your kiss. He eases you a step back, then another, and you barely startle as the backs of your thighs bump against the edge of his desk. Your arms lift to curl around his shoulders, pressing your chest against his as he settles between your thighs. Your thighs twitch around his hips as his hand smooths down your back, his fingers bruising tantalizingly at your waistband.
“Rafa,” You breathe against his lips, the murmur of his name chased by a moan as he ducks his head, nipping tenderly at your jaw. You slip your hands beneath his suit jacket, easing it from his shoulders, and grinning as he lets go of you just long enough to shake it off. You part your lips as his tongue sweeps between your lips, teasing at yours as his hands grasp your hips.
You curl your hands around his suspenders, prepared to haul him closer—and freezing when there’s a knock on the door.
Rafael calls out, “One minute!” as you dip your head, resting your forehead against his shoulder.
“Got carried away,” You mumble.
“We both did.”
“You really do need to watch it with that tech-neck.”
“Mm.”
“I mean you were bent all over that keyboard—”
Rafael’s hand curl around your jaw, tipping your chin up to meet his eyes.
“I’m fully aware, mi vida.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning, give him a small nod. His eyes narrow slightly, head tipping.
“What’s that face for?” He prods.
“Nothin’. Just—Liked hearing it on the phone, like it even more in person.”
Rafael grins, leaning in and brushing his lips against yours. “Mi vida.”
“Okay,” You chuckle. “I really should go, ‘cause it’s late, and someone is waiting on you. Shouldn’t hold them up. If we're not careful, you’ll be snoring in court tomorrow.” You lean in, pressing another soft kiss to Rafael’s lips before you gently dislodge yourself from him, stepping around the desk. Rafael sticks close, taking your hand in his and giving your knuckles another kiss.
“I’ll make it up to you,” He promises.
“There’s nothing to make up for, Rafael, honestly,” You swear. “Text me when you get home?”
“It’ll be late.”
“S’alright.”
“Okay.”
You give his hand one more squeeze before opening the door to his office, giving a quick wave to Carmen and Detective Benson before hurrying to leave.
𝟏𝟎𝟑𝟗𝒾──── featuring charles leclerc, oscar piastri, max verstappen, kimi antonelli, ollie bearman ✿ fluff catalogue／ established relationship
reblog ⠀⠀ꢾ꣒⠀ feedbacks ！ ✶ 𝗔 𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗖𝗞 ˊᯅˋ
CHARLES LECLERC ｡ you're shivering in the monaco evening breeze, arms wrapped around yourself as you wait outside the restaurant. charles notices immediately. he always does. and he's already shrugging off his jacket before you can protest.
"charles, you'll freeze," you start, but he's draping it over your shoulders, fingers lingering at your collar as he adjusts it.
"don't care," he says simply, that soft smile reserved only for you playing at his lips.
you've seen him do this exactly zero times for anyone else. arthur complained about being cold last week and charles literally laughed at him. told him to "walk faster, it'll warm you up." but with you? he'd give you his only layer of clothing in a snowstorm without hesitation.
the jacket smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. he stands closer now, one hand finding the small of your back. he's definitely cold. you can see the goosebumps on his arms, but when you try to give it back, he just pulls you closer instead.
"keep it," he murmurs. "you look better in it anyway."
OSCAR PIASTRI ｡ you're wearing his gray hoodie again. the one he's had since his prema days, stretched out and faded.
"that's my favorite," oscar points out from the doorway, but he's already fighting back a smile.
"yeah?" you tug the sleeves over your hands. "want it back?"
"didn't say that."
he won't admit it, but you've seen him physically move his hoodies to the front of his closet where you can reach them easier. lando tried to borrow one once after a gym session and oscar deadpan told him "absolutely not, buy your own." but you? you've accidentally created a whole section of your wardrobe that's just his clothes.
you catch him staring as you flop onto the bed beside him. "what?"
"nothing." his ears go slightly pink and he's definitely fighting a smile. "just... bring that one back eventually? maybe?"
"no promises, piastri."
MAX VERSTAPPEN ｡ max is in full concentration mode, hunched over his sim rig with that death grip on the steering wheel. you can hear him muttering curses under his breath. never a good sign for whoever he's racing. you pad into his gaming room, and he doesn't even flinch.
"baby," he mutters, eyes still locked on the screen as he takes a corner. "there's snacks on the desk."
you weren't even looking for snacks but sure. you grab one and plop into the chair next to him, watching his concentration face. the little furrow between his brows, the way his jaw clenches.
"not now," one of his friend's voice crackles through his headset. "we're in the middle of—is that your girlfriend?"
"yeah," max says simply.
"mate, i thought you had a no-interruption rule?"
"i do."
"then why is she—"
"she doesn't count." he says it so matter-of-factly, like it's obvious. "different rules. now shut up, i'm trying to overtake."
KIMI ANTONELLI ｡ kimi's supposed to be asleep two hours ago. early morning training session, toto's orders, the whole responsible f1 driver routine. and he's got a sleep schedule that would make a monk weep. but he's still awake at 2am with you.
"and then she asked for oat milk after they made it with regular, are you even awake?"
"mhm." his eyes are definitely closed now. "she's... she's lactose intolerant?"
"go to sleep, kimi."
"no, no, i'm listening." he forces his eyes open, reaching for you blindly until his hand finds yours. "what happened with the coffee?"
"you know your manager would murder you if they knew you were awake right now," you whisper. "don't care." he tugs you closer, tucking his face into your shoulder. his words are muffled against your shirt. "tell me the rest. did she get the oat milk?"
"you're ridiculous."
"you're ridiculous," he mumbles. "keep talking. i like your voice."
OLLIE BEARMAN ｡ ollie's been glued to the soccer match for the past hour, practically vibrating every time they get near the goal. you've seen this level of focus exactly twice: now, and during qualifying. literally on the edge of the couch like he might fall off. you feel a little bad interrupting, but—
"ollie, do you think i should cut my hair shorter?"
his head whips around so fast you're worried about whiplash. "what? like how much shorter?"
"i dunno, maybe to here?" you gesture vaguely at your shoulders.
"wait, let me see." he's already grabbed the remote, muting the tv without a second thought. with this serious, concentrated expression. "hmm. i mean, you'd look beautiful either way, but—"
"GOAL!" the announcer's voice screams from the tv.
ollie doesn't even glance back. "maybe keep it long? but honestly whatever makes you happy. do you want to cut it?"
"ollie, they just scored."
"who—oh." he looks at the screen for half a second, then back at you. "it's fine, they'll replay it. so about your hair, have you thought about layers? or maybe curls?"
author's note. ack this will be my very late valentines gift to everyone 💌
Summary: You’re trying your luck on Hinge to get yourself a man. When Park the Shark stumble across your dating profile, he becomes unbearable and you switch to night shift. Doctor Abbot notices how Park is persistent with his attempts to get your attention, so he reads your body language to understand that it’s actually him you’re attracted to.
Warnings: undisclosed age gap, dating app, dealing with a tireless attempts to take you on the date, annoying Brendon Park, mentions of military and grief, prosthetic talk, lovely and sweet, the Pitt being funny, timeline may be shitty but whatever
Word count: 4.4k
A/N: I did some research about bionic legs for this one. I hope it makes sense in some kinda way. Enjoy :)
When Brendon Park aka Park The Shark stumbled across your dating profile on Hinge, your days were numbered.
You even switched for the night shift, to not accidentally meet Brendon while working. It wasn’t that often he was called down for a consult, but whenever there was a chance, he took it and you found it quite annoying.
Jack knew you were ecstatic about your job, being a senior resident, you were like a right hand to Robby, who was so pissed when you came up with the idea of the shift switch.
He was honoured to have you in the ER at night, you were maybe more compatible with others on this shift, constantly joking around with Shen and Crus.
It was just another night as the other, you clocked in, going through the charts with Samira and Mel, when some guy was wheeled in, his leg cut off in the car accident.
Jack told Robby to go home, while he took care of that guy himself along with the others. Someone paged the ortho for the consult.
Brooding and intimidating energy flooded the ER, causing everybody to shut up and lift their gazes from what they were doing.
“Park The Shark…” Whitaker sucked in a breath when he clutched on his bag, walking past the tall muscular figure.
Your eyes bore into him, already feeling his sharp glare on you, causing you to shiver. Brendon stormed into the emergency room, checking the viability of the case for him to take it to the OR.
After a while, he was out, and you thought he’d be gone. Well, he wasn’t even supposed to be there, something clearly changed and he surely did that on purpose, and now he was walking slowly towards where you stood along with Mel and he cocked his brow in arrogance.
“Still had no interaction with you on Hinge. What, are you scared?” he rolled his eyes, being so full of himself, that it caused Mel to blink twice from his intensity.
On the other hand, you let out a huff of disbelief. “Leave me alone, Park. It’s my business who I’m giving a chance to date.”
“Hm. You know I won’t give up. I’ll get you one way or another.” He took another step further and you instinctively backed off, Mel unusually stepping in front of you to shield you.
“Please, leave.” she mumbled.
“I’m okay, Mel, really, you don’t have to–” you placed a hand on her shoulder and she shook her head.
“No, he’s harassing you and he should go. He has a case to work onto.”
Suddenly Jack was there, his brows knitted in interest. “Hey, what’s going on? Something you missed here, Park?”
Brendon turned his head to look at him, his face twisted in displeasure. “No. Just a friendly chat, Abbot.”
Jack took a few steps towards the shark, until there was no space between their bodies, their chests almost brushing against each other. “Leave, or I’ll make sure the HR will hear about your unprofessional behaviour. That would be really bad for your precious career, don’t you think?”
You felt something in your chest twitch, your breath almost stopped, you never thought anyone would stand up for you like this. A smile curled up on your face and Mel mirrored it with her eager one.
Brendon gave you one last sharp look and he was out, leaving the space.
“He’s like bad, really bad.” Mel stated and you let out a relieved sigh.
Jack came up to you, gently squeezing your arm. “You okay?”
Lifting your gaze to meet his eyes, you nodded. “Thank you.”
“No probs, you looked like you could use a hand. Park can be intimidating.” Jack chuckled amused, his hand still lingering on your skin.
It was dangerously comforting. “I didn’t think he’d be here, when it’s night.”
His brows furrowed again, and he took a hint. “Wait a moment, he’s the reason you took the night shift instead of the day?”
Looking to the side, biting the inside of your cheek, you nodded.
Mel gave Jack a concerned frown and she walked away, giving you a space.
“If you’re comfortable talking about it, then go on. What’s the background?” Jack pressed into it, his other hand resting on your shoulder. Too much touch for just colleagues, but you didn’t care.
“About two months ago he accidentally found my profile on this dating app, and he tried to shoot his shot, but I declined it. And he started to pursue me here, trying to talk to me, inviting me for a coffee, dinners, and whenever I said no, it only impulsed him to be more pushy. And now he looked through my motives and he stayed for the night, trying it again.” you huffed in frustration.
Abbot couldn’t believe what he just heard, his protective senses flaring up.
“Oh… I see.” He wasn’t even able to say something that wasn’t full of emotion.
You frowned at his reaction but he gave you no space to speak.
“I’ll take care of it.” His voice was barely a whisper, the corner of his lips twitching in that reassuring smile.
With a sharp inhale you nodded and went back to your patients. His eyes just stayed on you until you disappeared behind the curtain of the emergency room.
Crus was looking through some papers when Shen approached him, eating a cookie.
“Hey, man, you noticed our soldier being weird around our night rookie?” Shen kept his voice low to not gather attention, only to have Crus to lift his gaze to give him an obvious expression.
“You mean, it’s pretty much clear, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Everybody around with common sense sees how Abbot is watching over her. He’s like a protective dog.” Crus rolled his eyes, putting the chart back into the bracket on the counter near the nurse station.
“Oh. I would pay good money to see him take down Shark in a fight.” Shen almost choked on his cookie when Jack appeared out of nowhere, giving his back a little smack.
“Have anybody said fight?” Abbot smiled smugly, cocking his brow while taking in both of the men.
Crus shook his head with an amused laugh. “No, man, Shen here is just blind, he should be sent to the optometrist for a checkup.”
“Shut up, Crus!”
Later that night, there was another accident that had to be checked by the surgeon and you expected Garcia to come over but it was Brendon again.
Your body told you to step away from the case but in that exact moment your feet decided to move, it was Jack who put his hand firmly on your lower back, keeping you in place.
“You’ve got this. Come on. I’ll be by your side. Not going anywhere, okay?” His eyes were glued to your face not moving, not caring about the patient there, he waited for your consent. And you nodded with a small smile.
Park on the other hand watched you both closely, jaw clenched with tension, the anger bubbling inside him. Even a little thought about you allowing Abbot to touch you, riled him to the point of insanity.
“What do we have here?” His sharp voice cut through the comfortable tension between you and Abbot.
Ellis rounded the patient, giving him the insight he needed, standing in front of you both, as if shielding you from the Park’s roentgen gaze.
“Hm. Okay. I’ll take it up.” Shark grunted, on his way towards you.
Jack, noticing him by the corner of his eye, took a step to stand directly in front of you, his broad figure towering over you.
“What about a coffee in the morning? Somewhere else than here from the automat. I know a good place that’s open from early hours.”
Park stopped in his tracks, hearing what just left Abbot’s mouth. He was sure you’re gonna say no.
“It would be inappropriate to go on a date with my attending.” You chuckled, rubbing the heat on your neck.
“A date? As far as I know, it's just coffee.” Jack had his lips curled in a cocky smirk.
“Well then, it’s a yes.” You pursed your lips with a soft smile, blush crept on your cheeks.
Park snorted, causing you both to look at him.
“Are you fucking serious? You said yes to this old man? Really?”
Jack knitted his brows and he glanced at the ortho surgeon, bouncing on his feet a little, ignoring the ache he felt in his leg.
“Do you have a problem, doctor Park?”
You bit your lip, holding your breath while taking a glance at Park.
Brendon’s eyes darted toward your figure and then back at Abbot.
“Absolutely not, doctor Abbot.”
And then he retreated out of the emergency room, his foot kicking the door open.
With a deep sigh, you moved to the patient to prep him for the surgery.
Ellis watched you intently, a smug smile playing on her lips.
“Thank you.” She leaned closer to whisper to you.
Giving her a confused look, you tried to ask her, but she was quicker with her response.
“You just won me fifty bucks.” She winked and left the room.
Sitting next to him in the small cosy cafe, it felt unreal. You were seated next to a window, a few sun rays illuminating your hair and your tired face, your thigh brushing against Jack’s. The place was already packed, the morning rush in full swing, while you held the mug in your hands, leaning into the plush seat, enjoying the company of your older attending.
Jack flexed his hand that was resting on his thigh next to yours, fighting the urge to touch you, he tried to be as respectful as he could.
“Um… how’s your leg? I’m impressed that you’re able to stand on it through the whole night.” You tried to come up with something to talk about, to slice through the tension.
His smile softened at your genuine concern. “I have good days and bad days. This time is a little bit rough, but I can manage. I’ve been through a lot worse things than to be bothered by some discomfort.”
With a hum you took a sip of the coffee, shifting slightly, your eyes falling to where his legs were.
“Actually, I have an appointment with my doctor tomorrow to receive a new type of prosthesis, a robotic one.” His fingers tapped against his knee.
“Oh, sounds fun.” You chuckled, lifting your gaze to meet his eyes.
“You can go with me if you’re interested.” Jack felt a nervous knot forming in his stomach, a little fear that you’d turn this offer off.
But instead your face lit up a little, your eyes were glowing and you nodded eagerly. “Of course. That would be a pleasure to be your emotional support.”
A relief washed over him and a sigh left his mouth. “Thank you.”
Silence stretched between you two, only a buzz of the cafe was heard when you decided to rest your head against his shoulder, nuzzling more into his side, a scent of disinfectant and his musk hit your nose. It was a combination that allowed your body to relax.
Jack was surprised by your gesture, but he didn’t stop you. He was very pleased, finally moving his hand on your thigh, giving you a reassuring soft brush.
No words were said but it wasn’t necessary. You both knew what was hanging in the air and you really loved to bask in it.
Placing a mug back on the table, you reached for his left hand and your fingertips brushed against the metal on his ring finger. Jack frowned slowly, a sharp exhale left his chest.
Your gaze scanned the ring, your fingers mapping it.
“Why are you still wearing it?” Your question was soft and careful.
“I feel like I’d lose myself when I pull it off. I’m afraid that my memories will fade quicker than I’d like, it’s like she’s with me all the time. That she never left.” His words hit you hard, you knew he was a widower for a while.
You looked up at his face with a smile. “I understand. I don’t want to be nosy, or to be rude. I’m just curious. It’s actually heartwarming to know that you care this much. You have a big heart, Jack.”
The way you said his name, something in his chest shifted and he chuckled softly.
“You think?”
“I know.”
Walking you to your apartment, he told you something about his life in the military, you were eating every single of his words.
“So, tomorrow for my leg appointment?” He stopped in his tracks when you reached the apartment complex.
“Sure. Where do we meet and when?” You clutched your bag, smiling widely.
“Gonna pick you up here at nine in the morning? We both have a day off tomorrow, so… maybe we can get lunch after?” Suddenly he felt so scared that he might be too much for you, too old and cranky.
You noticed his look, he was a master of hiding his feelings, but you spent a lot of time beside him to see right through him.
Taking a step towards him, you placed a soft kiss on his cheek and you gave his scrubs a playful tug.
“We can have whatever we want tomorrow. Don’t overthink it, doctor Abbot. I’ll be here at nine, waiting for you.” And with that you stepped back, leaving him speechless and blushing.
“Get some sleep, sweetheart. See you.” Jack grinned like a teenage boy, his stomach flipping in excitement.
The next day he was there, his truck parked at the curb, exactly at nine.
You were wearing a flowy dress, it was a nice change from the scrubs you were wearing every other day.
Walking towards him, you clutched a small purse to your side, you pecked his jaw a little. But Jack went fully in, his hands resting on your waist, leaning close to your face and taking your lips into a soft kiss.
Warmth spread through your limbs, your lashes fluttered from the excitement and you breathed out.
“Good morning.” He whispered against your lips, his eyes wandering over your face, taking in your visible happiness.
“Morning, doctor Abbot.” You brushed your hands over his shirt on his chest.
“Time to get to that appointment. We’re gonna have plenty of time to be touchy later.” He rushed you into his car, rounding it with you to open the door to the passengers seat and watching you climb up there.
Through the ride you noticed he was slightly tense, his jaw clenching and relaxing.
“You okay?”
Jack gave you a quick nod. “Just… it’s always very hard to face the fact that my leg is gone and that there has to be something to replace that missing piece.”
Arriving at the centre for veterans, there were exactly four floors of doctors offices, many specialists there, ready to help the people who served in war.
Hearing about this place in the past you never thought you’d be visiting it anytime soon.
Jack made his way over to the reception desk with you standing next to him. A woman sitting there lifted her gaze, her face litting up in surprise.
“Ah, doctor Abbot! What a surprise!”
He grinned, giving her a nod. “Hello. I’m here for—“
“Yes, your appointment with our prosthetist. Yes, he’s waiting for you already. You know, everybody is talking about it here, you’re such a hero for our community. Giving those men and women hope for a better life.” She just babbled while looking through some charts.
Your hand rested on his lower back, giving him a reassurance that was saying “don’t worry, I’m here”.
The woman stood up from her seat, giving him some papers. “Just sign this and hand it over to our specialist.” Then her eyes landed on you, taking in your figure.
Jack scribbled down his signature and noticed how you were being scanned. “This is my girlfriend.”
The woman’s face melted into softness and she sighed. “That’s good. You have to find happiness again, you know.”
He nodded, taking a paper and reaching for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. A blush crept over your cheeks.
“Thank you and have a nice day.” He smiled at the woman, leading you to the direction of the office where he had a specialist waiting.
“A girlfriend, huh?” you mumbled into his shoulder, while clinging to his side, smile wide on your lips.
Jack just chuckled, the waiting area was pristine clean, but warm enough with all those stories and photos pinned to the bulletin board.
You didn’t even have time to settle into the seats when the door of the doctor’s office opened, revealing a young man, maybe in his thirties, excitement written all over his face.
“Doctor Abbot! Nice to see you! It’s a pleasure to meet you, my mentor told me so much about you.” the man stepped out of the office, outstretching his hand to greet Jack politely.
Abbot hummed, accepting his hand, finally letting his knotted brows relax.
“Nice to meet you too. Shall we start? I want it to be over soon…”
“Absolutely, I understand. Come on in, I’ll lead you through the process of what I prepared for you.”
And that’s how you ended up sitting in the very comfortable chair by the wall, close enough for Jack to reach for your hand if he felt the need to.
The prosthetist showed him a prototype he had for him to start with, how it’s gonna be clasped to the rest of his leg, how it’s gonna work and you also saw Jack’s amputated leg out on display, and your expression changed into a respectful one. You couldn’t even imagine what horrors this man must've endured in his military days. And out of all of it, he sat there, back narrow and eyes taking in everything he needed to know about the change that was about to happen.
“So… are you okay with that? Are you really ready for this?” The specialist asked, just to be sure.
“Absolutely. I had this old thing for longer than I expected, so I think a little change won’t kill me.” His humour was a blast and you chuckled quietly.
The prosthetist was surprised at first but then he let out a soft laugh. “Of course.”
Even though you’ve seen many things in the ER, tending very rough wounds, this was a whole new level of your experience.
When the specialist helped Jack to navigate his leg into the prosthesis, you stared at them, frozen to your seat, breathless.
“Now, the electrodes that I put on your skin will attach to those inside the prosthetic leg, so it will scan your nerves and then act like your actual part of the leg.”
Jack nodded, humming and trying to figure out if he’s comfortable or not. Trying to move that thing a little, it appeared to work out very well, mirroring the reflexes of his other leg.
“Jesus, it feels like my leg just grew back.” Trying to joke, you started to laugh and he looked at you with an amused smile.
“Seems like your lady shares a sympathy for your humour, huh?” The prosthetist chuckled, looking at how the prosthesis was clinging into Jack’s leg.
You cleared your throat, hiding your grin into your palm, when Jack reached for your hand.
“Come here, take a look.”
Carefully, you got on your feet, watching how he moved the leg, interest written over your face.
“It’s amazing.” You breathed out and the prosthetist gestured for Abbot to step on his feet to try a little bit of walking.
With a hesitation, he got off the table, stabilising his steps and he walked towards a window and back. A clear joy was playing on his face, you could see it perfectly.
“Good?” You asked.
“I can’t believe it’s this good. There’s surely some magic behind it.” Jack was still in disbelief.
“That's pure science, doctor Abbot. And your own body is getting used to something that’s close to what it used to be there.” The prosthetist sighed in relief, scribbling down some notes.
“When will it be ready for him to wear it fully?” You asked what was hanging in the air.
“I’ll take measurements of his leg and I guess about four weeks. I’ll call you when it’s ready to schedule an appointment.” The prosthetist smiled at your genuine concern.
Jack stumbled a little, letting out a frustrated yelp and you instinctively stepped in front of him, your hands on his arms to brace for the impact.
“Easy, you old man.” You chuckled and he just leaned down to capture your lips into a soft kiss.
The prosthetist hid his smile as he moved to his computer to tap the notes into a file.
“I’m not that old.” Jack hummed against your lips, looking into your eyes.
Later that day you ended up on the walk through the park after you two had lunch.
It still felt surreal, that your attending was your, now, boyfriend. Still, you didn’t want to rush it.
After a while you stopped at the nearby tree that was blooming. Your face turned serious.
“How do we play it from now on? You’re my attending, Jack.”
Jack leaned against the tree, his gaze fell down.
“First of all, I’ll kick Park in his balls if he ever shows up again near you.”
That made you laugh, causing you to hide your face into his chest.
“I’d like to capture that on camera so I’d watch it every day.”
Jack wrapped his hands around you, keeping you close, he nuzzled his nose through your hair and inhaled your scent.
“But you’re right… I’m still your attending. I’m… shit, I don’t know. Usually I have tons of advice, but I can’t give myself one.” He cursed under his breath.
Your fingers mapped his abs through his shirt, finding peace in those soft vibrations his voice made through his body.
“I can go back to day shift with Robby. He’d piss himself from happiness.” You smiled at that image.
“I don’t know… that would mean I wouldn’t be able to see you that much. Getting days off would be harder…” he had a thoughtful expression, his brows knitted in frustration.
“Well, you’re right. What if we keep it under the radar for a while? I mean at work. We don’t have to change anything, that would bring attention to us. And I like to keep this private for a while, to enjoy the thrill of the moment, tension of our newfound… bond?” You lifted your gaze to see his face you adored in the past months.
Abbot cupped your face, smiling widely. Your breath caught in your throat, lashes fluttering a little as the silence stretched between you. His thumb brushed your cheek, still staring into the depths of your soul until he leaned closer, pressing a kiss onto your forehead.
A few weeks passed by, you took it slowly, dates there and there, sharing peaceful mornings in your now favourite cafe spot, only one who was suspicious was Robby, obviously.
Park was still watching you from a distance, also noticing how Jack got more protective over you, how his touch lingered for a moment longer than it should and how you were biting back your affectionate smile every time he asked you or praised you in the emergency room.
One time when you clocked in for your shift, you were humming your favourite melody, walking through the door to the nurse station, when Brendon, very accidentally, bumped into you.
“Coffee. Tomorrow afternoon. I don’t take no as an answer.”
And when you sucked in your breath to speak, Jack appeared beside you, in front of the all prying eyes of the ER, he slid his hand around your waist to lean closer towards your temple to give you a soft kiss. All that while he held his sharp gaze with Park.
Whitaker almost choked on his coffee, while Santos whistled loudly.
Robby stopped in his tracks as he was storming out of the emergency room.
“I think there’s no room for negotiation, Park.” Jack was cocky and you couldn’t help but smile.
Brendon was livid. He wanted to scream out loud, his mouth opened and closed, he was speechless.
“I hate you.” He only spat and turned on his heels, stomping out of the Pitt with a humiliating look.
Robby took a few steps towards you, his curious expression scanning you both.
“Well, well, well. A little doctor romance we have here, don’t we?”
You shifted a little, squirming under the judgemental gaze.
“Yeah, sooner or later, you’d find out, so…” Jack shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and you rolled your eyes.
“How long?” Dana beamed in, having her readers falling down her nose.
“Six weeks.” You muttered.
“You owe me dinner, Robby.” She cocked her brow at Robby, while winking at you.
“What? You made a bet on us?” Jack feigned a hurtful gaze, but he was having fun.
Robby shrugged his shoulders with a grin. “You were so fucking obvious from the start. We just wanted to know how long it will take for Park to burst out and you to finally give in and reveal your secret.”
“Motherfuckers…” you blurted quietly, but they heard it and laughed out loud.
Jack shook his leg a little and you looked down with concern. “You good? Is that new thing bothering you?”
“New thing?” Robby was curious again.
“Yeah, my prosthesis was replaced with a new prototype of a bionic one. I’m still getting used to it.” Jack huffed.
“When did that happen?”
“Six weeks ago?” You said more in a question but you knew exactly when.
“Wait— you— you were with him when he— jesus that was quick.” Robby was in disbelief.
You and Jack just shared an affectionate look full of devotion.
Summary: When a job goes off the rails, Craig calls Pope’s wife for help.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of sex, Mentions of robbery (I mean, it’s Animal Kingdom), Heavy makeout, Pope being obsessed with his wife, Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: This came to me in a vision. I don’t know what to tell you. But, as always, please let me know what you think! I wrote this one quick because I’ve been in a bit of a writing funk, so feedback is always the best kind of inspiration!!
Word Count: 1.6k
-
The steering wheel is cool beneath your fingers. The midday sun is burning through your sunglasses. Anxiety is twisting in your stomach.
You don’t fight with your husband. Ever. Sure, you can bicker sometimes, but even then it’s always more one-sided on your end. Pope Cody would burn the world to the ground for you. He would kill a man without question if you merely asked him to. He loves you so much that it borders on obsession, and it might even be a little bit unhealthy if you weren’t as unbelievably in love with him as he is with you.
When you bicker, it’s usually caused by nothing more intense than one of you being tired and grumpy. And those tiffs more often than not end with you both apologizing, him hiding his smile with a kiss to your forehead, and then dragging you to the bedroom so you can take any lingering frustration out on each other in more…creative ways.
And so, despite it all, despite the obsessive way he loves you and the stress of his lifestyle and Smurf constantly trying to bring you into it, you don’t fight.
But this… he is gonna fucking kill you for this.
If you survive it in the first place, that is.
Deep breath. Grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Focus on the parking lot. Bite down the anxiety that feels like it’s ripping your stomach lining apart.
Five.
You shouldn’t be here. You know that. But…
Four.
You promised him you would never get involved. Not in any of this shit.
Three.
You kind of wish you had a coffee or something. Maybe a shot. The amount of adrenaline coursing through your system is nearly unbearable and you haven’t even started moving yet.
Two.
The passenger door is ripped open, and Craig Cody nearly knocks you into the window with how quickly he barrels into the car.
“Drive!”
“Nope.” Your voice is steady. Firm.
“What?!” What, indeed. You don’t care how they usually do this, but no one is jumping into a moving car today.
One.
Pope moves into the backseat like a wraith, sliding in with a duffel bag over his shoulder and Deran and Jay right behind him.
He opens his mouth, the word ‘move’ a sharp crack from his lips before his dark eyes land right. The fuck. Onto you.
“No.”
“Hey, honey.” Your voice is tight. Too bright. “Long day?”
He’s looking at Craig, now. Oh boy, he might kill him before he kills you.
“She’s obviously gonna get a cut.” Craig says, like that helps, and you grip the steering wheel a little more tightly. Check the rearview again.
“Get out of the car.” He’s speaking to you, and you don’t have time to tell him he’s being overprotective.
“Seatbelts.”
“Are you serious right-“
“Shut up, Craig. Seatbelts.”
You hear four clicks. A few grumbles. You feel Pope’s eyes burning into the back of your head.
You slam your foot on the gas.
-
Within about four minutes, the smell of burning rubber is making your eyes water. The flash of blue lights is making them burn. The feeling of your husband’s eyes locked onto the back of your head is making your skin prickle.
“Fucking - stop it!” You finally shout, whipping around another corner and risking two seconds of releasing the wheel in favor of putting your hand over his face. It’s a childish move, sure, but the weight of his gaze is too heavy and you’re moving too fast to deal with it right now. He catches your hand, squeezes it once in an almost painfully instinctive way, and releases it just before you whip around another corner.
“Jesus Christ! Where did you learn to drive like this?!” Deran shouts, hands braced on the backseat to keep himself steady and eyes blown wide as he looks at you like you just grew a second head.
“I don’t know! Grand Theft Auto?” You try, and you sound a little more shrill than you would like to.
Craig is laughing. Jay is silent. You think Pope might have an aneurism.
“Wall! Wall!” He suddenly shouts, and grabs at you like he might shield you from the inevitable crash.
You swerve out of the way with less than a second to spare, feel his arm locked around your chest from behind your seat, and giggle like an absolute lunatic.
This time, when he looks at you in the rearview mirror, you can barely read his expression. His eyes are wide, filled with panic and surprise, and you giggle again, the fear and adrenaline overflowing from you in what might be the worst form possible.
Yeah, he’s definitely gonna kill you.
-
The moment the car stops, Pope launches out of the back, and you know what’s about to happen before he even makes it to your door.
“You think he’s gonna kill me?” Craig asks, still grinning, still riding the same adrenaline high that’s making your blood hum in your veins.
You look at him, and grin right back. “Oh yeah. You’re dead, dude.”
Your car door rips open, and Craig even reaches forward to unbuckle your seatbelt for you before Pope Cody lifts you right out of the fucking car.
He carries you around to the other side of the building like you weigh less than a paperweight, placing you on your feet in the alley and caging you against the brick wall. His eyes are burning into yours, so intense you can feel the weight of his gaze like a fucking anvil on your shoulders.
“I know you’re mad, but-“
To your surprise, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard that, if it weren’t for his hand flying up to protect the back of your head, the force of it might slam you back against the wall hard enough to concuss you.
His body envelops yours. His hands slide over your cheeks to cradle your face in a way that’s almost more possessive than adoring, lips moving against your own with a desperation that has your knees shaking.
“I…” It is painfully difficult to think when his teeth are scraping over your lower lip, when his tongue is tracing the sting of it like it’s second nature. “Mm, I thought you were mad.”
His hands skate down your body, wrapping around the backs of your thighs and lifting you against him so he can press you more tightly against the wall and kiss you even harder.
“Furious.” He growls, pulling back to brush his nose over the hollow of your throat. “I’m fucking furious.”
“You’re sending some very mixed signals about it.”
His hips grind against yours, and he swallows your gasp of pleasure with another kiss. It’s all tongues and teeth, like he’s trying to taste the lingering adrenaline on your tongue while still trying to cling to his anger that you were driving the car in the first place.
“If Craig calls you on a job,” his hand is sliding up beneath your shirt, supporting you with one arm and still kissing you like you’re the only source of oxygen he’s ever tasted, “don’t fucking answer.”
“He said it was an emergency.”
“I don’t care.”
He hikes you up a little higher, hips grinding against yours, and cuts off your gasp with another rough kiss.
You smile against his lips, and his hands grip your thighs a little more tightly.
“I did good, though.”
He growls at that, pressing you tighter against the wall.
“I could have lost you.”
“But I did good.”
He kisses you again, like he’s trying to change the subject, and you catch his chin to keep him in place.
Because you know damn well why you’re up against this wall, and it isn’t just because he was worried about your safety. You can feel it in the quickness of his breath. In the tight grip on your thighs.
He likes to take care of you, but he knows you’re not delicate. Not breakable. And as protective as he can be, he fucking loves it.
“Say it.” You murmur, a smile still tugging on the corners of your lips. “I kicked ass.”
His eyes burn into yours, pushing forward to press his forehead against your own.
“You did…” oh, he doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to encourage this, but he knows you’re right and he doesn’t want to admit how much it’s turning him the fuck on, “…you did good.”
“I kicked ass.” Your lips brush over his. His hands tighten even more on your body.
“Don’t push it.”
You grin, and when you kiss him again he groans so low that you can feel it in your bones.
And he really might take you right there in the alley, if it weren’t for Craig.
“Yo, put your dick away for five minutes. We gotta get this shit packed up.”
You both turn your heads, both breathless, and whatever look Pope gives his brother has the larger man raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Just sayin’, a public indecency charge isn’t gonna make the rest of this shit look good.”
“Cockblock.” You grumble.
“Adrenaline junkie.” He quips back, smile widening.
Your husband makes a frustrated noise, lowering you to your feet and pressing his nose into your temple in that odd affectionate way he has. You smile, turn your head to kiss cheek, and feel him brush his fingers over your waist one last time before he reluctantly pulls back.
As you walk with him back into the alley, Craig throws his arm over your shoulder, squeezing you hard enough to make you nearly stumble. “You kicked ass.”
You laugh, and lean into his side as Pope turns to glare at him. “Do not encourage her.”
Craig ignores him. Squeezes your shoulders again. “Wanna help load up the car?”
“What’s my cut?”
“Atta girl.”
And, though Pope doesn’t turn around again, still emanating pure rage, you can see the corners of his lips twitch in the smallest hint of a smile.
Well, he may not have killed you, but you’re definitely in for it later, and you’re pretty confident you won’t be complaining.
And if Craig calls you on another job…you just might answer.
warnings: reader is dating baz (boooooo), just pretend reader has brain damage or something for being into baz, revenge, andrew 'magpie' cody strikes again, andrew wins you over with his autistic tendencies, 18+, smut, cowgirl
requested by: anon
authors note: this fic was requested from my birthday event! the fic is inspired by the song that was chosen. if you want to participate go to this post!
ps. listen i'm an OG sabrina fan from her girl meets world days, she's actually just one day older than me, so i've listened to her music for a long time and i'm so pleased i got a song from singluar act 1
You had Pope exactly where you wanted him, moaning and whimpering underneath you as you bounced on his cock. You were in his apartment, in his bed, and the two of you had been holed up in here for almost a full day.
It had started yesterday when you’d seen your 'on again, off again boyfriend’ Baz with his tongue down some girls throat outside of Deran’s bar. You weren’t sure what it was about the sight that finally broke something inside you and made you realize that Baz was never gonna settle down like he’d been promising for the past few years. Maybe it was because he was ‘moving on’ so quickly since you last called it off, like you meant nothing to him, or maybe it was because the other girl was noticeably younger than you.
Either way, something shook free in your brain and you realized you’d wasted so much time on this absolute loser.
You’d gone to the beach to clear your head rather than go into the bar and ran into Pope stalking up and down the coastline. You’d both been in need of a listening ear and you two spent the next hour walking along the shore and spilling your guts about everything. At one point, Pope handed you a seashell you hadn’t noticed him picking up. You’d probed, asking why he gave you that specific shell, and he simply stated that the iridescent underside matched the stone in the pendent of your necklace.
One little comment from him and you were suddenly wondering if you’d been wasting your years with the wrong Cody brother. Baz barely remembered your birthday, much less took notice of the jewelry you were wearing. Baz only looked at your outfit as an obstacle to get to your body and had a tendency of getting bored by your relationship and by extension, you. He didn’t really know anything about you when you really thought about it.
But you realized that Pope knew you. He noticed you. Any time you were abandoned by Baz at a party or bar, Pope would keep you company. He picked up on how you were feeling and checked in if you were feeling down. Recently, he wished you a happy birthday, complete with a set of earrings in the type of metal you favoured, and then he sort of disappeared. Or at least he backed off. You started to feel that Baz had something to do with that. Baz was arrogant and territorial, he likely saw Pope as a wedge in your relationship and made him go away.
As Pope handed you that seashell, you saw the kind, generous, thoughtful, and considerate man in front of you for what felt like the first time. God, you’d been so blind.
You’d taken Popes hand and continued your walk with him, eventually asking if Pope kept giving you gifts because he liked you. With red tipped ears Pope admitted his feelings but explained that he'd backed off when Baz said that you said Pope creeped you out.
That pissed you off and confirmed your suspicions about Baz convincing Pope to leave you alone.
You kissed Pope then, gently and with great care, showing him that you weren’t afraid of him. You’d asked to go back to his place with him and had spent the past 24 hours showing Pope just how much you appreciated him.
As you fucked yourself down onto his cock, your tits bouncing from the effort and your hands braced on his solid chest for balance, your cell phone rang. You barely noticed, too caught up in how good you felt, in the way Popes hands gripped your hips, in the sounds Pope was making, until the ringing wouldn’t stop and you finally glanced at the screen.
It was Baz.
You smiled, delighted to get some revenge and treat him the same way he’d treated you these past few years - disposable and unimportant. You grabbed the phone from the bedside table and answered the call, not stopping what you were doing for a moment.
“Sorry Baz, this is a really bad time.” You said breathlessly into the phone. Andrew looked up at you with wide eyes and you slapped your free hand over his mouth. With the lack of leverage, you slowed your hips to a leisurely pace, fucking Pope long and slow. You reveled the way Popes eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned against your hand.
“What’re you up to right now?” Baz asked, oblivious to what was happening on your end of the phone and also completely ignoring what you said.
“Baz. Now is a bad time, and you know what, every time you call from now on is probably going to be a bad time.”
“Baby-”
“I’m not your baby Baz. I’m the woman you treat terribly and keep around because I’m convenient and who you call up whenever you’re suddenly into me again.” Popes fingers dug into your hips as his bucked up, chasing his orgasm as his eyes begged you to move faster. You choked out a moan as his cock pushed deeper inside you, causing your hand to slide from his mouth to the pillow beside his head as you doubled over in pleasure.
“F-fuck, Andrew,” You moaned into the phone as you were unable to keep the words from tumbling out of your mouth.
“Andrew? What-what the fuck? Where are you right now?” Baz’s voice through the phone was grating and annoying. You looked down at Pope panting beneath you, your faces close, and locked eyes with him as you smiled sweetly.
“I’m moving on. I understand why you tried so hard to keep Pope from me Baz, you were so afraid I’d see what a real man is.”
“Are you-”
“Lose my number.” You hung up the phone unceremoniously and threw it blindly onto the bed. You didn’t even have a moment to think before Pope grabbed the back of your head and pulled you down into a searing kiss. You both moved faster, your hips thrusting in tandem as you moaned into Popes mouth. One of Popes hands slipped between you to press the pads of his fingers against your clit, providing a firm, constant pressure that sent sparks through your abdomen. Pope kept pressing, the roll of your hips rubbing your clit against his fingers until your orgasm peaked, bursting through you like fire.
You whined into Popes mouth as your pleasure washed through you, Pope not letting up for a second. You’d had more orgasms in the last 24 hours than you’d had in your whole time with Baz, and that was thanks to Popes diligence and care. He never came unless you did first.
Before your orgasm even finished, Pope couldn’t take it anymore and pulled his arm from between you to wrap around your back so he could flip your positions expertly. You giggled, happier than you’d been in ages as Pope pressed you into the mattress. Pope didn’t waste a second, his hips continuing their punishing rhythm and shoving his cock deep inside you. You squealed as you clung to him while the headboard slammed against the wall over and over from the force of his thrusts. His hips slapped against yours over and over as he chased his orgasm in you, and Pope dropped his face to your neck as he got close.
You cupped the nape of his neck and pressed your face against the side of his head as you encouraged him to finish inside you. Popes breath was hot on your skin as he cried out your name when he came, spilling inside you and filling you with his warmth.
Popes hips rolled to a stop eventually, his weight pressing you comfortingly into the bed. You smiled, big and bright, as your new reality set in. You were free of Baz and you now had a man who actually cared about you, all of you, and you couldn’t be happier.
sammy had a long day at work. what better way to unwind than to fuck his girl stupid?
cws :: nsfw, mdni, porn w/o plot, softdom!sammy, sub!reader, afab!reader, use of 'good girl' and afab terms, implied age gap (sammy in his mid-30s, reader early/mid-20s) maybe inaccurate to the show in terms of sammy and tammi's relationship (haven't gotten that far, i just know they divorce and have a kid). breeding!! uhh wall sex.
notes :: 1,690 words, not proofread, probably trash. i'm like on season 1 of southland and i just love shawn and sammy so much. i had to write about him before i blew up.
“Fuck, that’s it.” He growled softly in your ear as he pressed into you, one arm around your waist keeping your back against his chest. “Told you that you could take it, baby.”
Your forehead was pushed into the wall, hands behind your back as Sammy held your wrists together with one hand. How he was able to stand straight and keep a hold on you was beyond you. Your shirt was bunched up above your chest, bra pushed down, tits exposed. Bite marks covered your skin, messy with saliva still sitting on the surface. Sammy didn't care if he was careful. No, he liked you debauched; he liked you as nasty as he could get you.
The denim had been pushed hastily down your legs, panties barely below your knees. Sammy had a rough, long shift, and he couldn't wait. His utility belt was thrown on the bed, gun put aside on the dresser. He didn't even get his pants off all the way, simply pulling his cock out and letting his belt hang.
“S-Sammy—” You whimpered out your boyfriend’s name as he pulled out and pushed back in, your back arching your chest towards the wall. He repeated the motion, a bit harder this time, forcing your body forwards into the wall with a cry escaping your throat. “F-Fuck, easy~”
“Sorry, baby.” Sammy chuckled next to your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple as if he was the sweetest man in the world and not currently balls deep in your cunt, stretching you open like his life depended on it. He moaned into your ear this time, hips retreating just so the tip stayed inside. Then he rammed in, a low groan echoing through your ears. “Just feels so fuckin’ good. This tight little pussy feels like heaven, honey. God, if you could feel it, you’d understand.”
The thrusts became more like actual thrusts, his hips finding a smooth rhythm as he moved in and out, teeth nipping at the shell of your ear. He hummed with a smirk—you could feel it against your skin. “Yeah, baby. You’d get why I can’t stay away.”
You couldn't get a reply out, your brain already turning to a puddle of mush and nothing but ‘Sammy, Sammy, Sammy’ repeated in it like a broken record. The sounds leaving your mouth were nothing short of lewd and sinful, the mush in your head spilling out that same loop of Sammy’s name. You couldn't think; couldn’t speak. All you were capable of was standing there and taking it.
“Look at you..” He cooed, the arm around your waist moving to wrap around your neck, your chin nestled in the crook of his elbow. He wasn't cutting off any air to your brain, just holding you still as he pummeled into you. “Such a good girl, aren't you?”
“Y-Yes..” You barely croaked out, eyes shut tight and mouth permanently parted.
“Mm, can’t hear you, sweetheart.” He emphasized his words with a particularly deep thrust, your throat choking up a curse. “Louder, baby. Use your words.”
“Yes—! Yes, I’m a good girl!”
“Yeah?” He laughed sadistically, the sound traveling deep and low in your gut. The heat radiated through your body and settled where he was already inside of you. “Whose good girl, hm? Who's got you on his cock?”
“You~” The word came out immediately in the form of a sob, the pleasure of him fucking you into next week and the pace of his hips causing your vision to blur. “‘m your good girl, Sammy…”
“Yeah, you are.” Sammy growled, his arm around your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp for air. He pressed deeper, moved quicker, his breathing growing heavy and rushed. “You’re my good fuckin’ girl. My pretty little thing for me to use whenever I want. Ain’t that right, baby?”
“Yesyesyes…” You slurred, head tilting back against his shoulder, legs starting to tremble from you standing on your tippy-toes just to reach him.
The slick sounds from his dick rearranging your insides was almost enough to make the holiest man want to repent. Sammy almost couldn't believe he got you that wet within the span of minutes. He was used to girls looking the other way, taking no interest in him. His ex-wife sure as hell didn't like him for him. She was using him for his title, for the money that he didn't even have.
But you?
Oh, you got so worked up just by the sound of his voice. The uniform was just a little added bonus at the end of the day. All it took was a snap of his fingers and you’d come running, drop to your knees, and do whatever he wanted.
Sammy felt your walls clench around him in a soft rhythm, a telltale sign you were close. His pace slowed before he pulled out completely, soaked cock resting between your cheeks. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already, princess.”
“I’m sorry~” You whined, pushing your ass back against him like it would solve anything. You should have known better, really, since Sammy loved torturing you. “Please don’t stop. Pretty please, Sammy, fuck me~”
Jesus Christ, he could have listened to you beg for hours and hours if he would have let himself. The way your voice rose an octave, getting all pitchy and whiny like a whimpering dog. That was enough to make a man weak in the knees.
Instead, Sammy pulled you away from the wall, jeans falling off completely and panties hanging off of one leg, his hands holding you up by the thighs. He unceremoniously dropped you down on the edge of your desk, the one you did your college homework on, slipping himself right back into that greedy hole with a smile and a groan. His lips were on yours in an instant, the taste of beer ever so slightly present on his tongue.
You should have been upset that he went and had a drink before he came home but you couldn't find yourself to care at that moment. How could you care when he made up for it by fucking the thought out of your head?
Your hands, ever so grabby, started to unbutton Sammy’s uniform shirt, moaning into the sloppy kiss as his hands gripped your thighs tight. He wasn't letting you escape even if you tried. The thought wasn't even allowed to cross your mind.
The dark blue shirt fell onto the floor and Sammy moved his hands away just long enough to get his white undershirt up and off and right onto the floor. His thrusts became erratic, teeth nipping at your lower lip as he pulled back to whisper against your mouth. “Touch me, baby. C’mon, put those pretty hands on me like I know you want to.”
And who were you to say no?
Your smaller hands pressed to his stomach, feeling him up where there was the slightest pudge and a treasure trail of hair leading right to the pot of gold. They moved upwards, squeezing at his chest as his hips pistoned into yours, the sound of skin slapping filling the bedroom.
“Yeah…” He muttered into your mouth, kissing you sloppily and panting like a dog, cock starting to swell inside of you. “Yeah, baby, just like that. Gonna make me cum, pretty girl.”
And by God’s name, you don’t know what came over you but you couldn't help but blurt it out: “Cum in me, Sammy. Please. Pretty please.”
“Oh, you know just what to say.” He smirked as he chased after his sweet release, one hand sneaking between your thighs to circle his thumb over your swollen clit. “Cum with me, yeah? Wanna feel you cum around my cock, honey.”
You nodded with a desperate, wanton moan, hands dragging down his torso with your blunt nails scratching at his tanned skin. The edge was so close that you could taste it, the pleasure dancing on your tongue. You could feel it creep up your veins, up your toes and through your nerves, until it settled deep in your belly, coiling tight like a spring.
“Fuck, baby, fuck—” Sammy groaned low and deep against your mouth as he felt your walls constrict around him, your thighs tensing around his waist. “You’re right there, sweetheart. C’mon. Cum for me. Make a mess of my cock.”
With his words adding to the fire, and his thumb drawing tight circles on that bundle of nerves, all it took was one brutal thrust forward before you were a total wreck. Your back arched your chest into his, head thrown back in pleasure, eyes rolling and thighs shaking. The fast, rhythmic pulses of your walls clenching around Sammy did him in. That and the way you practically screamed his name like he was the holy spirit.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He growled as he sped up his thrusts, fucking you through your orgasm as he chased his own. “Gonna fill this pretty little cunt up until it takes, you hear me? Gotta give Nate a little brother or sister.”
The sheer thought of getting you pregnant was what did it. Sammy gave one final thrust and he was done for, his head falling down into your neck as he shook and moaned, his voice going up in pitch just a little. His hands held your waist tight, cock twitching and spilling deep into you, no doubt in Sammy’s mind that it was enough.
You both panted like you ran a marathon as sweat coated your skin, a drop falling down Sammy’s forehead and onto your neck. He didn't want to move from his position, too enthralled with the way you clung to him at multiple points. Arms around his waist, hands on his shoulders, pussy dripping around his cock.
After what felt like ages, he brought his head up, forehead bumping into yours with a smile and rough chuckle. “You okay?” He asked softly, one hand coming up to fix your messy hair and wipe away some sweat from your forehead.
You smiled back tiredly, nodding and humming in reassurance even as his cum started to leak out of you, right onto the desk. “I’m okay.”
Sammy just smirked, hands cupping the sides of your jaw, lips lingering over yours. “Good, ‘cuz I’m not done.”
————————————————————————————
omg my first public fanfic in like 4 years ! if it's ass i'm so sorry. i haven't written good smut in forever lmao DISNSJS hopefully they get better from here.
Summary︱You propose a challenge to Jack. It tastes like pure victory and cherries.
Pairings︱Jack Abbot x Girlfriend!Reader
W.C︱3.3K
Warnings︱18+ MINORS DNI, porn with essentially no plot. kissing, cussing, oral (m! receiving), unprotected sex, outdoor sex, reader swallows Jack's cum, let me know if I missed anything!
Author's note︱Well I hope I am improving on my smut. I am extremely rusty. Enjoy!!
The day you met Jack, you swore you saw God himself. Drool had dribbled down your chin when your eyes landed on his hands. His big hands that could easily overpower you. The veins that adorned his arms had you reeling. The melody of his gravely voice made you clench around air.
Your eyes had been set on him. Determination was what had gotten you going. You had a healthy relationship with your dad so you didn't know what was wrong with you. Jack was the center of your attention. A predator instinct had awoken inside you, you were going to feel the way his skin felt against your teeth. One way or another.
Jack had noticed the way your pupils turned into beating hearts when you thought he wasn't looking. He had been used to getting certain stares. Being charming was in his nature and he noticed women looking at him.
Older women.
Not pretty little angels like you.
The belief that life was finally giving him a reward after what he's been through was a thought that had went to hell. Jack didn't have the ideal life that he would have liked. An amputated leg and a wife that hated his guts had sealed the deal among other things.
So when you came to him like a perfectly wrapped little gift, he had pretended you were a Christmas present he discovered by accident. And he stuffed you away deep in the closet of his mind, waiting for his Christmas to come. As much as he kept stuffing you further into the closet, you somehow always made it out.
Jack resisted. His training in the military had taught him the power of resilience. Of course it was only useful against enemies with torturous intentions. Not a 23 year old woman who didn't understand the word no.
After trying hard to resist, he finally caved. He had been through worse, what harm could a young girl like you do to him?
"You're staring," Jack lowly commented.
You nodded your head as you pulled the cherry lollipop out of your mouth. "I'm staring at your arms."
The thick biceps you loved to bite on were on full display. Your eyes drank them in like water. You were shameless in your staring, making it clear how much you desired him. It felt refreshing and yet unsettling to him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so wanted.
Jack shook his head with a smirk. "You're sick."
"Yeah?" You asked with a low voice.
Oh, he knew that voice. He didn't have to look at you to know that you had a sly smile at the corner of your lips. When your voice dropped two octaves, he knew you were turned on. He also knew he had about five minutes before you pounced on him.
A shiver ran through your body as the heat began to pool low in your belly. The first mistake he had made was being shirtless around you. The second was letting you watch him work outside. Sweat slowly rolled down his back and his groans of effort made you thirsty.
With a heated stare, you pushed yourself off your stool. "Then tell me, Dr. Abbot, how are you going to cure me?"
Maybe he had less than five minutes.
"Not right now, baby," Jack warned as he made no effort to move. "Guy's night is soon and I can't keep leaving the backyard dirty."
"But you've been working so hard for the past hour," you argued. "Take a small break."
Jack didn't have time to protest. You had came up behind him, your hands landing on his shoulders as you guided him to sit down on the couch he had outside. With a shake of his head, he tried getting up. Only to be met with your hands restraining his shoulders, forcing him to go back down.
Or at least he pretended to put up a fight.
"You've been at this for so long, give your leg a break," you cooed as your nails lightly raked over his chest.
A sharp gasp escaped him as he felt your nails getting lower and lower. Goosebumps arose on his skin as your nimble fingers went to unbutton his jeans.
"Angel….not right now," he weakly whispered.
It didn't take much for Jack to be turned on by you. Sometimes all you had to do was shoot a certain look his way and he was shot with desire.
You lightly slapped his hand away, stopping him from stopping you. "I want to propose a challenge."
Jack's mind sharpened at your question. You normally weren't one for challenges, not unless it involved you winning in some certain way. "What kind of challenge?"
"See this lollipop?" You asked as you waved the cherry flavored candy in his face.
Jack nodded his head. It was normal to see you with some kind of candy in your mouth given you had a major sweet tooth. It was adorable to him to see your tongue some random color every so often.
"What about it?"
His mouth was left slightly ajar to which you took that as your chance to push the sucker past his lips.
"I'll finish with you once you finish the lollipop," you declared.
Jack's eyes widened at the realization. This had been the first time any girl had asked him anything of this nature. "Like as in….sucking me off?"
You nodded your head. He went silent.
His silence had worried you after about ten seconds. Did you push him too far this time? Had this really been a bad idea? Did you just make a fool out of yourself?
"Are you okay with that?" You worryingly asked.
Without missing another second, Jack nodded once. "Yeah, more than okay with that."
A relieved smile made its way up to your lips. God this was going to be fun for you.
Jack knew that being with someone younger meant dealing with the sexual appetite. He had first thought he was going to have to teach you about sex and it's possibilities. Unexpectedly, he was the one learning from you.
You dipped your head to meet the junction of his neck, tasting the salty sweat. Your eyes fluttered shut at the taste. You couldn't wait to have the weight of his thick cock on your tongue.
Eager kisses were placed onto his neck, slowly traveling down to his abdomen. Your hands occupied themselves with palming him through his boxers. There was a certain kind of satisfaction that filled your ego whenever you felt his cock spring to life because of you.
So far, the sucker had been in his mouth just fine. It hadn't faltered just yet. Though it did slightly obstruct his view of you inching your way down to his member. Once he felt you tap on his hips, he lifted them just so you could pull his pants and boxers down.
The sound of his cock hitting his lower stomach made your eyes widen in delight.
"S'pretty," you mumbled with fascination.
He had a pretty dick. It was an bigger than average but he had the rosiest tip that was always begging for your tongue. There was a slight wall of gray hair that created the best friction against your clit when he was thrusting deep inside you.
Jack lost his grip on the sweet candy when he felt you lick a broad strip against the vein that ran up his shaft. His grips had surged forward, trying to push past your plush lips. Having a teasing nature was sexually frustrating to Jack but damn did he have the best orgasms whenever you did it.
Instead, he was met with kitten like licks on his leaking tip. You made sure to not miss a singular drop of his precum.
"You taste so good," you hummed as your finger swirled around his tip. "You're my favorite candy."
"Don't tease," Jack mumbled around the candy as his hips surged forward once again.
"Let me have my fun," you whine with a slight pout.
The tip of his pulsing cock landed on your lips as he repeated the action. It had been awhile since you last had sex since he had been so busy. He was now feeling the affects of neglecting himself.
"Now's not the time with my friend coming over soon."
You playfully rolled your eyes as your hand wrapped around his hot member. "Whatever."
Your lips finally wrapped around him, sinking all the way until he hit the back of your throat. The sound of his whimper encouraged you to sink even further, gagging when it became too much.
"Oh god," he whispered into the air. "That feels good."
Jack's hand went to the back of your head, guiding your head up and down on him. Your cheeks were as hollow as your body allowed them to be. The warmth of your mouth was nothing compared to your pussy but it still felt like heaven. You had always loved going down on him but it never lasted.
He didn't like coming inside your mouth.
Jack's mouth fell agape as his hips rolled on their own. Tears pricked the corner of your eyes as he kept making his way further into your mouth. But with each gag you made, he felt the way your throat was gripping him. It was nearly impossible to stop. Your mouth was entirely addicting. If he knew how good you felt, he would have gotten with you months ago.
Hushed moans were trapped inside his mouth. His eyes were screwed shut with pure bliss running through his body. His hips were starting to snap harder against your face, desperately chasing his relief.
It was enough for him to finally open his mouth, letting his moans free. The sound of his moans and groans made you clench your thighs together to feel some kind of relief. It didn't go unnoticed by him.
You peered at him through your lashes, seeing how he was no longer sucking on the candy. Your hand flew to take his off the back of your head as you pulled away. A string of salvia was the only thing connecting the two of you after you pulled away.
"You're not sucking on the lollipop," you reprimanded.
Jack shook his hand as his hand made its way to the back of your head, guiding your head back down. "Fuck that fucking lollipop. Keep sucking my cock, baby."
You pulled your head away from his hands once again, denying him of pleasure. "If you finish it, I'll ride you."
The offer made his lips encase around the candy, his teething barring down on it. The shards of the cherry candy filled his mouth right before swallowing it. He took out the wet stick of the sucker, showing it off proudly.
"I finished it."
He did hold up his end of the deal. If he finished the candy, you would ride him. In the midst of your mental contemplation, both os his hands yanked your body up. Running on pure instinct, your legs opened enough to be able to straddle him.
Since Jack hadn't been touched in awhile, that meant that you also hadn't been touched. as your lips crashed against his, you could taste the cherry candy off of his tongue. With your sweet tooth, your lips kept grazing his.
As you busied yourself with trying to lick the cherry taste off of him, his hands went underneath your dress, hiking it up to your waist. Your underwear was already stuck to your wet pussy as a result of being turned on from sucking him off.
"You're wet from sucking my dick?" Jack asked against your lips.
You nodded your head as you guided his lips back onto yours. Jack's hands went everywhere on your body. They were caressing your back, squeezing your ass and tits like they were his own personal stress balls.
They were his own personal stress balls.
It didn't take long for his hands to pull down the straps of your dress, just enough for him to see your bra. The delicate see through white lace of your bra flashed his eyes. They did nothing to cover your nipples.
You had planned on being fucked.
"You play dirty," he breathed, his hands fumbling with the back. "When did you buy this?"
"Yesterday," you answered in a breathless voice. "Bought it with your card."
Pride filled his body as he heard that. If this what you were spending his money on, he would make sure to pick up an extra shift to see more of it. Instead of throwing your bra across the backyard, he carefully placed it next to him.
"I even bought matching panties."
You hiked your dress, exposing your lower half once again to show off the poor excuse of underwear. The white lace had a wet splotch that became invisible. It had your slick seeping through, staining his green cargo shorts.
"It's—yeah—it's cute," he stammered, his throat suddenly feeling dry.
His eyes were transfixed on how wet your were. He knew how to turn you on but this was something entirely different. You had been wet for a long time for you to be dripping on him like this.
"I don't think I can wait," he rasped as his fingers gathered your wetness. "Not when she's crying for me."
You were glad he liked the matching set. Though you had planned to text him a dirty picture during his hangout to tease him, you didn't have the patience to wait either.
"I'll make sure you come first," he promised. "Don't worry."
You nodded your head with your lips slightly parted open. As you lifted your hips to push your underwear to the side, Jack had placed his tip at your weeping entrance.
"Kiss me," you begged.
Jack easily complied. He figured you needed a minute before he pushed himself inside you. The thought was quickly thrown out the window when you sat down on him in one swift motion. Not a singular second was wasted when your hips began to set a pace.
Jack's lips froze as your sudden pace. His eyes shot wide opened as he watched you bounce on his cock. The drag of your tight walls made his body relax and tighten at the same time.
"I asked you to kiss me," you grumbled with a frustrated voice.
"It's hard with you riding me like this," he hissed.
Perhaps you should have taken your time. But he wasn't the one in control today. It was your turn to finally take the lead. You were going to use it to your advantage. It was rare for you to ride him like this. He always preferred to have sex with you in the bedroom, it was easier for him to move you around to his liking.
The obscene sounds of your pussy swallowing him whole filled his ears paired with your soft whines. This was your favorite position since it allowed you to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars.
It also gave you the perfect view of his face.
His head dipped down to your bare nipples, his lips sucking on the hardens bud. You gasped in euphoria at the added sensation. You kept your pace up, your thighs trembling from the effort. Every bounce you made on his cock brought the both of you closer and closer to your release.
You could feel your wetness making a mess where the two of you were connected. If it was up to you, you'd be fucked by Jack nearly everyday. But you took mercy on the poor man. His stamina wasn't what it once was.
"Jack, fuck, fuck, that feels good," you blubbered. "Please don't let me go that long without you."
That did things to him.
You always blubbered whenever you were fucking him or when he was fucking you. He was sure you didn't even notice it. But he loved it. Some days you said the most filthiest things. Other days you said the most sweetest things. It was always a guessing game every time the both of you got intimate.
"I can't go that long without you."
Jack took mercy upon you once he noticed your thighs trembling too much. His hands went to your ass, guiding you against him. He knew your body very well. He knew you were able to come on his cock alone in this position.
His hands made you grind on him while he angled his hips slightly forward. The new angle made your pussy spasm around him. The friction created from the base of his pelvis brushed against your clit.
You threw your head back as you kept going. Your nails dug into his chest, leaving angry red crescents down his pecs. He made a mental note on making sure to be careful with what shirt he wore for later. He couldn't expose you yet.
"That's it, use your nails," he encouraged. "Drag them down my chest."
Your nails painfully dragged down when he rolled his hips underneath you. There was this overbearing pressure growing faster and faster with each thrust. Your pussy clenched around him over and over again.
Jack had to bite on his lip to keep from moaning your name out in the open. He was sure his neighbors could hear the both of you. Even if the two of you hadn't been moaning, there was a pornographic squelching sound coming from your core.
"I'm so close," you whined as your body began to go weak. "Jack, I'm about to cum."
"I know, I know."
It took all but three thrusts for you to finally cum. His lips crashed against yours to swallow the cry of his name as you orgasm.
He didn't let up after you finished. His hands went to lift you as he set his brutal pace to chase his own release. It didn't take him long either for him to feel his balls tightening up. Though, he couldn't cum inside you, too scared to take the risk with you being fertile myrtle.
"Fuck—baby—get off of me," he groaned.
You listened to him, lifting yourself completely off of his body. You wanted him to cum inside you but you weren't on the pill. Your sweet Jack was just looking out for you. Or so he said.
You called bullshit.
In a rushed motion, you went down on your knees to take him into your mouth again. The precision of your timing made it so you would feel him shoot his cum down your throat in a matter of seconds.
Though you couldn't have him come inside your cunt, he could cum inside your mouth. You hummed around him as you felt the salty taste invade your mouth. You lapped it all up, making sure none of it went to waste.
Jack wasn't able to enjoy his comedown like he had wanted to. His phone vibrated as a text popped up on his phone.
I'm 2 minutes away.
"Shit," he muttered as he hurriedly pulled his pants up.
Your eyes darted to the text and you quickly pulled your own dress up. You hand;t even bothered to fix yourself. There was no time to.
After somewhat fixing yourself, Jack quickly guided you to his front door. You turned around, kissing his lips before saying goodbye. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah, angel, I'll pick you up when we're done," he promised.
Jack watched you walk away with a funny walk. He knew your thighs were still trembling. He almost felt bad. Almost. But he was proud that he made your knees weak even if he didn't get to fuck your properly.
Just then, his friend's car pulled up as yours drove off. Jack didn't take his gaze off your car despite his friend greeting him. He barely even noticed him going in for their typical handshake.
"Was that my kid?" Robby asked Jack as they made their way inside. "What was she doing here?"
"Oh nothing," Jack answered. "She just needed to borrow something."
★ summary: michael robinavitch’s willpower was a force to be reckoned with. god only knows where your former lover went beneath all that restraint and self destruction. It’s a good thing jack abbot’s willpower was never quite that strong
★ pairing: michael robinavitch x reader, & jack abbot x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, cheating, p in v, face sitting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, oral f receiving, cream pie, public sex, dirty talk, size kink, praise kink, jack abbot talks you through it, aftercare
★ word count: 7.7k
★ notes: hello did you guys miss me 😈
Your relationship with Michael Robinavitch was the worst-kept secret in PTMC’s history, right next to Princess and her affinity for rigging the betting boards. Now it wasn’t just because Dr. Robby loved a hot, young resident; it was just how obvious he was about it, at least in the beginning.
He was clingy, always over your shoulder on cases. His gloved hand grabbing yours to instruct you through a procedure, even when it was entirely uncalled for. He doted on you, and god forbid anyone else look at you for two long. Dana compared him to a rabid dog, claiming his territory whenever a patient got handsy or an intern asked about you.
If you weren’t working together you were on the phone, at his house, on dates. He'd take you out, show you off. A hot, young thing on his arm was just what his ego needed. You were attached at the hip, for the first year anyways.
You weren’t sure when it started to go downhill, it was gradual, like an avalanche starting with the smallest snowball.
You used to start your days rolling around together in his sheets, snoozing the alarm both of you just begging for a few more minutes in his arms.
Now?
He was gone before you woke up, and wasn’t home until you had already gone to bed. You were two ships, barely passing in the night. At work, he only talked to you when it was necessary, gone were the days of teasing each other over the nurses' station or hidden kisses in the break room.
Now you were lucky that he called you anything other than Dr. Y/l/n.
The sex had started off hot and heavy. It was sex in on-call rooms and being bent over whatever surface he could find. Now, you couldn’t remember the last time you had sex, but when you did it was missionary that lasted less than 10 minutes. He’d grunt, kiss your forehead, and roll over. Long gone were the days he’d spend in between your thighs, making sure you came before he did.
Date ideas were shot down, he’d take extra shifts or have ‘meetings’ into late hours of the night. You weren’t dumb, you weren’t oblivious to the signs that were right there, but you were blindly in love. You thought he loved you, thought he still held the same admiration and respect for you as he once did.
When you’d voice your complaints he’d apologize, buy some cheap flowers, and take you out on the way over to your apartment, but lately he hasn’t even done that.
No one really knew, not really. Everyone knew something was up with Robby, but no one was able to get the truth out of him, so why bother?
It felt like you were dating a ghost of the man he used to be, so full of life and passion for his job.
You hadn’t seen him outside of this ED in almost two weeks, he was snappy and dismissive, always droning on and on about this sabbatical he was going to be taking. You couldn’t give less of a shit, it was just another excuse to run away from his problems, and more importantly you.
Which is why when McKay came over, talking about how she needed to get laid, you interrupted.
“Me too, sister.” You sighed, chewing on the straw of your slightly watered-down latte. “It’s been like…..months.”
They all looked at you like you had grown a third head, even Samira’s eyebrows were furrowed.
“Really?” McKay asked, her voice quieting in concern.
You just nodded, “Yup.”
“You and Robby are still?” She trailed off, not wanting to overstep.
“Yup.” You repeated, taking a noiseless sip of your watered-down coffee.
She made a noise, confusion still written all over your face. “I’m sorry to pry, but… why?”
“Yeah, you’re young and hot. Plus you guys used to be all over each other.” Samira joined in.
Another shrug, “Wish I fucking knew. I’ve been trying for weeks. I barely see him anymore, he says he still loves me but he won’t even look at me,” You breathe out, “And he doesn’t touch me. I mean I went out and bought an overpriced slutty little pajama set, practically threw myself at him and you know what he said? That I should probably start sleeping at my apartment again, because he’s gonna have Whittaker house sit for him while he’s gone.”
Charts were long neglected, Samira all but threw her pager down on the desk as they crowded closer.
“Oh, oh no honey.” McKay frowned, “That’s not good.”
“You’re telling me.” Your hands are thrown up, ignoring others' eavesdropping on the conversation. Dana had heard it all before, and you were certain Abbot was too busy trying to figure out how to handle this ED without the man you were all gossiping about.
“I mean, if he’s not getting it from you I mean he’s getting it from somewhere right?” She says, as empathetically as possible.
Samira slaps her arm gently, but she has that knowing empathetic crease in her brow.
“What she means to say,” Samira smiles, “He does seem to be going through something, but I don’t think he’d do anything like that do we?”
You met McKay’s eyes, both of you sharing a knowing look.
“No, he probably would.” You admitted, sounding more deflated than you wanted to.
It had crossed your mind, there was no way it hadn’t. He was just a man at the end of the day. The whispers of the nurse slash case manager slash pain in your ass had found herself in this ED almost every day, attached to the hip of none other than your boyfriend.
“Or, he’s just going through something and he’s too ashamed to confide in you about it? I mean he is about to leave on some spiritual journey.” She offers, with much more optimism than you’ve had in months.
“Yeah, okay,” You laughed, “He’s on his big midlife crisis journey to find a little zest of life, a new sense of purpose. Whatever bullshit he’s convinced himself of, but why?”
Your voice cracked a bit on the last syllable.
“I’m right here, but it’s like I'm invisible. Not since Noelle has been prancing around the ER like a bloodhound.”
The drink in your hand is slammed on the counter, the condensation making it slide over a little as you continue.
“Maybe bankrupting people on the worst day of their lives is a new turn on for him.” You grumbled, watching the man slip out of one of the rooms, avoiding even looking over in your direction. “I mean, he won’t even look at me. It’s like he’s a stranger.”
“I don’t like her, and I don’t like him for treating you like that. He’s a grown man, he needs to at least communicate his feelings to you.” Samira sighed, picking her tablet up again, “I have a patient in south, but call me tonight if you don’t wanna be alone!”
“Thank you.” You frowned, squeezing her arm as she ran off.
You settled back next to McKay, arms brushing.
“Do you think he’s cheating on me?” You ask as soon as Samira is out of earshot.
A noise between a scoff and a cough leaves her mouth, “Fuck, I hope not. Maybe try to just ask him before he leaves tonight. The last thing you need is to waste 3 months waiting for him to come back if he’s already halfway out the door.”
“He’s not even halfway,” You laughed, “There’s one pinkie toe left on the door frame.”
”See, you still have your humor. You’re gonna get through this, promise. Especially if you think it’s worth fighting for, but if not? Fuck him.” She smiled
Every part of you wanted to believe her, but optimism had felt embarrassing lately. Your failing relationship was put on display at work and at home. Sometimes it felt like you were the last person to know that it was over. Maybe you were clinging to the past, to the good parts that were no longer there.
There you stood in silence, trying so desperately to absorb her words. Was it worth fighting for? You couldn’t remember the last time he kissed you slowly. The last time he reached for you first. The last time he looked at you without something heavy sitting behind his eyes.
Dana was yelling about traumas incoming before the silence between you and McKay could grow any heavier.
“There goes our break.” McKay sighed, and your shoulders slumped.
You laughed quietly and tossed your cup into the trash harder than necessary before following her out.
By the time you reached the trauma bay, Robby was already there.
He stood at the foot of the bed pulling gloves onto long fingers, posture rigid with that familiar calm intensity that once made your stomach flutter whenever you watched him work. Even exhausted, even emotionally hollowed out by whatever private war he refused to talk about, the entire room still bent around him effortlessly. Residents straightened when he spoke. Nurses moved faster. Everybody trusted him instinctively. You remember when you used to trust him like that too. You remember envisioning him as a god in this ED.
“What do we got?” You asked, slipping your gloves on.
The kid could not have been older than twenty-six. Blood soaked through the front of his shirt and his skin already carried that terrible gray shade that always made your stomach tighten. What was even harder to miss was the large piece of rebar protruding from his chest.
“High speed rollover MVC into an industrial plant,” the paramedic started rapidly. “Restrained driver. Hypotensive en route. Rebar through the left shoulder and upper chest. Heart rate sustained one-forty. BP eighty over forty and dropping.”
The patient screamed the second they shifted him onto the trauma bed, blood soaking through the towels wrapped around his shoulder. A rusted length of rebar protruded grotesquely through the upper part of his chest near the clavicle, disappearing somewhere behind his shoulder blade. Every movement made fresh blood well up around the metal. The room exploded into movement around him instantly. Trauma shears cut through clothing while the nurses prepped IVs.
”Jesus Christ,” McKay muttered, doing the FAST exam while you tried to get breath sounds.
“Get vascular surgery on standby,” You shouted, pulling your stethoscope down, “Diminished breath sounds on the left, to be expected.”
The patient’s breathing was becoming shallower by the second, panic making his eyes glassy as he looked around the room.
“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.
“Stay with us,” you said quickly, pressing a hand against his good shoulder while assessing the wound. The bleeding had picked up noticeably since transfer and blood was now running steadily down the patient’s side onto the sheets below him.
“Pressure’s dropping,” Princess warned from the monitor. “Seventy-two systolic.”
Robby’s expression hardened immediately. “He’s gonna need an OR now, page surgery, again.”
Ogilvie, the new intern, who was just supposed to be calling surgery again proceeded to spin around too fast bumping the rebar just enough to make the patient scream.
Fresh blood poured out around the wound, spilling on the floor with such quickness it felt like a horror movie.
“Oh my God,” Ogilvie gasped, “Surgery is on the way, O-oh my god.”
And before anybody could stop you, your hands moved.
You grabbed the exposed section of rebar firmly with one hand and shoved your other gloved hand directly into the wound around it, bracing the metal in place while applying pressure internally where the bleeding was coming from.
The patient cried out so loudly that the entire room froze while blood immediately soaked down your wrist. You could feel it dripping onto your legs, but you couldn’t do anything about it.
“What the hell are you doing?” Robby snapped, spinning back toward you.
“He’s bleeding around the entry point,” you shot back through gritted teeth, keeping the rebar stabilized manually while your hand compressed whatever vessel had started hemorrhaging deeper inside. “If this shifts again he’s dead.”
“You do not put your hand inside a penetrating chest wound blindly-“
“He’s fucking crashing!” You nearly yelled, frustration pouring off of you in waves. “I know how to do my fucking job Dr. Robinavitch. Do you?”
As if to prove your point, the monitor alarm changed pitch while the patient’s pressure plummeted again.
“Sixty systolic,” McKay called sharply.
”Do you?” He laughed dryly, “Because he’s still bleeding out while you’re having a fit.”
You adjusted your hand deeper despite the patient’s scream and suddenly felt it, hot blood pulsing hard against your palm before slowing significantly beneath your pressure.
The room went silent around the two of you except for the screaming monitor beside the patient. For one horrible second doubt crept into your chest. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe exhaustion and resentment and weeks of emotional whiplash had clouded your judgment. But, then the bleeding lessened almost immediately.
”There,” You breathed out, finally looking up to see his hardened gaze still on you. “Fuck you.”
If looks could kill, you’d be dead on the floor in this patient's blood.
You ignored the gasps around the room, the heavy slam of his palm against the door after he stormed out. You were only focused on the patient, controlling the bleed while the others worked around you.
Transport unlocked the gurney while blood products were rushed in behind you. Surgery came in not long after that, letting you ride up to the OR with your hand against the artery. As soon as he was stabilized, you were dismissed. Adrenaline crashed through your system all at once afterward, your hands trembling faintly as you stripped bloody gloves from your fingers, shedding off your ruined scrubs.
You barely made it into the hallway of the ED before Robby caught your wrist hard enough to stop you. Like he had been waiting to hear you come down the stairs.
“What the hell was that?” he hissed.
You stared down at his hand around your arm before slowly looking back up at him. “Excuse me?”
“You do not disrespect me in front of residents,” He spat, “Here I am your superior, do you understand that?”
The disbelief that hit you almost outweighed the adrenaline still buzzing through your bloodstream.
“That’s what you’re upset about right now?” You could have laughed in his face.
“You could have torn the subclavian completely,” he hissed. “You could have killed that guy.”
“If I didn’t do something he was going to bleed out before surgery even got down here.” You snapped, “I’m a good fucking doctor Robby, and you know it, yet you seem insistent on making me feel like an idiot.”
His eyes finally locked onto yours then, dark and burning with something that looked dangerously close to humiliation. The station had gone completely silent around you both now. Even the residents nearby were pretending not to stare.
Robby stepped closer suddenly, crowding into your space just enough to make the air around you tense.
“Just because we’re fucking,” he said lowly, bending down toward you, “doesn’t mean you get special treatment.”
The silence afterward was catastrophic. Your face went blank for a second before an incredulous laugh escaped you.
“Oh really?” you asked loudly enough for everybody nearby to hear. “That’s interesting considering we aren’t.”
His jaw flexed hard, and you could see the anger brewing in his eyes. The same ones that used to bring you comfort were now glaring down at you.
You took another step closer anyway, eyes glassy now, and lowered your voice.
“You haven’t touched me in fucking weeks, months even.” You said, your voice steady. “So what is it? Are you fucking her?”
Robby looked genuinely caught off guard for the first time all day.
“What?” he snapped, after wiping the guilty look all over his face.
“Don’t act fucking stupid.” You spat, pointing through the doors to where Noelle was standing around the hub.
He laughed, actually laughing and shaking his head like he was dismissing something unbelievable. “That’s insane, Noelle works here.”
Your expression shifted immediately, “Yeah? So do I.” You laughed humorlessly.
“Nothing is going on.” He said quickly, grabbing your arm to pull you away from the nurses as they hovered around the hub.
“You hesitated when I asked.” You barked back.
“I did not hesitate.”
“You absolutely fucking hesitated.”
”You know,” His voice now boomed, everyone undeniably watching the interaction between you two. “Not everything is all about you. Maybe if you actually did your job instead of gossiping about things you know nothing about-“
“Brother,” Abbott’s voice suddenly cut in as he appeared beside Robby, grabbing his shoulder before the situation could combust any further. “Take a beat.”
You were both so lost in the heat of the argument that neither of you noticed him slipping into the hall.
Robby yanked his arm back immediately. “I’m fine.”
“No,” Abbott replied evenly. “You’re not.”
For a moment you thought Robby might actually explode. His whole body looked wound tight enough to split apart, anger and guilt and exhaustion all fighting for dominance across his face. But then Abbott pulled him back another step, positioning himself between the two of you.
Robby just nodded, Abbot tapped his chest once before the two attendings stepped aside. You shared a look with Abbot for just a brief moment, before they disappeared down the hall. You slumped against the wall, the adrenaline escaping you so fast you felt lightheaded.
Your chest hurt, there was this ugly aching pressure sitting right beneath your ribs, heavy and humiliating and impossible to ignore. The cruelty of his words opened your eyes.
Just because we’re fucking.
Like you were some nurse he fooled around with after conferences. Like the last year of your life together had been reduced to something cheap and transactional the second he got angry enough.
You laughed bitterly under your breath, scrubbing a hand down your face hard enough to hurt.
You pushed off the wall before you could start crying in the middle of the hallway and headed back toward the nurses' station on autopilot. Dana sat behind the desk flipping through charts, reading glasses low on her nose while complete chaos unfolded around her as usual.
She looked up immediately when you approached.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” you said, voice oddly flat even to your own ears. “What did Noelle want?”
Dana hummed distractedly. “Yeah, something about some charts. I got a question for ya.”
You swallowed once, nodding for her to continue.
“Does Robby sleep with his TV on?”
You frowned automatically, caught off guard by the question. “Yeah,” you answered slowly. “Drives me fucking insane, I’ve barely seen him lately. Been glad to sleep in the dark.”
Dana’s face fell immediately. clicking her jaw tight.
Your stomach dropped so violently that it almost hurt.
There was a horrible pause before Dana looked away from you briefly, lips pressing together like she was debating whether or not to continue.
Then quietly, carefully, she said, “Noelle said something weird about him sleeping with his TV on. Asked her how she knew that and she just shrugged, said she had some papers to file.”
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt physical. You stared at Dana blankly, your brain refusing to catch up to what your body already understood. Dana’s expression softened instantly the second she saw your face change.
“Oh honey,” she breathed.
“If he’s not getting it from you, he’s getting it from somewhere. McKay’s words came crashing back so hard that it made your chest cave inward.
Suddenly every little thing replayed itself with brutal clarity. The veil is finally being pulled from your eyes.
“How fucking stupid am I?” you laughed softly, though it came out sounding dangerously close to breaking.
Dana leaned forward immediately. “You are not stupid-‘
You cut her off with a shake of your head, humiliation already swallowing you whole.
“C-can you get someone to cover-“
“Course, course.” She rushes out, and that’s all you need before your feet are moving you to the on-call room. The door is slammed with such violence that the sound makes your ears ring.
You barely made it two steps before your knees weakened and you sank onto the edge of the narrow cot, both hands pressed hard against your mouth while you fought to steady your breathing.
The room smelled faintly like old detergent and stale coffee. Somebody had left a sweatshirt hanging over the back of a chair. The television mounted in the corner sat muted on some daytime court show.
Even now, sitting there piecing together the possibility that he had been sleeping with another woman while coming home to you every night, some horrible part of you still wanted him to walk through the door and explain it all away. You wanted there to be another answer. Another explanation. Anything besides this.
There was a soft knock on the on-call room door, making your heart race. When you took too long to respond, it cracked open just enough for you to see Abbot’s head popping in the doorframe.
You deflated, of course it wouldn’t be Robby coming to look for you. He didn’t care, and he probably hadn’t in a long time.
“You decent in here?” His timber voice asked, making you rub your eyes gently.
“As decent as I can be.” You answered, watching him take a timid step inside.
He shut the door quietly behind himself before leaning back against it with crossed arms.
“You scared the hell outta Dana,” he said gently. “She said you looked about two seconds from passing out.”
You looked down at your hands instead of answering.
Abbot sighed softly after a moment. “Listen,” he started carefully, “Robby’s… not doing well right now. I’ve seen it, I know you’ve seen it. He’s said some stuff to Dana today that’s really concerning.”
A bitter laugh escaped you instantly.
“No kidding.” You whistled, eyes focused on a crack in the tiled floor.
”I also know he’s been using you as his emotional punching bag while he falls apart, instead of getting actual help.”
“You seem to have it all figured out, huh?” You laughed bitterly, pressing your palms against your eyes so hard spots filled your vision. “Did you also know he’s been fucking the new case manager?”
You hear his posture shift as he pushes himself off the wall, “What the fuck?”
A humorless laugh broke out of you again before you could stop it, fraying at the edges as it built into something worse.
“I think I’m probably the last person to know,” You laughed, “S’been going on for months. I just didn’t wanna see it.”
“He cheated on you? Oh, sweetheart-“
You don’t give him any time to start the empathy, the anger boiling up inside of you threatening to tip over.
“Listen, I’m a feminist, but what does that bitch have that I don’t? I’m y-younger, I’m prettier, hell of a lot smarter, I don’t spend my time preying on men with girlfriends.” You cackled, “I’ve done everything for him. I’ve put up with his mood swings, I took care of his house, I attended all of his family bullshit, I put up with him putting work before me, I did everything. For what?”
Abbot was silent, his eyes darkening as he watched you lose your composure.
“I mean,” A crazed laugh sputters out of your mouth, “he never even really took care of me. So I wasted all of that time for what? It was always all about him. Him, him, him-“
“I’d take care of you.”
The words hit the room like something dropped too suddenly into still water.
Your eyes go wide, an anxious laugh escaping your lips. “Is that a joke?” You ask, but your throat is tight and suddenly your hands are damp underneath his attention.
It’s then you realize during your rambling he’s taken purchase in one of the chairs across from the cot you were sitting on. Your feet nearly touching.
“Nah,” His voice was rougher than before, and it made chills run down your spine, “I heard you earlier you know? Talking to McKay. He has a sexy young, incredibly talented doctor in his bed, practically half naked and he’s not taking care of you? That’s a fucking shame darling.”
The room went silent after that except for the distant muffled noise of the ER beyond the door and the sound of your own heartbeat pounding so hard you swore he had to hear it too. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t do anything but stare into his hardened eyes.
“So I’ll say it again, I’d take good care of you. God, if you were mine….you’d never have to worry about anything. I’d practically worship you.” He whispered, shifting his body closer to yours.
“Is this a trick?” You asked, your voice shaky. So was your breath when his face drifted closer without you even noticing him move. He was close enough now that your words brushed against his lips when you spoke. Close enough to count every faint freckle scattered across his nose, every tired line at the corners of his eyes.
“Not a trick,” He assured.
“Aren’t you two friends?”
“Best,” he whispers, and his lips just barely brush against yours.
“Then why..” Your breath trembles.
”I’ve watched him have everything I’ve ever wanted and he still treats you like you’re disposable,” he said quietly, the words tight with something like anger he’d been holding onto for too long. “And I’ve had to stand there and say nothing about it because he’s my friend. I’ve stood there and defended him, because you said you loved him.”
His gaze flicked to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate.
When did he get so close?
“That stops being easy after a while.” He said, his eyes back on yours.
You’re practically panting into his open mouth before words manage to form, “How would you take care of me?”
His honey brown eyes glisten, “I could tell you…Or I could show you?”
You should have stood up and walked out. You should have told him this was a mistake and you were emotional and hurt and angry and that this wasn’t how you wanted this to go.
Instead, your body betrayed you completely.
Because for the first time in months, somebody was looking at you like they wanted you. Somebody who always saw you. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire. You haven’t felt this alive in a long time.
Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself. He noticed immediately, letting his hand slowly reach up to cup your cheek. His callused hands held your face in his hands like you were porcelain.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
The words barely registered through the rush of heat and heartbreak and loneliness colliding inside your chest. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t want him to stop, the tingle in your fingertips and the heat growing in your stomach wanted the exact opposite.
Abbot exhaled shakily at that, forehead nearly brushing yours now. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered softly, eyes closing for half a second like he hated how much he wanted this too.
Then you kissed him.
It happened all at once and painfully slow somehow, your hand gripping the front of his shirt while your mouth crashed clumsily into his. Abbott made a rough sound low in his throat immediately, one hand holding your jaw while the other reached for your hips.
The cheap cot squealed loudly beneath both your weight when you tugged him down with you, the sound almost drowned out by the chaos still carrying on outside the on-call room.
Every kiss felt like you two were devouring each other. Your fingers pushed into his hair while his mouth moved hot and deep against yours, each breath stolen back only to lose it again seconds later. The tension wound through him was obvious now in the way he held himself over you, like he was trying so hard not to crush you beneath the weight of everything he’d apparently wanted for far too long.
His body was hot and heavy against yours, where you’d settled between his legs. His rough hands moving from your hips to cup your tits through your scrub top. He squeezed harshly, making a pathetic mewl escape your lips.
You pulled back just enough to breathe and that was somehow worse, because his eyes were dark and blown wide with lust his mouth swollen slightly beneath fluorescent lighting.
”Darling,” he breathed warningly, one last final chance to leave this room pretending as if nothing had happened.
All you could do was smirk up at him, “Lock the door.”
In all of his years, Abbot doesn’t think he’s ever moved as fast as he did. He was sprinting to the door, locking it, and pulling the privacy shade down. It wasn’t uncommon for it to be occupied during busy shifts. Dana was covering for you and Abbot wasn’t even supposed to be working today.
By the time he hobbled back, you had slipped your scrub pants off, throwing your shirt to the side. You weren’t wearing any fancy elaborate underwear, a simple sports bra, and cotton panty for work efficiency, but to Abbot, you would have thought you were on the cover of a magazine.
“So fucking gorgeous.” He said, holding his pointer finger up in a little spin, “Let me see you.”
You entertained him, spinning around playfully.
He let out a wolf whistle and lay himself down on the cot.
“Do you need help taking these off?” You asked, your hands reaching to tug at the strings on his pants.
He simply shook his head, patting his chest in a ‘come here’ motion. “You’re gonna pull those little panties to the side and sit on my face,” He said slowly, as if you should have known exactly what he meant when he lay down on the cot.
“W-what?” You laughed shyly, “I’m too heavy for that-“
“That's what that bastard told you?” He scoffed in disgust, “I served years in the military, I can handle it. Come here.”
A shiver ran up your spine as you got on your hands and knees, crawling over to him. His arms gripped your thighs, moving you into position as if you weighed nothing.
You hesitated for a moment, feeling his warm breath hit against the embarrassingly wet spot against your underwear.
“None of that hovering shit,” He whispered against you, “Want you to fuck yourself on my face. And I’m not stopping until you beg me. Gonna make up for every time that bastard mistreated you.”
A gasp tore out of your chest when he helped you pull your underwear aside, his mouth attaching itself to your warm cunt. With the first swipe of his tongue, he was moaning against you, his cock twitching at the taste of you.
Jack Abbot ate pussy like he was a starved man, which in a way he was.
He’d spent the last year pining over you from afar, fisting his cock in the shower after a long shift thinking of you. Now? He was cherishing this as if it was his last meal, because hell it might be.
You stayed still on top of him, too focused on the sensation crawling up your body to realize you weren’t moving.
A small smack echoed through the room, his hand tapping your ass making you cry out.
“I said, fuck my face.”
He could feel you hesitating, could feel the way our hips urged to grind against him on a particular lick.
“F-fuck,” You cried, “I can’t-“
He pulled away again, his eyes pleading with you. “Baby, I only got one good knee but I’ll get down on it and beg if I have to.”
A huff left your mouth as you pressed further into him, letting your cunt drag messily against his mouth. The sensation had you crying out his name. Between the soft stubble of his jaw, the wet heat of his tongue, and his nose nudging against your entrance with each lazy drag you were falling apart against him in no time. He talked you through it, his hands forcing you to keep grinding against him. Urging you to keep going.
“I c-can’t,” You cried out, and in response, all he did was laugh into your heat. The vibration causing your toes to curl.
“M’ you can.” He spoke in between sloppy strokes of his tongue.
It was like he knew your body like the back of his hand, already as he slid his tongue inside of you using his nose to rub against your swollen clit.
You were coming again almost instantly, your hands coming down to run through his short curls. As you came you yanked against the roots, pushing him even further into your heat. All your fears of hurting or suffocating him were out the window, and Jack? Was living his absolute dream.
“Oh, oh god.”
You tried to pull off of him, only to be stopped by his heavy arms curling around your thighs once again. He just chased you, keeping his mouth attached to you.
“F-fuck, I want you to fuck me so bad.” You were nearly sobbing, your legs trembling in his hold as your cunt practically leaked all over his face. He didn’t care, his tongue was still flicking expertly against you. “Baby, let me fuck you.”
“One more time,” His voice was muffled, his eyes glazed over. Drunk on the taste of you and the sounds that were leaving your lips. “Let me taste you one more time and I’ll fuck you real good baby.”
He was addicted, completely addicted to the feeling of you coming apart against him.
“God,” The word ripped from your mouth, your hips betraying you by grinding down on his face yet again. The tip of his nose rubbing messily against your clit with each swipe.
His fingers were digging so deeply into your thighs that you hoped it left bruises. He’s holding you down on him so hard you have no choice but to let him move you, his tongue hits even deeper inside of you.
Then your eyes are rolling back in your head, your fingers tugging at his short locks as you cum around his tongue again. Each wave is more sensitive than the last as he coaxes it out of you.
There are spots in your vision as you come down, watching him kitten lick your throbbing clit by the time you come back to earth. You’re panting against him, and he’s looking up at you like you’re an angel.
“How was that?” He had the nerve to ask, sweat beading on his forehead while your release coated his face and neck.
You swung your shaky legs off of him, plopping down on the couch with a groan. “You promised you’d fuck me.”
At your pathetic little pleas, he smirked, bringing you in for a sweet kiss on the lips. You indulged him, ignoring that you could taste the hot, sweet taste of yourself on his lips. He’s content on kissing you until you’re all but pulling him on top of you.
You’re so desperate for him when he finally stands up, you crawl over to the edge of the bed mouthing over his clothed cock. It sits heavy in his scrub pants, twitching at the slightest pleasure.
“Oh you little minx,” He groans, reaching down to cup the back of your neck. “You wanna take it out?”
You nod, slipping your thumbs into his waistband to pull the fabric down his legs.
You nearly gasp at the sight of his cock springing out of his underwear, the tip slapping against your face. He’s fucking huge, heavy in your hands as it falls to his mid thigh. Your mouth goes dry, eyes wide as you can feel your cunt clenching around nothing just at the sight.
“Fucking knew you’d be bigger than him,” You can’t help but say, your hand unable to wrap around his shaft.
“Yeah? You thought about it?”
You nod, your embarrassment long out the window. “I see the way you walk around here, knew it was heavy.”
A throaty laugh escapes him as you pump him a few times, he lets out a soft hiss when you swipe at the pre-cum leaking from his tip.
“Come on,” He hums, “Hands and knees baby, let me see that ass.”
A schoolgirl giggle escapes you as you comply, getting into the position that’s the easiest for him with his leg.
His hand comes down and slaps your ass gently, just enough to make you cry out as he positions himself at your entrance.
“Look at her,” he whistles, dragging his tip through your soaked folds, “She’s trying to suckle me in, you want this bad don’t you baby?”
Your hands are gripping the sheets so hard already you know they’re going to ache. “P-please.” Your voice is agonized with need.
“You deserve it,” He cooed, slowly pushing inside of you. “I got you, baby. M’always gonna take care of you.”
Tears escape your eyes in relief as he fills you up, each inch he pushes helps relieve the ache. The stretch is painful, but delicious as your cunt molds to accept every inch of him greedily. Your face somehow falls into one of the pillows, muffling your sobs of pleasure.
“T-there you go,” He praises, “Let it out. Taking me so well, almost there baby.”
You feel like you’re being split apart, in the best way possible as his hips finally meet yours.
“Knew you could take it,” he breaths out, his eyes closing for a moment in pleasure as your wet heat clenches around him, “Tightest pussy I’ve ever felt.”
You let out a jumbled moan of incoherent words, begging, but you didn’t even know what for. He’s buried to the hilt, so deep inside of you it takes you a solid minute for your vision to come back to you.
“It’s so- oh- Jack- fuck, yes.”
“That’s my girl.” His hands are rubbing your lower back soothingly, waiting for the perfect moment to begin to move.
His hips snap into yours in deep calculated thrusts, making you drool all over the pillow you’re clutching like a lifeline.
The pace becomes relentless, his hips slapping so harshly into your ass that if it wasn’t for the loud sounds of the ER it would be echoing throughout the whole hospital.
Just a few feet away outside of the on-call room door, Robby’s hands were interlocked behind his head, sweat threatening to slip from his brow.
“Where the hell are Abbot and Y/l/n?” He asked amongst the other doctors all running to their destinations, “We’re drowning here and my senior resident and attending are AWOL.”
He had no idea your hands were twisted in the cheap hospital sheets, your back arched as Abbot was splitting you apart expertly on his cock.
You were so sensitive and fucked out, it was no surprise your fourth orgasm of the night was creeping up.
“I’m gonna-“
Abbot cuts you off, “I know,” His hand reaches around, desperately palming your clit, “You gonna cum for me? Gonna let me take you home and show me those slutty little pajamas?”
You nod wordlessly, feeling that familiar pleasure rushing through your body.
“M’ gonna kiss every inch of your perfect fucking body, then I’m gonna fuck you to sleep and wake you up with my mouth on you. That something you want, baby?”
“J-jack,” You cried out,
“Breathe,” He demanded, his head falling on your shoulder to coo softly in your ear. “Breathe through it baby, s’just feel it. Uh, there you go. Good girl, good fucking girl.”
You came with a shout, one so loud that he had to place his palm over your opened mouth. You bit down on his palm, drool falling messily through his fingers as he never once let up his pace.
“Oh my god,” Your muffled cries only spurred him on, his balls tightening as your body became pliant in his hold.
“Fuck,” He grunted, “S’good right? Just hold on a little bit, baby. You want me to come inside you?”
Nodding limply against him, your eyes fluttered shut. You felt like you were floating, letting him use you to chase his own high.
“M’gonna fill you up, give you everything you fucking want.” His hips stuttered, before he came with a shattered moan.
“Such a good girl.” He whispered, his body heavy against yours. He pressed a sweet kiss to the crook of your neck, slowly laying you down and slipping out of you.
The newfound emptiness made you whine softly despite yourself, the sound catching weakly in your throat as Abbott pulled away just enough to help clean you up. Your eyes stayed closed most of the time, your body heavy and loose against the thin mattress while the adrenaline and emotion finally began draining out of you all at once.
Every nerve ending still buzzed pleasantly beneath your skin, your thoughts drifting in and out like you were barely tethered to the room anymore.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Abbott asked quietly. His voice sounded different now, much different from the voice that was just whispering filth into your ear.
You smiled lazily, “M’so good.”
He grinned at you, helping you slip your clothes back on with such gentleness it made your heart ache.
Then he stood, holding a hand out toward you.
“C’mon.”
You looked up at him tiredly. “Where are we going?”
“You’re coming home with me after shift.”
Your eyebrows lifted, “I am?”
Abbott just shrugged like it was already decided. “I’m gonna take you to your place first so you can grab clothes and whatever else you need,” he said casually while helping pull you gently to your feet. “Then I’m making you dinner.”
You blinked at him. “Dinner?”
“Whatever you want.” His hands settled automatically at your waist once you were standing, steadying you when your knees wobbled slightly. “Pasta. Steak. Pancakes at midnight. I don’t care. You’re not going home alone tonight.”
”But-“
”No buts,” He cut you off, “We can deal with everything else another day. Tonight let me keep taking care of you.”
You nod softly, your heart aching at the care dripping out of his pores. It had been so long since you felt so held by someone.
“I’ll meet you in the parking garage?” You asked, bringing his lips to yours for one more kiss before grabbing the doorknob.
”I’ll be counting down the seconds, sweetheart.”
When you slipped out of the door, it was impossible to hide the flush burning across your cheeks or the awkward unevenness of your steps. Your hair was a mess from Abbot’s hands in it and your scrub top sat crooked on one shoulder no matter how quickly you tried fixing it.
The hallway air felt freezing against your overheated skin. For one brief second, you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky. The corridor outside the on-call rooms sat mostly empty, only the muffled chaos of the ER carrying faintly through the double doors farther down the hall. Your shift was almost up, so you assumed they’d be stuck on handoff.
Then you looked up and saw Robby standing there. You deflated, turning on your feet in an attempt to escape. He had clearly just rounded the corner, chart still loose in one hand, exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face. But the second his eyes landed on you stepping out of the on-call room alone, something in him visibly stalled.
His brows pulled together slightly while his gaze moved over you automatically, like he was trying to place why something looked wrong before his brain caught up to it. Your flushed face. The way you wouldn’t fully meet his eyes. Your hair slightly disheveled despite your obvious attempt to fix it.
”Hey,” he said finally, voice rough from exhaustion. “You okay?”
The concern in it nearly made you laugh. Where had a fraction of that care been the past year?
Every part of you wanted to yell at him, to scream and punch his chest for making such a fool out of you. But you could still taste his best friend on your lips, so instead you just nodded too quickly and stepped around him before your face betrayed you further. Your shoulder brushed him lightly as you passed, and the second it did you felt him tense.
“Y/n,” he called after you, more confused now, “I wanna talk to you before I leave-“
His words died in his throat when the on-call door, the one you just escaped out of, opened from down the hall.
Abbot had stepped out into the hallway infuriatingly calm, casually shutting the door behind him while his hands were tying his scrub pants together. His hair looked slightly disheveled, and worst of all there was a smug satisfaction written plainly across his face that made your chest tighten in immediate panic.
You kept walking, planning on grabbing your bag and meeting Abbot in the parking garage anyway.
Robby just stared at him.
The confusion on his face had vanished entirely now, replaced slowly by disbelief so stark it almost looked physical. His eyes flicked once toward the closed on-call room door, then down the hallway in the direction you had disappeared, before finally settling back onto Abbot again.
”What the fuck?” Robby whispered, a cruel laugh threatening to slip out.
This only made Abbot’s smile grow wider, as he sauntered down the hall to meet his friend in the middle.
“Listen, man,” Abbott said casually as he strolled closer, clapping Robby once on the shoulder like they were discussing something harmless over beers instead of detonating twenty years of friendship in the middle of a hospital hallway. “Your willpower’s stronger than mine.”
Robby hardly reacted, he couldn’t. His brain wasn't allowing the pieces to slot together.
He just stood there staring ahead while the meaning settled heavier and heavier into his chest by the second. His jaw flexed hard enough to visibly tick beneath his skin, eyes darkening with something that looked dangerously close to panic underneath the anger beginning to rise.
Then Abbot stopped a few feet past him as he had almost forgotten something.
“Oh,” he added lightly over his shoulder, still wearing that same shit-eating grin. “Tell Noelle we said hi.”
summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital
notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.
But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.
“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”
“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.
“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.
“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”
Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”
Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.
“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”
“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”
“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”
Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”
Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.
Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.
At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.
“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”
Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.
It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.
Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.
Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.
And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.
He lives for it.
“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”
“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”
“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”
Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.
But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—
“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.
Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”
“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.
The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.
And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.
-
“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.
“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.
“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.
Where Bob is.
You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.
“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.
“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.
You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.
“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”
He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”
You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.
You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”
You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.
You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”
“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.
“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”
“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.
Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.
“Wow,” he chuckles softly.
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”
He blinks fast. “No.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.
“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.
He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.
You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”
“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”
She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”
You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?
-
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.
Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.
It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.
“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.
“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.
You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”
“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.
Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”
“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”
Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.
“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”
You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”
Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”
“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.
There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.
“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”
Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”
Your brows shoot up. “That so?”
He nods.
You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”
His eyes snap open. “Huh?”
“Want to fuck me?”
He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”
Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.
Well... almost everyone.
Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.
Which means he’s definitely listening.
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.
“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.
Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”
You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”
“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.
“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”
“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”
Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”
You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.
“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.
“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”
“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.
Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—
“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.
“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”
You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.
“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”
“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.
Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”
Your heart stutters.
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.
“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.
Bob stills for a beat. Just one.
Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”
You swear your knees nearly give.
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.
“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”
You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”
He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.
Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.
“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”
“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”
“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”
You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”
His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.
“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”
Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”
There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.
“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”
Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.
“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”
“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?
“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”
“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.
“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.
“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.
“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”
“Copy,” Jake replies.
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.
You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.
“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”
“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.
“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.
“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”
You and Jake return to formation without issue.
“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”
There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.
Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”
“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”
“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.
In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.
“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”
You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.
“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”
“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.
“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”
“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”
His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.
“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”
“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.
Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”
“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.
“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”
Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”
He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”
Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.
“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”
Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.
“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”
-
Unfortunately, later never comes.
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.
The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.
When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.
You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.
“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”
Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”
“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”
“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”
You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.
“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”
“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”
“Trev!”
He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.
But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?
Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.
The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.
“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.
Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”
Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.
Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”
“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.
“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”
They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.
When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”
“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.
“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”
There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.
You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.
“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.
“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.
“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”
“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.
“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.
“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.
Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.
“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.
“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”
“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”
Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.
“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.
“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.
When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.
Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”
Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.
“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.
You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.
And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.
You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.
You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.
You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?
Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.
“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.
“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”
“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”
Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.
“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”
“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.
“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”
Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.
“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”
You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.
“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”
He freezes.
You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.
And then you feel it.
Oh.
Oh.
You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.
“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.
Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.
“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.
“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.
Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”
Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”
They all look at you, confused.
“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.
The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.
You frown. “What?”
“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”
You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.
“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”
“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”
“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”
Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”
“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”
Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”
You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”
“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”
The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.
“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.
“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.
“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”
“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”
You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.
“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.
Everyone falls silent.
“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.
Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.
“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”
He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”
You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.
You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”
He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.
“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.
“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”
There’s a pause. An awkward pause.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.
“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.
- Bob -
“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.
“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.
“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”
There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.
“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”
“I know,” Bob huffs.
He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.
“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”
Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”
“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”
“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”
Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.
He barely sleeps that night.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.
Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’
An hour passes. Nothing.
And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.
By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.
It’s worse—because it’s you.
You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.
The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.
And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.
Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…
He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.
“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”
His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.
“I—uh, Trevor?”
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.
He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”
“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”
“What?”
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.
Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?
“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?
But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.
Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.
God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?
- You -
“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”
Trevor gasps—loudly.
“But he said no.”
He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”
“Because he has laundry to do.”
Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”
“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”
He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”
You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.
You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.
“Trevor…”
He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”
You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”
He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.
You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.
But deep down, you know the truth.
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.
And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.
Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.
“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.
You give her a tight smile.
“Feeling any better?”
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.
Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.
It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.
You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.
“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.
Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.
You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.
Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.
It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.
You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.
“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”
You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.
“Vex—” he tries again.
“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.
Your heart lurches.
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.
“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”
“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”
“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.
You’re not going to make it.
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.
Then—freefall.
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.
But you’re too low. Far too low.
You don’t even have time to brace.
You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.
White-hot pain detonates through you.
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.
And then… everything goes still.
Muted.
Quiet.
Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.
-
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.
You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.
“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.
There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.
“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.
You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.
“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.
He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.
Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”
He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.
“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”
You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.
“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”
“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”
Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”
Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.
Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.
When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.
But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.
Great. Another win.
Two whole days pass, and still no word.
You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.
At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.
Even if it kills you.
By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.
You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.
It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.
You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.
Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.
“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.
“What are you doing here?”
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”
You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.
“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”
He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.
“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.
“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.
He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.
“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.
“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.
He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.
“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.
You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”
He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.
“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.
“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”
You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.
Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”
He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.
“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”
“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.
You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”
“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.
“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”
You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”
His brow creases. “You do?”
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”
He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”
You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”
His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.
“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.
“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.
“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.
“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”
He laughs again, broken this time.
“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”
He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.
“Love?” you whisper.
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.
“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”
Your heart lurches into your throat.
“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”
“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.
He blinks. “What?”
“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”
Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.
The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.
“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.
You nod. “Hangman.”
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”
“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”
He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”
“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.
“I know I had no right,” he mutters.
“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.
You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.
And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.
You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.
There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.
Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”
“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.
Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.
“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”
He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”
You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”
“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.
“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”
He tried once- some lean bird with sharp hips and delicate wrist bones that looked like they’d snap if he squeezed too hard. She was pretty in the way fragile things are: all long lines and hollow shadows. When he gripped her waist, his thick fingers overlapped easily, too easily, and the thought hit him like ice water: he could crush her if he forgot himself for even a second. When he buried himself deep, she gasped sharp and tight, her whole body tensing like it hurt more than it pleased, fighting to take the stretch of him. Every thrust felt like walking a razor’s edge, one wrong move from snapping her in half.
It left him cold. Detached. Fucking her was like handling fragile ordnance- too much awareness, too much restraint. Her flesh bruised too easily, blooming purple under his grip like overripe fruit splitting open in the summer heat if you squeezed just right. Her thighs shook from strain instead of pleasure, barely able to wrap around his waist without trembling.
There was no soft give when he pressed his full weight down, no warm overflow of flesh to sink into. Just sharp bone digging back at him, quiet winces she tried to hide behind bitten lips, and moans that sounded more like endurance than ecstasy. She didn’t beg for harder. She just took it, eyes squeezed shut, surviving him.
And Simon Riley had spent too many years surviving on endurance already. He didn't want a body that reminded him of fragility every time he fucked it, one that made him feel like a brute, something dangerous that needed to be leashed. (Something that made him feel like his father.)
The first time he sank his fingers into your soft, overflowing hips, something deep in his chest unclenched like a rusted lock finally giving way. No brittle bones under his palms. No fear that one rough thrust would bruise or break you. Just warm, yielding flesh that took every brutal snap of his hips Cushion. Give. A body that could handle his full weight.
He loved the way your belly pressed soft and warm against him when he folded you in half, how your thick thighs tembled and squeezed around his waist. He liked burying his face between them, smothered in heat and softness while they shook and soaked his face.
You could take him, cock pounding so deep it punched the breath from your lungs and still look up at him with heavy lidded eyes and moan "Harder, Simon, please."
He’d never say it out loud. Never explain the way your body made the constant roar in his head go quiet. But the truth was brutally simple:
Delicate things broke under his hands.
Soft, heavy, generous bodies didn't.
And Simon Riley was a man who needed something- someone- that could survive him.
synopsisyou and Robby had been going steady for a few months now but when a betting board is made on who your mysterious male friend could be, Robby is not happy with the outcome.
warningslanguage, smutish- allusions to smut, jealous Robby, mention of shooting- GSW
author noterobby x reader but platonic frank x reader, can you tell santos is my favourite cause i include her in basically everything i write
Santos had had a day.
More traumas than she could deal with and a young girl who came in with bruises that suspiciously looked like abuse. She’d had just about enough when she realised she’d have to give another two hours to the place to get her charting done.
When she came home she knew Whitaker was at Amy’s and you should have been home. She watched you practically bolt out the place. Santos hoped it’d be a night of crappy food and shitty movies.
So when she ditched her keys at the kitchen counter and listened out the last thing she expected to hear was moaning.
“What the?” she called out for you.
Maybe you were having a self-care night. Charged up a vibrator and such.
Santos chuckled to herself as she made to tiptoe past your room.
There was the unmistakable sound of another.
“Oh fuck.”
Trinity paused.
You and her were close, she could admit that. You were maybe her only friend. So she knew you had been going through a dry patch. Because you were making it everyone's problem.
She listened in.
There was deep groaning from a man and your moans, the soft thudding of a bed against the wall. Trinity thanked the heavens again that the head of your bed was against Denis's wall and not hers.
“Deeper, harder,” she heard you moan.
“Oh, fuck me,” the guy groaned deep. She didn't recognise the voice. Did she?
Curious she tried to listen to the mans voice, wondering what she could tell. He must have been busy as little else was said other than groanings.
Where had you met this guy? Had this been happening longer than she knew? Is this why you hurried out?
Santos thought you weren't one of one night stands. Were you proving her wrong?
She snook into her room and knew she had to tell someone, at least Whitaker.
Robby collapsed next to you on your bed, catching his breath as you pulled the sheets up to cover your slightly sweaty bodies. The bed creaked under his weight as he moved around, getting himself comfortable.
Your bed was a small double, not really built for anyone more than one. Let alone Robby.
“You want some water or something?” you asked.
Robby chuckled, the bed creaking again as he turned on his side to face you. “Aren't I supposed to be asking you that?”
You lifted your shoulders, tucking your hands under your head to admire him. “Well you're the senior citizen with the... bad back?”
His brows lifted. “Oh that's how you want to play it.”
He grabbed your hip and pulled you close.
You were still trying to recover from the multiple orgasms Robby had ripped through your body as soon as you'd stepped through your apartment door. But that didn't stop his hands from crowding around your body, pulling you into him as all his hardness turned soft.
His lips found yours as easy as one found home, kissing you the way he knew you liked to be kissed. Head tilted to reach deeper, nose moving against your cheek.
There was a sudden shriek in your apartment.
You pushed Robby off, sitting up quick in bed.
“What?” he asked, far less alarmed then you as his arm fell around your waist.
“Trinity.”
Robby hummed. “Thought you said she was at Garcia's tonight?”
“I thought she was,” you uttered as if she was in the room.
The dating with Robby had started maybe three months ago when you'd had a disastrous date at the same bar Robby frequented with his buddy Duke. He'd seen the distress you were in with your date when he wouldn't stop talking about why sports people should actually get paid more than health care workers.
From there you had drinks with Robby.
From there he asked to see you again outside of work.
From there you ended up in his bed and he in yours on the occasions you had the place to yourself, which with two room mates didn't happen often.
You'd thought tonight was one of them.
“You should go,” you said, throwing the cover back to find your clothes in the dark.
“What?” Robby laughed, without moving. Instead he got himself comfortable, throwing an arm around the back of his head and tugging the covers down to his waist.
“Yes, do you want Trinity to know?”
“She doesn't sleep in your room though does she?”
Still, you tried to find some clothes.
The word around the PTMC was that Robby was a seven week itch kind of guy, the sort to never tie himself down. So though you'd been on dates with him and though he'd brought you flowers before and held your hands in bars and took you to a fancy dinner, he still fucked you like a guy that could move on the next day.
And you didn't want to scare him away with talk of serious dating. A bit of Robby was better than none of him.
You just didn't want your friends to judge you for that.
“Hey-hey-” Robby moved over on the bed, arm darting out to wrap around your waist and tug you back in.
You couldn't even protest before he was pulling you into him, hooking one of his large legs over yours and trapping you in. Your quilt was pulled up and his head rested next to yours.
At least when you and Robby were done with the sex you never kicked each other out of bed. But you did go into work separately.
“But-”
“-I'll be out of here first thing in the morning.”
With his arms around you and his calming breath you didn't think you could push him off you if you wanted to.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Robby kissed the blade of your shoulder and for the rest of the night that was how you were and when you woke in the morning with two hours to spare before your shift started, Robby was already gone.
“So who's the lucky guy?”
You chocked on your coffee, peering next to you at Trinity. “What?”
She smirked, leaning on the locker next to yours. “Oh come on, I heard you last night.”
The bitter taste of black coffee turned to ash in your stomach. She'd heard. Or worse, she'd been up to see Robby sneak out in the morning.
“What-what do you mean?” play it cool, you could totally starve of the humiliation. Maybe you could persuade her it was a dream, a nightmare, that she was sleepwalking and actually heard/saw/knew nothing.
“I heard you last night,” she said. “Quite the dicking down from what it sounded like.”
You felt the heat in your cheeks. “Oh my god.”
“Hey, I think its good, you deserve it,” said Santos as you hid yourself in your locker, taking great care in peeling off your jacket and finding your stethoscope inside. “So is it someone I know, or...”
She didn't know. You rejoiced silently before realising she still knew there was someone. “That is none of your business.”
“Oh come on, you know Garcia!”
“Because she works here.”
“Does he work here?”
“No!” you close the locker door, not as amused as Trinity was clearly finding this situation. “Please, he's just... a guy.”
She leaned in closer for the gossip. Few things got her as excited as gossip did. “A boyfriend guy or a sleep around guy?”
Wasn't that the golden question.
“Oh my god, you don't know.”
“Santos!” the call of her name should have saved you. Not when it was Robby calling for her as he stood between the two of you. “Pelvic exam in three.”
She groaned but gave a salute. “You got it boss,” she said to him before aiming a finger at you. “This isn't over.”
Santos had turned, leaving and you hardly waited anytime to turn back to the lockers and bash your head into them. Not enough to hurt but enough to erase the terrible fact that Santos had heard you.
Robby liked hearing you moan and you liked Robby so you always moaned loud.
And she'd caught enough of it.
Usually, you wished for Robby to be a bit louder in bed. You were glad he hadn't been.
The cold metal of the locker was replaced on what might have been your twentieth go at hitting yourself with the back of a rough hand.
“Everything okay?” asked Robby, coming to stand next to you, leaning on the lockers. His eyes creased with concern.
“She knows.”
His brows shot up, which didn't indicate a good reaction. “She knows?”
“Not about you, don't worry,” you said with a light scoff. “She knows that I had a good time with a guy last night, she doesn't know who.”
Robby nodded in consideration. “So we're in the clear?”
You screwed your eyes shut. You hadn't realised just how bad you wanted him to shrug it off, tell you he didn't care if Trinity knew, that of everyone in the ward knew, that he only cared about what it meant between the two of you. You only realised when he didn't give you that option.
He wanted to be sure he wasn't affiliated with it.
“Yeah, you're in the clear.”
You left Robby at the lockers before suspicions could grow. Nothing wrong with a resident talking to their attending and so far you and Robby had done a good job at not having any suspicion- not even from Dana.
The least you could do for the guy was keep it that way.
“You had a hot date last night?” Princess slid up to your side before you were even half way across the ward.
You groaned. “Santos told you already.”
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“Say anything about what?” Javadi's voice suddenly came from Doctor McKay's side. The older woman tried to act uninterested but her keen eyes were watching you from over the computer.
“She had a date around hers last night,” said Perhlah, coming up to your other side.
“And she won't tell us who it was,” added Princess.
Javadi's smile grew and her jaw hung open. “Who?”
You shook your head and stared at your shoes. “This is the worst day of my life.”
“Okay!” Robby's voiced boomed out. He clapped his hands, gaining everyone's attention. “We have patients, how about we go ask them some riveting questions?”
Mel frowned from somewhere in the crowd that had formed. “We should go ask them if they know who the guy is?”
She realised quickly that wasn't quite what he meant.
Perlah and Princess walked off together, quietly scheming. “Men just don't get it.”
You gulped down, smoothing your hand over your head and where the growing headache was forming. “Thanks.”
Robby said nothing but there was the brief feel of his hands on your shoulders as he squeezed before moving past you.
It was going on lunch, you'd just gotten a trauma through and up to the OR when you spotted bright post-it notes stuck up on the board in Ahmed's office. The betting board, his mini kingdom had been put back together.
Three titles.
Who?
How long?
Casual or dating?
“Oh my god!” your shriek echoed around the Pitt.
“What? What is it? What?” Robby was at your side in an instant, body almost slamming into you with how quick he slid next to you. He steadied himself, holding on.
“That!”
Ahmed had set up a betting board based on your love life.
The who column was spread with names and the name of those that had bet scribbled underneath. In the middle there was how long had it been going on for, some thought it was only a few weeks, others guessed up to six months.
The last column, wondering if it was a casual thing or serious was filled with almost every post it note saying 'casual'.
“Oh,” Robby chuckled.
“It's not funny,” you argued. “Has every body here bet?”
“Not me, I had no idea. Besides I think that's kind of cheating, right?”
“I see you've found my latest and greatest,” said Ahmed, approaching behind the two of you. “We got this up and running two hours ago, you want me to break it down for you?”
“Holy shit,” you uttered, scanning the board. It was a great and easy way to find out what everyone thought about you.
Robby nodded, leaning on the door next to you. “Holy shit.”
“How much money's in the pot?” you asked.
Ahmed grinned like he was just waiting for you to ask. “Five-hundred and five dollars!”
Robby chocked on a breath next to you as your jaw hung open.
Someone was gonna make money of your guys' sex lives and none of that was going to come to you.
“And I'm guessing I can't get in on it?” you asked.
“No," said Ahmed. “Unless, you know, you wanna tell me who it is and I'll split the money between us.”
“And who do you think it is?” asked Robby. He asked casually, still leaning on the doorframe like he couldn't care less. If he was a girl in a rom-com he might have even checked on his nails or twirled his hair. But you'd studied him close the last couple months, you'd worked all his emotions out into your own little Robby dictionary.
There was a hint of jealousy.
“Well, I've gone with the fan favourite,” he said, plucking off his post it note to show you. “Frank. Three months. And serious.”
“Langdon!” Robby announced.
Uh-oh.
“Yeah, man,” he said. “More than half these notes say it's him.”
On further reading you noticed it did. On yellows and pinks and greens Frank's name was written in quick scribbles or thought out curves.
Frank? Sure the two of you were close. You'd worked close together for a year- nearly two. You worked coordinated well in traumas and with patients you always knew what the other was thinking.
Since his divorce with you'd been helping him as much as you could. You had a friend who was a good lawyer and when he had a chance to see the kids you always covered.
You knew, of course, everything that had happened with the benzos.
You knew Robby still wasn't back to being best-buds with the guy.
You didn't know everyone thought you and Frank were together!
Donnie side stepped past you, coming in with his bets. “I got it, I got it-”
Robby snatched them from his hand, scoffing at whatever was written.
“Langdon. Two weeks and serious.”
“Et-tu, Donnie?” you asked.
“I got fifty in the pool, looking to get a new tv, you know.”
Robby stormed off.
Donnie watched. “He got a bet in?”
“Not yet, sorry, you don't mind?” asked Ahamed.
You scoffed. “Do I have a choice?”
You left them to it, finding Robby sitting at the nurses station at a computer. His jaw clenched and fingers worked furiously over the keypads. You evaluated the area before leaning in. “If you put a pool in we could split the money?”
“Should I put a bet in for Langdon?” He didn't look up to you as he slid on his glasses.
It angered you because he seemed annoyed at something he knew not to be true and because he slid on the glasses that made him even hotter than he already was.
“Is there something wrong, Robby?”
“No.”
“You seem-”
“- I'm not,” he snapped.
He was.
Robby wouldn't admit how much he let his emotions rule, especially anger. He used to be terrible for it but for a while he'd been better, lighter on his feet, patient. Since about.... well, since you started seeing each other.
“Hey.” Langdon joined your side.
You noticed a vein in Robby's neck twitch. “Hey.”
“You seen what everyone's saying?” asked Frank. “Apparently we're seeing each other?”
“Yeah,” you said, turning to him. “I had no idea.”
“You think I should buy a ring next?” he teased.
Robby slammed his hands on the counter, pushing himself up and storming off without so much as a glance.
Frank watched. “What's his problem?”
What was his problem? You'd love to know. “He had a bet on someone else,” you excused.
“Oh bummer,” said Frank. “You think he lost a lot of money?”
You didn't have time to come up with another lie as you spotted Santos and Whitaker walking by. Politely, you ditched Frank, promising you'd catch him for lunch.
“Did you start a betting system on my sex life?” you asked Trinity.
She smirked. “That wasn't me, I had nothing to do with that, seriously!”
“It's true,” said Denis. “But she was the first to put down a bet on Frank.”
You looked at her. You knew the history between her and Frank. Why would she want you to sleep with him? “You hate Frank?”
She shrugged. “So I guessed you were sleeping with him and didn't want to tell me because you know I don't like him.”
You shook your head. “I didn't want to tell you because it's none of your business.” You considered Whitaker. “Who'd you bet for?”
“I-I didn't, I-I wouldn't-”
“He bet on Nick from radiology.”
All of this from Robby sleeping with you in your apartment. Next time- if there was even gong to be a next time- you were doing it at his.
By the end of your shift anyone that hadn't placed a bet had.
Franks name had doubled and the pot was up to one thousand dollars (the highest bet in Pitt history). Frank found it funny, cracking jokes about it all day, throwing arms around you and dragging you onto cases saying 'couples that save lives together, stay together.'
Any other time you'd have laughed.
But when Robby was around every corner, glaring yet refusing to talk to you you couldn't find amusement in it.
The night had come and you were catching a break at the ambulance bay, sitting down on the curb. You were home in an hour, Denis had already gone to Amy's to deliver a lamb or something and Santos was supposed to be at Garcia's tonight.
But you highly doubted you'd have company.
“Hey,” Jack greeted, walking over to you in his midnight scrubs and bag slung over his shoulder. “How's my favourite day shift resident?”
You smiled a tired one at him. “How much money do you have in your wallet?”
Without a beat Jack fetched it and offered you what he had. Because that's the kind of guy Jack was.
“No, no,” you chuckled. “I don't need your cash. There's a betting pool on about who I'm sleeping with. I just- I was gonna ask you to not place a bet.”
Jack laughed, setting next to you on the curb, stretching out his prosthetic leg. “Would be a bit unfair seeing's as I'm best pals with the guy you're dating.”
“Not dating,” you corrected. “Probably not even seeing each other after today.”
Jack listened as you explained the distance, the glares, the snapping that returned to Robby. He didn't jump to defend his friend, he listened to you and took notes mentally. “The guys an emotional wreck. You know that. I know that.”
“But I thought he was doing better?”
“He was- is. Since he started dating you,” he said. “You ask me he's dealing with some emotions he doesn't know how to process. Jealousy. Greed. What's the other deadly sin?”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Lust?”
“Yeah. That.”
“So I'm supposed to what? Let him be a dick all over again?”
“Oh fuck no,” said Jack firmly. “Put him in his place.”
Admittedly you didn't want to. You wanted to go back to being whatever it was you had with Robby. You wanted to hold hands and share beers in shitty bars at least an hour out of town so it was kept a secret. You wanted the brush of hands between the rush of patients and the discreet meetings at his or yours.
But how far were you willing to bend before you broke?
“So who's everyone putting bets on anyway?” Jack asked.
“Frank.”
Understanding of the situation hit him. “Ah.”
“Yeah. Ah.”
Suddenly the wail of an ambulance cut through the quiet.
The doors burst open, Robby, Santos, King, Jesse all pouring out.
“GSW to the chest, forty-two year old male, weak pulse, un-conscious on the ride over,” said Robby tugging on his gloves as you and Jack jumped up. He spared a glance at the two of you before the ambulance pulled up.
You jumped into it, wheeling the gurney ahead into trauma two. Everyone working around the man.
“Okay we move him on the count of three,” said Jack as you all got a hold of the patient. “One... two... three!”
He was heavier than some, not that it would effect your level of care but it made moving him just that but more difficult. There was a breath of air and struggle from Jack and Robby, the noises you had to drown out.
“Lets get an intubation tray going!” called Robby.
The two of you crossed each other, swapping sides.
“Can we talk later?” he uttered as he paused for only a second.
“Whatever, Robby.”
He sighed heavy.
The rest of you carried on gaging the extent of his injury.
“So do you want me out the apartment tonight so your man friend can come around?” asked Santos at your side.
“I want you out cause I'm annoyed at you.”
“Ouch.”
“Okay we need to turn him to see if it went through, on my say!” yelled Robby.
The team had thinned as orders had been barked, there were two of you on either side of him: Robby and Jack, and you and Santos.
Robby passed a nod. “Okay, roll!”
You and Trinity pulled while the men on the other side pushed but maybe Robby didn't have a good grip or maybe he hadn't expected him to be so heavy.
Robby grunted and groaned. “Ah, urg-”
“Not through,” Jack grunted.
You tried to lower him as slow as you could but it wasn't slow enough as Robby's hand got trapped under.
“Oh! Fuck me!”
You and Jack lifted the body quick and Robby released his hand.
Santos was frozen.
The whole room seemed to pause for a second.
“Oh my god!” Santos cheered, arms thrown wide. “Oh my god, oh my god!”
What was wrong with her?
It took you a second to realise, memory of last night coming to you.
Robby over you, thrusting careful.
Your body moved with his thrusts but you wrapped your legs around him, pushing his pelvis in till you felt the length of him deep. “Deeper, harder,” you'd begged.
Robby had groaned out loud, just the way you liked to hear him. “Oh! Fuck me!”
He'd uttered the words into you as he pressed his weight down, squashing you onto your squeaky bed. He'd wrapped his hands around your neck, squeezing just enough to have your walls fluttering around his cock.
Santos had been home longer than you'd thought.
Now, she was practically jumping up and down, smirking. “Oh my god!”
“Trinity can I talk to you outside please?”
“It's- you- and-” her arms were waving around.
“Outside, please, Trinity!”
Everyone was staring.
“Trinity, outside!” You guided her out and she let you, abandoning the trauma and ripping off her gown. You returned, finding Robby's gaze and Jack's amused grin as he tended to the patient. “Sorry, Doctor Robby, may I talk to Santos outside for a moment?”
Robby must have jumped to the same conclusion as you. “Er yes, yes! Of course, go!”
You rushed out, nudging Trinity into an empty exam room as she laughed. You closed the door and pulled the curtain over the glass.
“It's Doctor Robby!” she said at once. “It's Doctor Robby! You're sleeping with Doctor Robby!”
“Can you keep your voice down?”
Santos laughed again, a full belly laugh. “Oh my god, this whole time I thought it was Frank. Oh, I'm so happy.” She wiped at amused tears.
“Hey!”
“How long have you been sleeping with him?”
You shook your head, tugging off your own hospital gown. “It doesn't matter.”
Finally Trinity considered you. Her laughter died. “What-what do you mean?”
How could you explain that what she'd heard last night was over hardly twenty-four hours later.
The door pushed open and Robby stepped through, gown and gloves already gone.
“Is everything okay in here?” he asked, looking between the two of you.
“You and you?” Trinity confirmed, finger gesturing between the two of you.
Robby ran his hands through the back of his hair.
“I just can't believe it,” she said. “You guys are dating?”
Robby sighed out a “yes” at the same time you shook your head, “no”
Now, Robby looked at you.
Santos folded her arms over her chest, smirking and watching like the two of you were her favourite show. “Oh.”
Robby's hands fell to his hips as he looked at you. “What do you mean, no?”
“What do you mean, yes?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he chuckled.
Your rubbed at your temples. “I'm so confused.”
“You're confused, I'm confused,” Robby scoffed.
“Wait- I'm confused,” said Santos. “You guys don't know if you're dating or not?”
Robby's eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “Doctor Santos, please. Go make yourself useful.”
Trinity didn't move. She looked at you, waiting for what you wanted. Because yes, Robby was her attending but you were her friend. When she was insecure about Garcia you were there telling her how much better she could do.
In the hospital Santos was guided under Robby.
At home, she was guided by friendship and care for you.
You gave her a nod and she dismissed herself.
You didn't know where to look, didn't know where to touch.
Outside the usual routine of the Pitt carried on.
Robby sighed, hands going into his fleece pocket. “You didn't know we were dating?”
No, you really didn't. “Was I supposed to? You never asked.”
He shook his head, looking down with a chuckle. He started to list things off, counting them off on his fingers. “Flowers, dinners, day trips, was that not enough?”
“But you never said!”
“I thought it was obvious!”
“Obvious to who?”
“To us!” His hands fell to your forearms.
“No to you maybe!”
“So the dinners... the flowers, you thought it was all just, just sex?” he asked.
You'd hoped it was more. You'd dreamt about it when his weight kept you down on his bed after you kissed and made love for hours. Love...
“I... yeah.”
How long had you thought him the bad guy? Were you the one that had been distant, pulling away?
You carried yourself away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed. You never realised how uncomfortable those things were.
Robby laughed to himself, standing for a moment longer. He checked that nobody was around through the curtain before he settled next to you. He shuffled, his bodies attention focused on you. He laid a hand on your knee, tilting his head to try to look at you. “I should have asked, properly.”
“It would've saved confusion,” you admitted.
Robby's hand came up, cradling your face and drawing your attention to him. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over your cheek.
You looked at him, finding nothing but warmth in his gaze. The only thing that had been there for three months. “But today, you... you could hardly look at me.”
He took in a deep breath. “I was...” his jaw ticked.
You smirked. “Jealous?”
His eyes flickered back to yours. “Nobody on that board thought I could be dating you.”
“Till about two seconds ago I didn't even know we were dating,” you joked.
Robby shook his head, wetting his lips. “We are.”
“You're not even going to ask me?”
“I don't need to,” he said. “We're dating, that okay with you?” His face inched closer.
“I don't know, I might have to ask Frank that one,” you teased.
Robby leant back, a dark look to him. The hand caressing you fell to your neck, keeping you looking at him. “You think that's funny?”
“Everyone else thinks so-”
He pulled you in by your neck and kissed you, hard, the imprint of his teeth felt through your lips.
You held onto him, kissing him with a new need. Kissing your boyfriend. Your hands wound around his head and you brought him down on top of you.
Robby climbed atop the bed that was not made for heavy make out sessions. He held the edge with one hand and the other fell down your body till it could crawl up your scrub top, un-tucking it and holding onto your hips.
He bit down on your lip and used the opening of your mouth to slide in his tongue.
“This is un-professional,” you said against his lips.
“I've been wanting to be un-professional for months.”
You were so lost in the feel of each other you didn't notice the curtain being yanked back until you heard.
“We got him stable,” said Jack, casually. “Oh and you've got an audience.”
You looked over Robby's shoulder as he looked back to see nosey nurses and night shifters along with half the day staff all looking at you.
You tapped his shoulder and though resigned to, Robby slowly climbed off you.
“Who put down Robby?” Ahmed called. “Did anyone bet Robby?”
The crowd that had watched you both suddenly rushed to the board, scanning the name.
Eventually you and Robby joined, waiting.
“Oh my god.”
“There he is, Robby, one vote!”
Robby's head perked in confusion.
“Who is it? Who?”
Ahmed collected the money and made his way through the people. To the one who had made a bet on Robby. “Doctor Robby, three months, and serious.”
He delivered the money- to everyone's shock- to Frank.
Your jaw hung open as Frank collected the money.
Everyone looked at him, silent.
You couldn't tell if next to you Robby was okay with it or angered.
Frank looked around at everyone. “C'mon, nobody else saw it? He's been happier for three months and can't take his eyes off her.”
Clealry, nobody had.
“I thought you didn't bet?” you asked him.
Frank shrugged, bashful. “Yeah well, couldn't help myself. Here-” Langdon held out the wad of cash to Robby's hand, practically forcing it in. “Take her somewhere nice.”
You wished you had a camera to capture Robby's shock.
“Okay folks! Show's over!” called out Dana. “Day shift let's pass on to night so we can get out of here to have some fun!” she winked your way.
Slowly the crowd dissipated, shaking their heads in disappointment.
Ahmed was already pulling off the notes and rubbing away at the board.
Robby waved the cash in front of you. “What do you say, you gonna let your boyfriend treat you tonight?”
