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w𝓲shing ⠀⠀ 𝒐n ⠀⠀ eꪜery ⠀⠀ on̲e̲

[skymouth]

ׄ 𓈒 ◟ ❤︎ 𓆪 ˎ ˊ ˗ ⭒ # skymouth .ᐟ

x reader works, as written by mouth. she/her, asian, 1998, mdni. mood writer. spontaneous & irregular activity.

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BANNED CONTENT:

underaged x adult

incest (including adoptive, step-family, in-laws, & polyam!reader x siblings)

anti-character content

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pinned layout inspired by users baenuit & jellottue

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[skymouth]

out in the cold — jack abbot x reader

You experience a sub drop after hooking up with a date. Dr Abbot takes care of you.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader Word count: 9.5k+ Tags: Requited unrequited love; Dom/sub dynamics; Sub drop; Subspace; Soft Dom Jack Abbot; Assumed sexual assault (it never happened); Reader has tattoos; Reader is multilingual; Negative self talk; implied Bad BDSM etiquette (from previous partner); AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral sex, Fingering, P in V sex). Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou. Notes: Title is from Hadestown’s All I’ve Ever Known. Consider it the 1 song playlist to this fic/series. Probably inaccurate sub drop/subspace experience but fuck it, we ball. Abbot also thinks that you were SA’d but it didn’t happen so tread carefully if that’s a trigger for you.

Cross posted to AO3.

Part 1 | Blurb 1 | Part 2 | Blurb 2 | Series tag.

You hand him the wrong sized needle.

“14 gauge,” Jack snaps.

You blink, hard. Frowning. How the Hell did you mess that up? You swap out the needles, uttering a quick sorry.

Head in the fucking game, you tell yourself. Eyes on the target—you cannot fuck up in the middle of a procedure. Just because some guy can’t be bothered calling you back? People are literally dying in the walls of the hospital. You cannot afford to be so vapid that you’re more worried about unread text messages and zero call backs.

You refuse to fail anywhere else, hovering, anticipating the doctors’ needs before they verbalise it. This is what makes you valuable to the team. They’ve said it again and again—they need more nurses like you.

And especially in front of Jack. You admire him—respect him a lot. You never wanted to be a doctor, but you love working as a nurse. With him. Being useful to him and the night shift.

“Swap out with Tim in Trauma 1,” Jack says, eyes darting to you.

“You got it, boss.” You don’t even try to argue with what you think is his judgement call of getting you out of his way. Making you someone else’s problem.

The thing was, he noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. Nothing happened in the ED, to his staff, without his knowledge. It was his job as an attending to ensure he was on top of it.

He noticed it in your docile greeting, normally a little more upbeat. He noticed it in the questioning look that Parker shot him when you were quieter than usual, citing the fact that you were tired. When Shen picked up on your dour mood, offering some coffee that you flatly dismissed, telling him you weren’t in the mood. For coffee, or for him; you left it up to interpretation.

It was downright rude. Rude and you didn’t go together. It was why they liked having you on night shift.

It worries him. The not knowing. The questioning. The way everyone looks to him for answers and he can’t provide them. You’re usually the kind one, the one that’s happy to help. But today, there’s a cloud hanging over you. Something bogging you down.

“What’s going on?” Shen whispers, nodding his chin towards you. You’re at the desk in central, blankly staring at the screen more so than typing the notes you should be inputting.

“Don’t know,” Jack confesses, and he hates that he doesn’t know. So much for being the one that protects the hive. As much as he makes himself the reliable one that everyone, especially his night shift team, can depend on, someone always falls through the cracks. “Been weird all day.”

“There you are,” Lena says, walking up to lean against the desk. Hovering over you. “We need you in central 8. Patient barely speaks English. Wanna see if you know what language she knows?”

You shoot her a clearly unimpressed look. “Right, because I must speak every language under the sun,” you bite out.

Lena pauses, eyes narrowed at you. “Are you—?”

“Hey.” Jack steps in, frowning. Not that he thinks it’ll escalate into a fight, but he’d rather not entertain that possibility. Night shift was meant to be chill; have less personality clashes compared to day shifts. Less staff, as well, which was why it was essential everyone worked well within the team. “Lena asked for a favour.”

You look away from him, cowed. Chastised—again. “Central 8, yes sir.”

You scurry off to the patient in central 8—Indonesian, which happened to be a language that you taught yourself for the fun of it, years ago. This isn’t even the first time they’ve asked you to try and communicate with a patient in another language. Ridiculously, it’s the first time you’ve taken offence to it.

You and Princess have a bet on who could learn the most additional languages. It’s been a long 18 months since she and Perlah initiated the bet. You refuse to lose, and Princess is competitive. Between the two of you, you’ve got a conversational handle on a minimum of 15 languages right now. It’s circulated around the hospital like common knowledge at this point.

“Hey.” Lena follows you when you’re exiting the room. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”

“It’s okay,” you say, quick. You feel embarrassed by your earlier reaction. “Really. I’m sorry. I’m feeling really crabby today, and I took it out on you. I’m really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You’re absently massaging the back of your neck in a self-soothing fashion, and it’s the only reason she sees.

“Whoa,” Lena gasps. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” Ever the medical professional, she steps close, reaching.

Really, it’s on you. The bodily flinch before she makes contact with your shoulder. You both know she’s done it before—calming, gentle touches. Reassuring. Maternal. Her and Dana, mother henning the hospital when they step into the role of the respective shift’s charge nurse. You’ve always accepted those.

Except this time, your skin feels like it’s burning and itching at the same time.

She stares at you.

You feel frozen, heart thudding too fast in your chest. A dramatic reaction to a familiar touch. A mountain out of a mole hill.

“Hey—” Lena starts, softer. Like you’re a wounded animal in need of comfort.

“South 16’s opened.” Jack’s voice, clear and sharp.

You wince, pivoting to the side, where his eyes are on you. “I don’t need—”

“Get in there.” And his tone brooks no room for argument. “Now.”

With a sigh, you march yourself into south 16. Jack follows after a few minutes, no doubt gathering whatever supplies he thinks he needs. Door closed, curtain drawn.

You’re both silent, waiting for the other to cave. You’re perched on the edge of the bed. He’s standing by the door.

He breaks first. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

His jaw clenches. Takes a seat on the stool. Wheels it to the foot of the bed. “I need to see how bad it is,” he says, carefully. Like he’s actively choosing every word.

“Nothing’s bad. Nothing hurts.”

Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, based on the breath released between his teeth. Maybe the right thing would have been to deny any source of pain.

He says your name, eyes analytical as he studies you. Something in his face softens. Pushing the stool back. “Would you be more comfortable if I got Dr Ellis or Lena to do the examination?”

You frown. “What examination?” You look—really look, this time—at the supplies he brought in. One of them is a white cardboard box, Sexual Assault Evidence Kit printed in bold letters among other black ink. You’ve catalogued enough of them to know you’re not mistaking it for any other kit. Have done a few on patients as well.

“I’m not—this, this wasn’t—” You take in a breath. Eyes boring into Jack’s, trying to impart the determination of your next words. “It was consensual.”

It’s silent in the room, with the door closed. With neither of you speaking. Jack doesn’t move; you barely breathe.

“Are you sure?” he asks, finally.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” And just like that, the weighted worry drops. He’s still concerned, of course. As soon as Lena had asked if someone had hurt you, everything in his mind jumped to a horrifying conclusion. He’s glad their shared assumptions aren’t correct. In his relief, he’s forgotten about your other symptoms—the moody countenance. “Can I still check you over? For my peace of mind?”

“Sure,” you sigh out. Shuffling further on the bed, back turned towards him, shucking your scrub top, then turtleneck beneath it. You know where the worst of it is.

“Jesus, kid,” he hisses. With you turned away, you don’t see the way his jaw ticks, compelling his fingers to unfurl from taut fists. He forces his attention to remain on the bruises and red wounds, and not the black lines of intricate artwork sprawling further down your back. Accentuating the lines of your body.

You hear the snap of the disposable blue gloves.

“It looks worse than it is,” you say.

“Bruising looks like it’s at least a day old.” His voice is clipped. Tight. Overcorrecting professionalism into cold and distant.

They must be purpling by now, you assume. “It’s been—uh, since Saturday night.”

You feel the cool swab of antiseptic on the bruises; the bite marks, the scratches.

“You know,” Jack says, and you feel his warm breath fan across your bare skin. That, alone, makes you shiver. “Even if you changed your mind part way through, it’s still sexual assault.”

You shoot a look over your shoulder at him.

He attempts a poker face. Do not react.

“I didn’t change my mind,” you say, firm. You turn back to face the wall. Stare down at the bed beneath you. “It’s—” And maybe it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look at him. “I wanted it to hurt. For him to be rough.”

Jack breathes in. Do not react. He’s a doctor. He’s also tended to previous partners like this before. His own wife, even. Clinical hands; he’s seen this before. He cannot treat this like a new thing, just because it’s you.

“Where’d you even find the guy?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking. To twist the knife lodged between the fourth and fifth ribs, maybe.

“On an app.”

“What? Just a random dating one?”

“No. It’s—you know, specifically for hook ups of the non-vanilla kind.”

“The what kind?”

Oh my God, he’s going to make you say it outloud. Gaze resolutely stuck on the creases of the white, sterile bedsheets. “The kinky kind.”

A pause. “They have those, now?”

You can almost hear the beginnings of a ‘back in my day’ spiel. And isn’t that a thought? Dr Jack Abbot searching for his own BDSM partners—in his youth, maybe. You don’t want to think about his exploits in his current era. You’re already topless in front of him. You cannot bare yourself to him any more than this.

“Yeah,” you chuckle, a little breathlessly. Get it together. You can’t get all giggly in front of your boss. “They do, grandpa.”

“Hey. Careful now,” he remarks, amused. Something loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. It’s probably the first time he’s heard you express something akin to a laugh during this shift. He doesn’t realise how much he missed that today; how much he needs it to carry him through.

The ED can be a harrowing place, but it’s a lot less dark with you by his side.

You hum, letting the silence relax you. It must be past 3 AM, you think. There’s always that patchy, tranquil moment after the sporadic rush between midnight and 3 AM.

“So what?” he asks. Cotton swab dabbing ointment onto the wounds. “Your date just fell asleep and forgot to take care of you?”

You let out a huff, humourless. Head dipped. Embarrassed, again. It flushes down your neck. “He left as soon as he was done.”

Jack goes deathly still. The swab hovers, pinched tightly between his fingers. “What?”

“He, uh—left,” you sniff. Do not fucking cry over this. “And I’m pretty sure I got ghosted too, because I’ve been trying to—um, call him. Or text him. Which sucks, because, I…” You suck in a breath. “We took our time. Went on three separate dates before Saturday. Dinner. Movie. Museum. Four fucking months of talking and he dipped as soon as he got his dick wet.”

Jack is uncharacteristically silent over your shoulder.

You shuffle around, facing him.

He’s frowning. Lips downturned. Eyes stormy. Lines of his body wound tight. An older man outraged by the woes of modern dating, you assume.

“It’s fine,” you say, because you feel the sudden need to mollify that anger. To appease him. You try to covertly rub your eyes to wipe the tears that have collected. “Honestly, I’ve always been a bit bad about handling rejection, but I’m working on it.” It explains your shitty mood since Saturday. The dull awareness after he left.

Jack blinks, jaw unlatching at your words. Stares at you. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, hollowly. “You feel hurt because of a little rejection?”

You make an obviously face. “I’ll feel better by next shift.”

“How much research did you do?”

“I read a few articles; people’s blog posts. There aren’t any peer reviewed journals on this.”

“I know,” he huffs out. He remembers his own reading journey, all those years back. “Did you read anything about dropping? Sub drops?”

Your forehead creases in thought. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Maybe?”

Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting.

You stare. The confusion eventually smooths out. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” he echoes. “You’re in a sub drop.”

You have been, since Saturday. That’s—mortifying, you think. Your kinky extracurricular affairs brought forefront and centre to your attending because you weren’t a good judge of character.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Something humiliating thickens your throat; wells tears into your eyes. They avert from him, dropping somewhere low. “Fuck, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s—hey. Look at me,” Jack says.

You’re not listening.

“Fuck. Hey. Hey, quit spiralling. Listen to me.” Jack yanks the gloves off his hands.

This is disgusting. You’re disgusting. This was something that was supposed to remain within your bedroom walls, far, far away from the hospital. Instead, you brought it right to the night shift’s front porch.

A rough palm slotted against your cheek.

The effects are near instantaneous—a shuddering inhale, a trembling whine. Glassy eyes shedding tears as they slide close. Cheek nuzzled against callused flesh.

His hand tipping your face upwards. “Open your eyes.”

And you do.

Shiny, blinking. Unfocused, then landing on him. Something registers, clicks in your mind. “Please,” you whisper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.

But he does. Something bittersweet in this throat. “I know,” he rasps. He wants this. Fulfilment delivered on a silver platter. But not like this. Not from someone else’s abymal attempts.

He’d seen the way you brightened when he passed by with a compliment. A well timed ‘great work in there’, and your shy smile followed him. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Maybe it’s his ego stinging, now. Maybe it’s something else; something tender, something primal.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.

Jack hushes you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” If he could get his hands on the man that called himself your date, he wishes for once, he could take back the sworn oath to do no harm.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

He manoeuvres himself onto the bed. Pulls you into his lap, chests aligned. His arms encircle your waist, avoiding the bruises decorating your upper back. Settling on top of the tattoos. “Breathe with me,” he instructs.

So you do.

In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again.

Just until the dizziness fades a little. Until you feel like you have a few fingers back on the ledge.

“I’m sending you home,” Jack says.

“I don’t want—”

“Do not,” he demands, tense, “argue with me.”

Your mouth clicks shut. Face buried into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“You go home,” he says, “you get yourself cleaned up. Eat. Rest. I’ll come by and take care of you when I’m done here.”

You suck in a breath. “No—”

“What did I just say about—”

A noise of complaint in the back of your throat, hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing. “Red,” you utter.

It jolts him. Admittedly, it’s been a while, but the colours are ingrained in him as much as the safewords that he used. This isn’t a scene, but you’re so far down that you can’t tell.

“What?” he asks, around the thudding in his chest. He overstepped, somewhere. He doesn’t know you like this, can’t anticipate your needs like he would in the ED.

“I can’t,” you tell him, quiet. Small. “You can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“Take care of me.”

Jack inhales gravel. Pissed off. “Did he tell you that? Is that why he left you alone?”

“No,” you say.

“Then what is it?” One of his hands lift from your waist, guiding your face away from where you’re hiding. Thumb brushes across tear stained cheek. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.

You peer down at him, positioned higher only because you’re straddling his thighs. You swallow against this heavy thing in your chest.

How do you even admit that the sole reason you started researching BDSM in the first place, is due to the man in front of you? Due to the way he doled out praises in the ED, unlocking something within you? You imagined it was him, pinning you down, hands around your neck, teeth sinking into skin, telling you to be good for him.

“I can’t have you mean nothing,” you whisper, eventually.

Jack swallows past the lump suddenly in his throat. “What does that mean?” A burgeoning of hope. “Sweetheart, what does that mean?” And maybe that’s the cruelty in him, a manipulative side that fools him into thinking that if he calls you as such, you can remain tucked inside his heart. Can convince you to stay there.

“You’re everything,” is all you say. Maybe it’s enough.

“Everything,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

Jack’s hand is a gentle thing against your cheek. No pressure, no guidance. Just slight pressure tracking your movements as you nose against his jaw. Scrape your skin against stubble.

His hand slides to the back of your scalp. “And that means I can’t take care of you?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Why?”

“I…” You’re not selecting words. Just trying to find them through the fog. “Because it’s only for today. Until I feel better.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Everything,” you say again. And your lips land on his pulse point, You feel it thrum. “With you.”

He doesn’t know how much of this is the drop. How much of this is you. All he knows is that you wouldn’t admit any of this if you were in the right mind.

Fingers flex at the roots of your hair. He tugs you up to look at him.

Your hips buck on their own accord. You keen, thighs tightening around him. Teary eyed.

His other hand against your waist digs in. Stopping your movements. “Fuck,” he swears, hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you murmur, reassuring.

He can’t do this. Here. While you’re like this. He needs you up and out of sub drop before he can have this conversation with you. But you don’t want his help unless he can promise you everything. He can only hope he knows what that means.

“Please,” you utter.

“I know,” Jack soothes. His hand braced against your cheek again.

You lean forward, weight against him. Lips almost on his.

His fingers lead you away. “No,” he murmurs, sandpaper in his throat.

You let out a cracked whine. He doesn’t want to kiss you.

“No,” he says, sharp, like he can see what conclusion you’re reaching. “Not yet.” His lips against your forehead. “Not here.”

Jack doesn’t know how long it takes. He can’t spend the whole shift in there with you, as much as he wants to.

The contact helps. His touches, the soft susurration aimed into the soft flesh of your neck. At some point, you’re coherent enough to be functional. Turtleneck and scrub top on.

Jack tells you to go home. You do.

Lena meets Jack’s gaze. Worried. Questioning.

He shakes his head. It wasn’t what she initially thought, but he’s still concerned. Not completely out of the woods yet.

The final two hours of his shift stretch. All he can think of is you. By the time he sees Robby, he feels dead on his feet.

“You good, brother?” Robby claps him on the shoulder, frowning.

“Long story,” Jack says, scrubbing at his face.

“Yeah? You don’t got time?”

“I gotta head out. John can hand off.”

“Seriously?” Robby blinks, surprised.

Jack’s never passed on a hand off before. But he feels like Shen was probably more present, anyway. Less distracted.

“Robby, my guy,” Shen says.

Robby fixes the other attending with a deeply unimpressed look. “John.”

“See you,” Jack says.

“I better get the short version some time,” Robby says.

“Me too!” John adds.

“You don’t even know what we were talking about…”

Their voices trail away as Jack walks. No rooftop. No drinks in the park. Just over to your apartment, the address memorised from your staff profile. Probably a privacy concern, but Lena turned the other way when he said he wanted to check on you.

You’re asleep on the couch when he comes. You were cogent enough to text him your apartment number and a picture of your welcome mat, letting him know your key was under there.

Not the most secure hiding place, but by the time he arrived, it was still there.

The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, taking your temperature. Fingers brush through your hair.

You stir. “Dr Abbot?” Spoken softly, eyelids heavy.

“Hey, kiddo.” He shifts, handing you your water bottle you’ve left on the coffee table.

You sip from it, blinking yourself awake. Scrubbing at bleary eyes. “Are you wearing shoes?” you ask around a yawn.

Jack blinks, not having expected your question. He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing—one on his foot, the other on his prosthesis. “Yeah.”

“Shoes off,” you say. “There are guest slippers in the bottom cubby hole.”

“Bottom cubby hole,” he repeats. More so to remember, than mock you.

“Please,” you add.

He rumbles a laugh before he follows your instructions. He takes out the ointment from his backpack before depositing it near the coat rack at the door. He shuffles back towards you, now clad in the slippers. “Did you eat yet?”

You hum your confirmation. “I have leftovers in the fridge. And I showered. You can use the shower too. Towels are in the cupboard in my room.”

“Alright. When I’m done, I’m going to check your back again.”

“Okay.”

He lingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Feeling like yourself?”

You think. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

When he’s done, you’ve relocated to your bedroom. It’s a strange situation for him to be in, invited into your apartment and encouraged to explore the place himself. Complete trust in someone else’s life.

He finds you curled under the soft blanket you have spread over your king single bed. Sprawled out, sleeping in a prone position. He pops his prothesis off.

Ointment in hand, he gently tugs the blanket down. Sees you in sleep shorts, no shirt on. The consideration of making your back easily accessible isn’t lost on him. He touches up the ointment while you remain asleep. Fingers applying pressure, massaging tense muscles even though you’re not awake for it. He feels you relax under his touch.

“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud.

And he stays there, next to you, until he too, falls asleep.

When you wake up, you kind of forget what happened. It feels like a blur—something you could write off as a dream if you didn’t have any reminders. And in this moment, you don’t. Tiredly stumbling to the bathroom, then to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.

You’re, somehow, too out of it to hear the noises in the kitchen. Once you’re in comfortable loungewear, you take your reusable water bottle with you. The intention is to fill it, grab some snacks, then head back into your room. Maybe pop on a show. Let your brain turn off.

“Hey.”

You startle, almost dropping the bottle. Pivoting to see Dr Jack Abbot in front of your stove. Cooking—something. Eggs, you think. It’s one of the things you always stock up in the fridge.

Yesterday in the hospital was not a dream. It was real. Very real. And he came to check in on you in your apartment. And stayed over.

“Hey. I…” you start. Trail off.

“Forgot?” Amusement lifting the corner of his lips. Trying to hide it for your sake.

“No,” you say, quick. You both know it’s a lie. Lips pressed into a line, heading to the water dispenser attached to the fridge to fill up your bottle.

Jack grins when you’re no longer looking at him. “Eat first.” The toaster pops with two slices. He’s made himself at home, studying your kitchen. Pantry, fridge, cupboard, drawers. He’s memorising the layout. Two plates, eggs, toast, slices of ham. You, apparently, didn’t have bacon. He searched.

Sitting at the tiny thing you call a dining table, Jack waits for you to tuck into your food. Despite the fact that you’re more lucid, he can tell you’re still off. As he eats, you’re not. Pushing food around. Tearing off pieces of your toast to nibble at.

Since Saturday, he remembers. Wonders if you treated all your meals like this before coming into the Pitt. You must have been running on fumes. Wonders how many times you’ve done this; if this is your first time, or just the first time it’s gone wrong.

Jack clears both the plates away. His empty; yours mostly full. Half your toast gone. He decides to glad-wrap yours, putting it in the fridge. Cleans his own plate in the sink, washing his hands after.

“You didn’t have to… be here,” you say. To stay. To make you food.

“I said I’d take care of you,” he responds, evenly. Leaning against the sink. Eyes on you.

And you both remember what happened after. What you said. Not unless you could have everything.

You feel—embarrassed. You meant it, of course you meant it. A stupid torch you’ve carried for two years. The humiliating realisation that it wasn’t going away. You tried to put those feelings onto someone else, tried to go out, go on dates. You were young. And yet.

The sinking knowledge that this wasn’t just some kind of silly crush born of proximity and praises.

“It’s not your responsibility,” you state. “You’re not my—” Mouth snapping shut, self-editing.

Even if you don’t finish it, the tilt of his head, the challenging tick of his eyebrow says he heard it. Arms crossing over his chest.

You can’t help the way your eyes fixate on the stretch of the short sleeves of his t-shirt around tensed biceps.

“I’m not your what?” Jack asks.

You clear your throat, moving to stand up. To get away, even if for a second. Even if he’s trying to do you a favour by being here.

“Stay down.”

You almost do. The chair scrapes backwards, instead. “Fuck off, Abbot,” you snarl, standing fully.

Hostility rearing its head again. Like with Lena, except this time, you’re not restraining yourself at an attempt at professional conduct. You’re biting. Pushing.

Jack knows there’s probably a few ways he can take this. Can respond. “Don’t do this.”

Gone is the sweet thing he held in his lap yesterday. Instead, you’re aching, scared of rejection and lashing out because of it.

“Quit patronising me. You’re not my—anything. And I’m not yours.”

His teeth scrape together, jaw squeezing. Jack knows this game. Can read you like a book. He can’t fall for the bait; if his temper wins, he proves you right.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice soft despite the urge to snap. He knows this is born of insecurity. One that was fed by some prick that abandoned you on Saturday. “I’m not like him—”

“Don’t,” you hiss out.

“—I’m not going to leave.”

It makes something ripple inside you. An age-old wound that tells you you’re unlovable. Something complicated passes over your face. You can’t decide if you want to believe him or squash it down. False hope.

Jack moves towards you. Three steps to close the distance between the sink and table.

Your eyes are wet, bright with tears. “Dr Abbot—”

“Jack,” he corrects. Chest twisting.

“Jack,” you say.

He nods, eyes darting between yours. Eye contact connoisseur. “Can you sit down?” He changes his approach. “Please?”

You do. Slipping into the dining chair. The backrest to your side. Legs facing him and not tucked under the table.

And Jack.

He sinks.

One of his knees makes contact with the floor. His other leg bent, foot on the ground. His hand resting on the flesh above your knee, balancing.

A tremulous breath releases from you. Shock. “What are you—?”

“You wanted everything,” Jack says. “Let me give you everything. Please.”

And hasn’t he been carrying a torch for you, too? Your first day with the night shift wasn’t anything special. It’s not that he was struck by you immediately—the consequences of being an attending physician, having a million things on his mind, and a hundred other things clamouring for his attention.

You were always quick. Responsive. Observant. At his elbow, two seconds before he asked, handing him everything he needed like you were a mind reader. It was fascinating, in a way.

He hadn’t even registered when the change happened. There was no adjustment period. One day you were that damn good nurse on his team, and the next day, he realised he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

Watching, always watching, when you pushed the gurney from the ambulance bay into the trauma room; when you playfully saluted Parker after she asked for an IV on her patient; when you adopted that childish voice to say Nurse Lena, Nurse Bridget is being mean to me again, just to make them laugh after a tough patient; when Shen tried to get you to learn Mandarin but that was already in Princess’ arsenal, and the only rule established was no repeats.

As time went on, he noticed the way your tightly wound shoulders would relax at his words. The way your gaze lingered, like you wanted to ask for more. You never did, and he never pushed.

How could he? He was an attending. Much, much older than you. Had skeletons in his closet that he would rather shove down than let anyone sign up for.

Somewhere, he fell. Softly, then all at once.

You reach out, fingers drifting across his cheek. “Jack,” you whisper, an incredulous sound.

“Right here, sweetheart.” He cups your hand, angling his head to kiss your palm. Eyes never straying from yours.

Tears knocked loose. “I’m sorry,” you say, wet. Once again, ashamed of your behaviour.

“You did nothing wrong.” If he could spend the rest of his life reassuring you, he would. Maybe he can. Everything, after all.

“But I… yelled.”

Jack grins, wry. “I get yelled at all the time.” By patients. By admin. It’s no skin off his back.

“I said…” You inhale, wobbly. “I said I wasn’t yours.”

And there, that darkening of his eyes. Studious. Trained on nothing but you. “Are you?”

“I want to be.”

“So you are. Mine.”

You wet your lips. His eyes track the movement, unabashed. “And…” you say.

He waits, patient. Lets you find your words.

“You’re mine?”

“Yes. Yours,” he rasps. Kneeling before you, whatever else could he be?

“Get up. Please.” A murmured plea.

He does. It’s not a swift movement, but you’re past paying attention. You stand, slot your body against his. He’s meeting you halfway. Your palm splayed against his chest; his hand cupping your cheek.

A soft capture of your lips. Jack’s thumb sweeping, tugging lightly at the corner of your mouth. Fingers digging into the sharp of your jawbone tucked beneath your ear.

You let out a stuttering breath at the pressure, something fuzzy clouding your eyes. He slips his tongue inside your mouth. A welcomed weight against your tongue, a spit slicked slide.

A drawn out noise, broken into pants.

His hands gathered at your waist. Walking you backwards into the table. It grates against the linoleum floor, thudding into the wall. Neither of you pay it any heed. You’re perched on the table. He steps between your legs, hitching one thigh against his side.

“Please,” you gasp into the infinitesimal space between you, “I’ll be good.”

“I know,” Jack whispers. Something gentle and soft and so, so sweet tucked against him. Honeyed and viscous, coating his throat. Choking, unbidden tears in his eyes. “I’ll give you everything,” he promises.

Your arms hooked around his shoulders, lifting your core, angling up. Pressing the heat between your legs against his growing bulge.

“Fuck,” Jack groans. A palm laid against the surface of table, the other keeps a bruising grip on the flesh of your side. Stabilising himself. His face tucked to your neck, kissing a line against your throat. Buying himself time. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says.

“Jack.” A breathy moan, as his lips trail down. Hips rolling up against him. You reach, fingers scrabbling against the waistband of his pants.

“Uh uh.” Digits wrapping around your wrist, pressing your hands against the cold wood beneath you. “Hands on the table.”

“I want—” Despite your protesting words, your palms remain flat on the smooth surface. “I want to make you feel good.” To get on your knees for him, to feel the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth, the stinging strain in the corners of your lips as you struggle to fit him, an aching in your jaw. You know he’d be big enough for that.

“I know, sweetheart.” His lips on yours again, a reassuring kiss. The problem isn’t you—it never is. It’s the fact that he’d finish within minutes if you got your mouth around him. He’s strung tight, and he knows his refractory period isn’t as short as it used to be. The reality is he’s old.

“Please,” you whine.

“Hands on the table,” he reminds, despite the fact that you hadn’t moved. He lowers himself to the ground, eyes on you. Watching you watch him. Roughened fingers tugging your pants down. Lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Kissing up further and further.

Air catches in your throat.

Jack leans forward, closes his mouth around your clothed core. Tongue finding the split between flesh.

You moan, breath hitching at his touch. Fingers twitch against the table. You want to bury them in his grey curls, but he told you to keep them where they are.

“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

Jack pulls down your underwear. Rests his cheek against the side of your thigh. Stubble scratching against overheated skin. “Look at you,” he says, reverent. “You’re so wet, baby.”

You whimper. Your hands inch further behind you. Angling your body. “Jack.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Fingers around your calf, hiking it over his shoulder. Every touch, searing.

“Please.”

“So sweet,” he purrs. And then his tongue, finally, finally glides into the drenched heat. He hums through the wrecked sound you make, licking up. A brief kiss to your clit before his lips seal around it. Tongue lands, tip of the muscle working up and down repeatedly, then around.

You—shatter. No other way to describe it. Your hands are still somewhere behind you, maybe numb at this point. Your leg still hooked over Jack’s shoulder, heel digging into the stretch of his back. Hips rolling upwards, into his face. “Jack,” you cry, heavy with relief and something fractured, all at once.

His eyes are dark, captivated by you, preoccupied with taking in every reaction, every movement. His tongue never ceases. Fingers collect the slick from your opening, using his thumb to rub it along his middle and fourth finger.

Whining aloud. Fingertips digging into unrelenting wood. You want to touch him. You try to enclose your legs around him.

Jack pushes his free hand against your thigh, the one that’s not on his shoulder. Keeping you open. Then he sucks, tongue flicking against your clit at the same time.

Your hips grind upwards. “Jack—”

He presses his middle finger into you. He doesn’t take his time. Pumps it once, twice.

“Jack, please, please—”

He draws his finger out. Pushes his ring finger inside at the same time. You feel the stretch with two fingers, wider than yours. Longer than yours.

Jack doesn’t mean to rush, but he feels so lightheaded with want. Knows his knees will probably complain tomorrow morning. He needs you to come, wants to hear you fall apart. Crooking his fingers towards your belly, feeling around the wet insides. Pads of his fingers massaging.

You feel it building in your core. Breaths escaping. “I’m—oh, fuck, I’m—please—”

You can feel him responding, fingers moving faster. Working you from inside. And he keeps the suction on your clit.

“Jack, please, I need—” Almost there but not quite. You feel right at the precipice, but you can’t tip over. Chasing it, though, the way you grind into his face. Onto his fingers. Hands splayed on the table, head tipped towards the ceiling. Every sound punched out of you.

He hums, a deep thing that sends vibrations through you.

“Talk to me, please, Jack, please I want to hear you.”

Jack shifts, mouth opening, tongue pressed flat against your clit. The hand pushing your thigh moves, fingers rubbing against the sensitive nerve. Still fucking you with the fingers inside.

“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is frayed. “Need me to talk you through it?” There’s spit and you on his chin, glossing his lips. Tongue swipes across petals, swallowing like it’s nectar. Cheek resting against your upper thigh. Stubble scraping against skin.

You shudder. “Yes, yes please, Jack, please.”

“Yeah. Need me to tell you’ve been good, honey?” A kiss pressed to your leg. Your sensitive skin burning, itching every time he moves. The scratch of his shadow. His eyes are lava on you, even if you can’t see him.

“Just like at work, is that it? I tell you you’ve done a good job and you walk around the hospital all wet and pent up? Tell me, baby, do you come home and think of me when you get yourself off? Hear me in your head?”

The nail knocked on the head. The hole-in-one.

You can’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, you are, that he figured it out. You’re clenching around his fingers, tight. Gasping. You don’t even need to verbalise that you’re coming. He can feel it. Your hips bucking up, his elbows digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your legs apart.

Wordless litanies of moans. High pitched and wrecked. Jack pushes his fingers in further, letting you ride yourself through it. And he doesn’t stop his ministrations over your clit. “Jack,” you sob.

“There you go, baby. This is what you wanted, right?” Jaw clenching, hips stuttering against air. He’s so painfully hard. It could almost be concerning, how ready he is. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”

He stands, knees cracking, back sore. Yet, he keeps his fingers moving. Inside and outside. Your thigh slides off his shoulder. He positions himself between them, your legs drawing up at his sides. He leans down towards you, hissing something ragged when his cock makes contact with your thigh. “Come here,” he says.

You weep with relief, arms moving from behind you, wrapping around his shoulders. You meet his lips. The fingers inside stop moving, but press insistently on that spot. He keeps rubbing your clit, just to hear you moan, to feel the tremors of your body, to feel the way you contract around his fingers. Imagining that it’s his cock.

“Jack,” you heave. “Too—ah, too much—”

“No, baby,” he says, “I say when it’s too much.”

“Jack,” you whine. “Please. Please, I need you.”

Oh, the unfair games you’re playing, begging like that. He huffs impatience through his nose, jawline ticking. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”

And you feel it—the way you’re falling into the second orgasm. One of your hands gripping his bicep. Harder than necessary, maybe. Complaining. Retaliating. “Fuck, mmm, Jack, I’m—oh, I’m coming—”

Your back arches upwards into him. Hips grinding down between his fingers again. Fingers crooked inside you, rubbing against the soft spot. Fingers rubbing your clit. Sensitive.

He grunts, head falling onto your shoulder. Hears the pathetic little sounds that you don’t even realise you’re making.

Your head’s fuzzy, your ears dulled like you’re underwater. And yet, so aware of where he’s touching you. Every point of contact ignited, like he’s leaving a brand on this mortal vessel that was created to contain nothing but love for him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes. And finally, his fingers still. Small mercies as he removes the hand from your clit. Not yet sliding his fingers out.

Jack kisses you. Your chest heaving, craving air. Trembling, clenching around the fingers still inside you. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “There you are.” Observing those glassy eyes. The lazy limbs that cling to him. Lips pressed to your temple.

You cup his erection through the fabric of his pants.

He hisses, jerking into your touch. “Fuck,” he swears.

You stroke him, feeling the length.

“You—shit—you gotta stop, sweetheart,” he says.

You make a questioning noise. You want to make him feel good.

“You really want our first time to be in the kitchen?”

You’re slow to gather your words. “Anywhere,” you slur out. Too much effort to talk. “Whatever… you want.”

Jack huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he whispers, tender at your deference. He kisses you again, sliding his fingers out of you. He parts momentarily, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers into his mouth. Licking, fingers splitting, tongue moving down the space between slick digits.

Your hips twitch, a lazy movement that brings you flush against his body. Smearing your come and his spit against the fabric of his pants. He’s still fully clothed, you realise.

“Bed,” you croak, even though you told him it was his choice, just moments before.

Jack laughs, a gentle thing. Nose bumping against yours. Hands lifting you. Legs wrapped around his waist. “Get your bottle,” he says.

You blindly grab for it before he walks you towards your bedroom. Door closing behind him, even though there’s no one else here. He deposits you on the bed. Tells you to take a sip of water before placing it onto the nightstand.

You don’t move. You’re exactly where he left you on the bed when he turns back to you.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. “C’mere,” Jack says.

You shuffle towards him. He’s expecting you to crawl into his lap, maybe. What he doesn’t expect, is the way you slide off the bed to kneel by his feet.

His breath hitches in his throat. Fingers twitching, as your cheek rests against his thigh. Digits threading into your hair. You angle your face to look up at him, blinking. Slow.

“Hey,” he says, fraught with something delicate. Raw and soft.

You nuzzle against him. Head feeling stuffy. Floating. Sinking. Contradictory, yet somehow. True.

“What do you need?”

Nothing. Everything. Wordlessly, you feel at his leg, calf down. Almost like you’re palpating it. Onto the next leg. You unbuckle the prosthesis, hearing him hiss at the twist, at the unlatching. Pained or relief, you can’t tell. Pressing a kiss to the bend of his knee when you remove it, prosthesis intentionally placed aside. You want him comfortable.

You’re slotted back against his thigh, like you didn’t just change his world, like you didn’t just show him the kind of tenderness he never thought he’d deserve after losing the leg.

Jack breathes, unsteady and ragged, but you blink up at him like you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. Complete trust.

You inch forward, nosing closer towards his crotch. Mouthing a long, lingering kiss to his dick. Slow and muted through layers of clothes. Sucking, wetting fabric. An unspoken request.

Jack groans, hips jerking. Fingers reach out, cradling. Callused pads against your jaw, thumb sliding across your lips.

You part them.

His thumb slips in, access easily granted, applying pressure against your tongue. Gliding down. Molten eyes on yours. Your brain is hazy with static. Blissful. Half-lidded eyes. Moaning as you swallow around his digit.

Jack laughs. You feel the reverberations of it, rather than hear the sound. His thumb lets up, still inside your mouth, but no longer pressing down. You blink your eyes opened, questioning, protesting.

“I asked what you prefer, baby,” he rumbles, corners of his lips lifting. Revelling in the way you’re so lost, so dazed. “Do you want me in here?” Thumb circles your tongue. “Or in here?” His good foot shifts, tucked under where you’re kneeling. Front of his ankle catching just right on your bare clit.

A hitched whine, hips grinding down. Sticky heat on his skin.

“I can only do one, sweetheart. You’re killing me, here.” He’s so gone on you, it’s almost devastating. Man made soldier, thickened skin to take on the sins of the world. And his Achilles heel is a precious thing by his knee.

You lap at his thumb, tongue flexing along the grooves of his fingerprint. For a second, he thinks this is how you want him, but you move. An obscene, wet pop as you back away from his hand. You treat it as if it were his dick, licking, tongue against nail and skin, like it’s the leaking seam of his cock.

“Jesus,” Jack groans. You’re going to be the death of him. Completely and absolutely. No differential diagnoses required.

You rise into his lap, nothing shy or uncertain in the way you straddle him and grind yourself against his clothed erection. Lips against his, kissing like you need it to breathe. Need him to breathe. Maybe you do. A low and quiet buzz in your head.

Fingers bracing against your jaw, then lips travel down your neck. You’re still rolling your hips against him. It feels heavenly, the graze of fabric against your already sensitive clit.

Jack lets out a pained noise, shifting. One moment to the next, you went from being in his lap, to facing the ceiling, back against the soft blanket. You rise to your elbows, blinking, eyes moving to the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t make a show of taking off his clothes. It’s quick, the way he removes his shirt, pants, and briefs. He’s pretty sure that if you continued moving on top of him like that, he was just going to come in his pants like he’s in college again.

“You’re killing me,” he says again. He crawls towards you. Body on yours. Divests you quickly of your top.

The slide of his palm to one of your breasts. Cupping. Squeezing. “Been thinking about this since your first scrub change.” Fingernails pinching the tip of your nipple.

You cry out.

Lips over your other tip, a mimicry of the attention he paid to your clit. Licking. Tongue slathering. Then, teeth, biting.

You rut up against him, one leg hooking over his back. Feel the length of him against you. “Please,” you whine.

His hips stutter. “Fuck me,” he groans. Inhales, then lets it out heavily.

“Trying to.”

He laughs, then, a sound that’s disbelieving, even though he should have expected nothing less from you. You’ve been hanging around the night shift too much. A hand in your hair, tugging, born of your insolence. Stealing the sound you make with a kiss. Fucks his tongue into your mouth again.

You feel like you’re losing your mind with the need to feel him. The slide of him, the delicious drag of him against your walls. To clench around and feel his dick inside you. Instead, you’re still empty.

Gasping when you part for air. “Jack,” you plead. “Please, I want to feel you.”

Jack smacks a kiss to your cheek. “Where are your condoms?” He has some in his bag—was part of his prepared care kit alongside the ointment he brought. But he’s left that by the doorway, and he doesn’t want to leave this bed with you in it, wrapped around him.

A hand smoothing over his chest, up his shoulder, clasping around his nape. “No, we don’t need—”

“Uh uh, no,” he says. “Not today.”

“But I’m—”

“No.” Stern. Lifting up, leaning back. “If you don’t listen to me about this, we’re not doing this today.”

“Sorry,” you hiccup, the easiest acquiescence. “Sorry. Nightstand. Bottom drawer. Sorry.” Tears in your eyes. Gripping at his arm, then letting go, undeserving. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

Jack lets out an agonised noise. You both know that if you were more cognisant, you would agree with him, would want this too. But it doesn’t make it any less hard to say no when you’re like this. “I’m not mad,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. Soft. Apologetic. The last thing he wants to do is to let you believe that he could up and leave you so easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Bottom drawer,” you say again.

Jack gets up, moving towards the nightstand to grab what he needs. The distance is close enough that one leg remains on the bed for balance. Tucked under rumpled towels, a box of condoms. And if he happens to see some toys, cuffs, other accessories you’ve clearly purchased for yourself, haphazardly hidden—oh, that’s something that he can use next time.

Packet torn, condom slipped on. Muffled groan at the relief of being touched, even if it’s just himself. Returning to the bed, to you. You’ve been watching him the whole time, eyes dragging over his skin, his body.

He doesn’t feel shy under your gaze. Exposed, though, is a different feeling.

“Can I go on top?” you ask.

He falters. He usually doesn’t. Usually surefooted. But this—you. You have a tendency to cleave apart his every defense. Every sure thing he knows about life. “You want to?”

“Yes,” you say. “Feels better.”

Tucked and saved somewhere safe. To keep and know about you. “Okay,” he says, and settles at the head of your bed, back against the wall. You draw close, slipping your pillow under his calf. Then you climb into his lap, a soft sigh releasing, like homecoming. Kissing him again, a silent addiction. His arms are warm and weighted around your middle. And he lets you take your time.

Once again, the slow rolling of your hips down to his. Your entrance flushed against the length of his dick. The torturous drag, up and down.

Jack grips your waist, lips against your collarbone. Harsh breaths of air. “Fucking Hell.”

And when you seem content to let it draw on like this, he bites at the flesh under your collarbone. Warning.

You downright mewl at the threat his teeth breaking through your skin. “Ah—mhm.”

“You gonna let me fuck you anytime soon?”

It takes a little to register that not only has he asked you a question, but you should probably respond as well. “If you want to,” is what you end up saying.

“If I want to.” Mocking, a dangerous scoff. He feels like he’s on fire. Lifting you, one hand around his cock, lining it up against your entrance. Tip catching between your folds.

And finally, you’re sinking down on him.

The hitched sounds coming from you, trapped in your throat. Arms hooked around his shoulders, keening into the side of his throat. The stretch of your walls making way for him. The soft insides, swallowing, welcoming. And it keeps going.

Your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his arm, his hands petting the sides of your stomach. Soothing. “You’re—you feel—oh—” Sinking further around his girth. Until you’re sure he’s completely inside you.

Jack lets out a low groan. “Fuck.” Breathes in deeply. Holds it. Then out.

You try to rise.

His arms immediately snap a tight brace around you, holding you in place. “Fuck. Give—give me a minute.”

“Jack—”

“You,” he grinds out, “have no idea how tight you feel. Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”

And of course, that involuntary spasm of your walls around his cock.

Jack swears. Forehead thuds against the space above your sternum. “Quit that.”

“Wasn’t on purpose.”

He notices the lack of apology. “Brat,” he says fondly, and kisses you again.

You don’t know how long you stay like that for. Lips and air. Arms refusing to budge around you. His cock inside you. You swear you feel him in your diaphragm. Your skin feels like fire. “Can I move?” you beg. “Jack, please, can I move? Please, I need—can we—I want to feel you—”

“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I got you, honey. You’re okay.” A hand reaches up to wipe a thumb across your cheeks.

It comes away wet. You hadn’t realised you started crying.

“Please,” you sob.

His hips snap upwards.

Your next breath comes trapped between a moan and a cry.

Both arms wrapped around you again. An iron band. Then he fucks up into you.

“Oh,” you whimper. “Oh, fuck, ah, ah—thank you, thank you thank you—”

The noise Jack releases is inhuman. He keeps an unrelenting pace, punching out moans from you. He’s flooded by the need to feel you come around him. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing so well, honey. Taking what I give you.”

You’re meeting him halfway. Grinding down against him, desperately keening. You feel his hand slip between you, thumb against your clit. You white out. Pressure, more so than stimulating you. Fucking yourself onto his cock, then up against his thumb, making you chase what you need. “Please, more, more, please.”

“Yeah? You want more? You want to come again? You want to come with my dick inside you?”

“Yes, please, I need it. I need you, please.”

“Yeah, you do.” Unmoored, slightly. His thumb rubs circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, I wanna hear you.”

Your chin hooked over his shoulder, angling your lips towards his ear. Discarding every notion of shyness. Every sound, every cry, every thought about him; needing him, wanting him, released. The burgeoning that starts in your belly. The fiery licks of something wonderful.

Jack hears it in your gasping breath, feels it in the velvet walls convulsing around him. “There you go, sweetheart. Give me another one. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” Tenderness in the way his lips press against your shoulder.

You whine. Close.

“Poor baby needs to hear my voice to come, is that it? So fucking obsessed with me. Be good and come for me, baby, let me hear you—fuck—there you go.”

Holding you in place, your hips riding through the orgasm that crashes into you. His thumb rubbing incessantly on your clit. He stops fucking his cock into you, but his hips still move. Rolling, grinding.

You’re outright crying, heaving in gasps of air. Overstimulated. His thumb never stops. Your walls spasming around him, again and again.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m almost there. Can we keep going until I’m done? Is that okay, baby?”

“Yes,” you sob. You’re so so gone. Floating. “Please. Use me.”

You’re flattened on the bed.

From one blink to the next, Jack had shifted up, pressing you onto the mattress. Legs around him. The pillow at his calf tucked under your hips. The angle slides him in deeper. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hoarse. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.”

“Yes, yes yes yes yes yesyes.” Litanies of yesses, completely overloaded with pleasure. With the feeling of him inside. Everywhere. The fingers digging into your thigh. Forehead shoved against your chest, somewhere above your heart.

Then, the broken groan. Low, ragged. “Fuck. Coming, baby, I’m coming.” His thumb back on your clit, circling once more. Fucking into you while your walls flutter around him.

You’re completely spent. Keening, whining, hiccupping.

He stops, eventually. Dragging his hand over your belly, stroking. Up your chest. Petting overheated skin. Then cups your face to kiss him.

You feel so faraway. Numb. On fire. Both.

He flips you both, somehow. Arms straining. You’re folded into his chest, his dick still inside you.

And he stays.

You’re too out of it to realise he’s reached over to the nightstand until the straw to your bottle is pressed against your lips.

“Drink,” he says.

You do. Eyes fluttering shut. Cheek against his chest.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Jack murmurs. “You were so perfect. You are perfect.”

His fingers trace the tattoo that sprawls along your back. You shiver, accidentally grinding against him again. You both hiss.

Tilting your head up, lips finding yours again. Kissing. Gentle. Soft.

“Love you,” you whisper.

Jack lets out a tremulous breath. Kisses you again. He’ll talk about this—say it back tomorrow after you’re coherent enough to remember. But for now, it’s just this sweet thing in his lap.

Part 1 | Blurb 1 | Part 2 | Blurb 2 | Series tag.

[skymouth]

thank you 🥹 i’m glad you enjoyed it!!

[skymouth]

satisfy your needs — rabbot x reader

You learn things about the regulars in your bar. They learn things about you too.

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader x Jack Abbot (Rabbot x Reader) Word count: 1.3k+ Tags: Reader is a bartender; Mention of unwanted touching (not specified what kind) by a bar patron; Age-gap (unspecified difference); Jealousy; M-rated sexual content. Notes: i feel like this fic, and all my rabbot dynamics, are heavily inspired by the scene where mckay got arrested and abbot stood back SMIRKING when robby came in to talk to the officers. i think i watched it 1500 times.

Cross posted to AO3.

You’re used to the people that tend to flirt with you as a bartender. You absorb the flattering words, play coy for the cash tips they slide over, and more often than not, get them kicked out when they assume it’s an open invitation to get too handsy with you.

It’s almost a mind-numbing routine. You watch as Barry—the underpaid, casual bartender that also functions as the bar’s security on Fridays and weekends—hauls yet another patron out.

“You alright?”

You turn your attention to the voice, setting down the towel you were using to dry a glass. “Always am.”

Two older gentlemen. You know them as your regulars; Robby and Jack. Doctors from the PTMC, the hospital a couple blocks away. They’ve been frequenting the bar longer than you’ve been working here. Long enough that they’re considered family to Josie—the bar owner and your boss. They have tabs and discounts that keep them returning time and time again.

Jack makes a displeased sound. “You sure?”

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, doctors.”

“Doesn’t make it okay.”

“I’m not saying it is. That’s why they get kicked out.” When you see Barry enter the bar again, he raises a thumbs up at you from his vantage point near the door, and you lift your arm to respond with your own.

As much as you know your regulars, they know you too. They definitely know that Josie sees you as her own flesh and blood, and is fiercely protective of you in a way that someone that’s known you for years could be. They also know that you have a notorious habit of pissing her off every time you flirt with customers that you’ve labelled as non-regulars for that extra bit of cash.

And if they have a horrible habit of enjoying your flirty production a bit too much? That’s something they can only confess in the walls their home. Josie is omnipresent—eyes and ears everywhere in her bar, and they’re not prepared to face her wrath.

“You’re not working today, Dr Abbot?” you ask, changing the topic.

This essentially counts as day drinking for him, with his night schedule. But here he is with Robby. They don’t always arrive together due to work commitments, but you’re more than aware of their… relationship? Friendship? You’ve yet to figure out what they have with each other.

“Late start today. Which means I get to see my favourite person while making sure Robby has his head on straight,” Jack grins.

You laugh. “Careful, Jack. Your man is right there.” The back and forth with them has always been harmless, never characterised by the intention to follow through. They pay their dues and move on.

Robby snorts. “This man doesn’t care as long as you keep the drinks going.”

“Aye aye, old man.” You pour their usual two shots, sliding it across to them.

“Thank you, honey.”

You perform a little curtsy before heading to the other end of the bar where another regular sits.

They’ve known you for a few years now. A young thing that Josie introduced to them on your first ever shift, demanding they keep an eye on you.

In that time, they’ve never seen you seriously consider someone once they started flirting with you. You’re adept at toeing the line and pulling back. The ones that get too physical get kicked out. The ones that enjoy the conversation spend the rest of their night in the bar, either to never come back, or to return as another regular.

Except this time.

Another night they both have off. Both of them in their usual seats by the counter. Watching you.

A younger guy, conventionally attractive. Leaning onto the bar counter where he sits. And that would have been normal—usual. People like your company. Except you’re also leaning halfway across the bar counter when you’re not busy. Reciprocating.

“Hey.” Jack waving you down.

“Need more?” Despite the question, you’re already taking the bottle, floating over to them.

“What are you doing, honey?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” Topping up his glass, then Robby’s too.

“You’re getting close with your new friend.”

“I’m just having a little fun.”

“Yeah?”

“I always do. You know me.”

“I don’t like him,” Robby adds.

You snort, rolling your eyes. “You don’t know him.”

“Neither do you.”

“I know enough to know it’ll be a good time.”

Robby raises a brow. Jack casts you a look.

“Oh, come on. I don’t know what Josie told you, but you don’t have to watch over me. I’m not a child. I don’t need you guys treating me like one.” The two of them and Josie have a tendency to treat you like you’re new to the world. Incapable of independence. In need of protection. As if you don’t have a life outside of the bar that they’re unaware of.

“That’s not where this is coming from,” Robby says. Gentle, despite your souring mood.

“Then where is it coming from?”

His attention on you, but he doesn’t attempt to offer up anything else.

It makes you shake your head, even more pissed. “I’m an adult.”

“I know. We know.”

“Then you should know that I have adult needs. Like everybody else. I don’t need Josie, or any of you—”

“That’s not what we’re saying—”

“I’m not done talking—”

“Yes, you are.”

His audacity shocks you into silence. You blink at him.

Robby taps his knuckles against the counter, jaw clenching. “C’mon. Clock out.” Nodding towards you.

“Excuse me?” You shoot him a look.

“Call Josie. Tell her you’re sick. Get Barry to cover for you.”

“I’m working.”

“Not anymore.”

“Some of us need money, Robby.”

He fishes his wallet from his back pocket. Takes out a few bills and slides it towards you. You can count at least two hundreds in there.

“What the hell?”

“Call Josie and make up an excuse, or I’ll call her myself. And trust me, you won’t like what I have to say.”

Your gaze travels to Jack. His lips are lifted in a smirk. He doesn’t say anything, merely tilts his head to look down at you.

Despite the irritation that lights you on fire, you obey. You call Josie. Shuffle into the staff area to affect a pathetic tone, telling her you feel sick.

She’s worried as she asks if you need anything, and when you tell her that Jack and Robby are here, she calms. You text Barry, who lives less than a 10 minute walk away. He’ll be there soon.

And you wait. Barry arrives, shares a wave to Jack and Robby. He pats you on the shoulder, sympathetic. “Feel better.”

You’re wrangled out of the bar, between them. You try going to your car, but Robby bites out a leave it, so you follow him to his. Jack in his own.

It’s quiet, neither of you talking. You make it to Robby’s house. Property parking. Through the door, where Jack follows.

Robby crowds you against the wall. “Were you really going to go home with that dumb frat guy?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Right. You’re an adult,” Robby says. “You have needs.” Mocking you.

You feel that rabbiting in your chest. “I’m allowed to.” An assertion for yourself. To them.

“I know.” Hovering closer, nose brushing along your cheek.

You’re flattened against the wall.

“Tell me this is okay,” Robby murmurs.

“Yes,” you whisper.

Robby drops to his knees. Jack pushes close, catching your jaw in his hand. Angling your face to kiss you.

And right there in the hallway to his home, Robby eats you out. Your pants long discarded. Your leg over his shoulder, fingers twisted in his hair, rutting against his face, feeling so close.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Jack whispers. He’s relentless with the hickies he’s sucking down the column of your neck. Along your shoulder. His hand gripping and bruising across your chest. “Next time you’re feeling needy like this, you come to us, okay?”

“Oh my God, yes, yes, please.” And you come like that, with Robby’s fingers inside you, his mouth on you.

They don’t let you catch your breath. Jack nudges you down the hall.

“We’re not done, honey.”

[skymouth]

what happens on sabbatical — michael robinavitch x reader

You first meet Robby while he’s on sabbatical, not expecting him to be your new boss.

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader Word count: 1.3k+ Tags: Reader is a biker; Vague smut (M-rating, not explicit); Implied age-gap; Jealousy. Notes: i have no idea if the roads are correct and idc. my only research was looking at google maps to see the cities between pittsburgh to head-smashed-in buffalo jump

Cross posted to AO3.

You don’t know who he is when you first meet him. The roaring of your motorcycle when you’re pulling up for gas. It so happens that he’s stationed beside you.

You nod towards him, still wearing your helmet. Gesture towards his bike, and give him a thumbs up. Hopefully telegraphing Nice bike.

Donning sunglasses and a thick jacket, he nods in response, thumb raising in return.

You fill up your gas.

“I can watch your bike,” he says.

A gloved fist stretched out towards him. He bumps it, then you head into the gas station to pay. When you’re back out at your bike, you watch as he sits on his, walking it out.

You frown. Getting in front of him, stopping his trajectory.

He looks up at you.

You tap your helmet, then point at his head.

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

You flip your tinted visor up. “Helmet.” Voice is slightly muffled, but clearer than if you hadn’t put the visor up.

He falters, seemingly taken aback. Then pats the side of his bag, where said helmet is hanging uselessly. “I have one.”

“Then wear it. I might be young and reckless, but even I’m not that dumb.” Your legs are stationed on either side of his front wheel, arms crossed.

He comes to the realisation that you won’t budge. Practised care, despite the lack of familiarity between the two of you. An inclination of his head, unclasping it from the side of the bag. Donning it. It doesn’t cover his face like yours, but you have a feeling that his Triumph Bonneville doesn’t manage the speeds that your bike does.

“Where are you headed?” You shift to the side of him, adjusting his chin strap.

You don’t see the startled blink from behind his sunglasses. “Passing through Chicago.”

“Come for a ride. There’s a group of us.”

And that’s how easily it starts. Keeping pace until winding, empty roads turn into the suburbs of Chicago. Until more bikes roar around you—friends and acquaintances founded through the biking interest. A bike meet, and an organised ride.

You salute him when he drives into the city. You don’t expect to see him again.

But you do. A random bar—Molly’s. He’s nursing a beer, sitting on his lonesome at the counter. You slide in next to him. “Hey, stranger.”

It takes him a beat to place you. And when he does, a warmer smile graces his face. It’s those eyes. Previously framed by the gap in your helmet. Now complementing the rest of your face. You’re a lot younger—and prettier—than he thought you were.

“Hey yourself. How was your ride?”

“Really good. We did some races. I bet on a friend and we won.”

“Treating yourself with your spoils?”

“Something like that.” And it’s you and him sitting together at the bar. Introducing yourself to him, and you get his name. Robby. You don’t ask if it’s short for anything—he doesn’t volunteer the information.

He’s sightseeing. Intending to head up to Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump. You tell him that you’re enjoying your last few days with your friends before you move for a new job.

You ask if he’s staying the night in Chicago.

Then you’re pushing him through the dingy door of his motel room. An arm wrapped around your waist while his lips are bruising on yours.

Onto his squeaky bed. Climbing into his lap. His fingers are biting into your sides, your thighs.

In between breaths, you manage, “I want to ride your face.”

Robby swallows, thick, enamoured at the suggestion. And you think you have a handle on the dynamic—he’s an older guy that has too much going on, needs to give up control for some semblance of quiet in his head.

But that changes after your first orgasm, thighs squeezing around his ears.

Too easily he flips you over and fucks you into the mattress, broader hand pinning both your wrists above your head. Moaning and scrambling, losing that charge you thought you had.

You leave before he wakes. It’s ridiculously early, but you’re more than familiar with this dance. You get on your bike and leave, never to see him again.

You move, starting your new job in Pittsburgh.

And then a month later, your new coworkers are abuzz with gossip since their chief attending is coming back from a sabbatical. The way they talk about it sounds like it’s an older man with a mid-life crisis.

Robby comes back in the middle of a shift. Jack’s covering the morning, Robby starts in the afternoon. Both of them attending until Shen’s scheduled to relieve Jack at shift change.

He misses your bike when he parks his.

Maybe it would have prepared him.

He’s not expecting the same person he met during his sabbatical in hospital scrubs, walking around his ED.

And you’re not expecting to see him either. “Of course it was you,” you say, despite the surprise. Biker guy without a helmet definitely has mid-life crisis written all over it.

“New job,” Robby says, echoing your words months ago. Eyes flickering over your scrubs. “Bit of a travel for you. I’m sure there were hospitals closer to home that needed med assistants.”

“Yeah, but they weren’t paying nearly as much.”

Robby snorts, nodding. Sounds typical of the Pitt. Desperate moves to obtain new staff, but nothing to placate their current ones. “See you around, kid.”

You almost make it a week. Of pretending like you’re normal coworkers, until he’s falling into bed with you again. Your apartment, this time, his bike chasing yours after a long shift. He wears his helmet like it’s second nature when he drives, now.

Again, your body deliciously sore after he fucks you. Gives you three orgasms to remember him by. By the time you wake, all traces of him are gone. You shouldn’t be surprised.

It keeps happening. More often than it should. You come to his place, too, but neither of you stay when you’re at each other’s places.

And then Noelle Hastings. You’ve met her, back when you first started and were given the brief tour of the hospital and each floor. She’s nice enough, but you’ve learned that everyone in the ED likes to villainise anyone that works upstairs.

You think that’s the case when you first see her and Robby interact. You quickly realise that it’s different. She oscillates between acting like a scorned ex-something, and a dismissive, cavalier attitude.

From what you can piece together, it sounds like she was the fling before he left for his sabbatical. And then he met you. You’re not special. You shouldn’t feel special—there’s no reason for you to make this into a thing.

You’re young and petty, so yeah, maybe you start flirting back with the EMT that comes through to deliver the trauma cases. You both push the gurney, and you’re talking to him about the bike that he sees—and is very impressed by—whenever they park the ambulance.

And if Robby is more snappish than usual when he assigns you to helping Lupe in reception? Well. At least you don’t have to see whatever the fuck is going on between him and Noelle.

The end of your shift, you straddle your bike; Robby not quite on his. “We don’t owe each other anything, Robby.” You flip the visor to your helmet down. Tighten the leather gloves around your wrists.

“But we’re—”

You rev the throttle, drowning out his words. “Can’t hear you!” Tapping the side of the helmet at your ear, shaking your head.

He waits until the noise settles. Opens his mouth—

And again, you twist the throttle. The bike roars. You gesture to your ear again. Walking it out, then speeding out of the ambulance bay.

Two hours later, he’s at your doorstep. “Tell me to leave and I will,” Robby murmurs.

You don’t. Can’t, maybe. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when he’s back in your bed.

Again and again. And maybe this means more than either of you are willing to admit.

[skymouth]

pollinated — rabbot x reader

Robby and Jack get hit with a new drug. No one knows you’re dating the two attendings, so you’re unaware of their symptoms until it’s already taken effect.

Or, a Rabbot x Reader sex pollen fic.

Pairings: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Jack Abbot x Reader (Rabbot x Reader) Word count: 1.8k+ Tags: Sex pollen; Potential dubcon due to the nature of sex pollens; Drugs; Scientific inaccuracies; AFAB reader; Established Rabbot x Reader; NSFW Content (Overstimulation; P in V sex; Double penetration in one hole). Notes: anywaysss rabbot freaks, pls enjoy

Cross-posted to AO3.

“Hey, I thought you guys were on the roof. Are you—?”

You’re ripped away from the opened door. Dragged into a solid chest. Arms enfolding around you.

A surprised sound escapes when the door shuts behind you. “Jack, what—?”

Jack tugs you into a bruising kiss. “There you are.”

A hand against his chest, pushing lightly. “I was looking for—”

Again, his lips on yours. A hand squeezes your chest. Pinches your nipple through layers of clothes.

“Jack, wait—”

“Can’t. ’M sorry. It’s—the drug.”

“Shit.” You slot your hand against his feverish cheek. See the way his pupils are dilated.

The Pitt has seen the side effects of a new street drug. Some kind of inhibitor—an aphrodisiac-like powder. People wheeled in by EMTs; college students dragging an unconscious friend through chairs. The results are inconsistent, sometimes life threatening.

Jack’s breathing raggedly. Lowers his face against your neck with a groan. Keeps a hand attached to your upper arm, fingers cinching into taut grip. “I was trying to help Robby but—it’s getting to me too.”

When you had left your patient, you couldn’t find any of the attendings despite it being time for handoffs. You know this because you usually leave with Robby. You had to hunt down Dana to ask for their whereabouts.

While you were in the middle of treating your patient, another had somehow smuggled drugs into the ED. Had thrown an open plastic baggie at one of the nurses in an act of contempt.

Robby stepped in to intervene, inhaling a lungful of fine dust. Jack tried to help, and had assumedly gotten in contact with the powder as well. They were monitored, but Robby’s symptoms kept getting worse. Feverish, hot, tachycardia. Jack said he’d take Robby upstairs for air. Dana assumed it meant the roof. You had been looking for them up there, but couldn’t find either of them.

You were about to head back downstairs when you received a text from Jack to head to the abandoned inpatient rooms on the eighth level.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask.

Jack shifts, letting go of you. Shuffles to gesture with his chin over his shoulder.

You look behind him to see—

“Oh my God.”

Robby. Completely laid bare on a gurney. Skin flushed. A hand choking his cock. Weeping and red. Hips bucking up into his hand. Trying to stifle his groans with another hand fisted to his mouth.

“Oh, baby.” You step up to the gurney. “Robby—”

“Wait—” Jack starts.

A strong grip around your lower arm. Unceremoniously hauling you onto the stretcher. A hand on your lower back, aligning you against him. Robby rocks his hips into you.

“Fuck,” he groans. Kissing your face, the side of your neck. “Fuck, I need you.”

“I’m here, baby. Let me help.” You sneak a hand between your bodies. Closing around his hard cock.

Robby hisses, head tipped back against the mattress of the gurney.

“I got you.” You start pumping him, watching the way his eyes screw up. Mouth opened in breathless gasps.

It’s quick work—the way he’s strung tight. With a muted moan, he comes, hot spurts dripping between your fingers.

“Keep going,” Robby groans. His hips fucking up.

And he’s still hard under your touch. “Shit,” you breathe out. “How many times already?” You look behind you, to Jack. He’s half-perched on the bed, hand down his pants.

“Twice,” he says.

“Jesus, baby.” You know Robby’s libido isn’t low, but once he comes, he’s usually done. Three times is definitely the work of the drug.

“Fuck, come on.” Robby’s hands gathering your pants, tugging them down.

“Robby, I’m not—ready.” Not wet enough. You didn’t fucking think you’d have to bring any lube in, either.

“Give me your mouth, then.” He shuffles up the bed. Sits up at the head of it.

You crawl between his legs.

Jack shifts until he’s behind you. Tugs your pants the rest of the way down. Then your underpants. “I can get you ready.”

“You don’t—”

“Please.” And the tone in which he implores you reminds you that he, too, is affected by the drug. A lower dosage than Robby, but still.

“Okay. Okay, baby.”

Jack kisses the curve of your behind before he situates himself under you. Mouth to your cunt as you suckle at Robby’s dick. It’s enough to make you forget that you’re still clocked into work. Robby comes within minutes. He’s so far down your throat that you don’t even taste him when you swallow around him.

His thigh twitches, grinding up into your face. Fingers buried into the roots of your hair.

And Jack keeps lapping at your clit. Sucks on it, a digit sliding inside. Until you’re coming too. Muffled groans, grinding against his face. He pats the side of your thigh. “Okay.”

You shuffle up. Facing Jack, naked now. Jack moves so he’s sitting at the end of the bed. Stretching out his leg.

“Come on, Robby, fuck me.” You barely finish your sentence. You can feel Robby’s still hard dick entering your pussy. The stretch of him making you groan.

“Fuck,” he utters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, just what I needed.” Lowers himself across your back, beard scratching the sensitive skin above your shoulder blades. And he fucks you. Merciless.

You swear at the rough pace. “Jack, c’mon.”

“Okay. Fuck, okay.” Jack’s cock in your throat. He lets out a shuddering breath at the wet warmth of your mouth. It feels heavenly.

You’re choking on the pace that he sets. The thread of control he had snapping as he chases his release without consideration to you. It’s not a thing that occurs. Ever. The both of them, rutting into you without paying heed to your pleasure.

It’s—

Fuck. You can’t think.

Jack doesn’t last long. Shoves your head down onto him as he comes. Your throat working around his cock as you swallow his release.

Then, Robby groans, the only warning you have before he comes again. You can feel his cock jerking inside. He keeps going, an unchanging, unrelenting pace.

Jack’s hand releases you. You come up, gasping for breath.

“Oh fuck,” Robby whines. Fucking whines.

It’s—ridiculously hot. “Jesus Christ,” you manage. Your hand dropping below you, rubbing your clit.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Come for me, that’s it. Let me feel you,” Robby says.

“Fucking hell, Robby.”

“This is turning you on, isn’t it? Just being used like this? Both of us filling you up. ’S what you were made for, baby. To take my fucking—” Robby’s words tapers into a groan as he comes again.

He keeps fucking you until you’re gasping around the fluttering in your stomach. The coiling pressure building until it breaks. You’re coming, and he keeps going.

“Oh my God, Robby, fuck, fuck.” Your hand falling away from your body. Fingers curling into the sheets. “Oh fuck, oh—ah, Robby.”

You’re clenching around him so hard that he slips out of you.

You’re drawing in throaty breaths. Foolishly thinking you’ve been granted a reprieve.

Jack folds you against his chest. “Come on, baby.” Kisses your temple, then your cheek. Your nose.

“I know,” he says, when you let out a noise that’s almost a complaint.

Jack lays back against the bed. Hands on your waist, seating you on top of him. Tugging so your face rests against the curve of his chest as you catch your breath. Jack enters you, an easy slide with Robby’s come providing lubrication.

And then.

Robby.

The head of his cock lining up against your already full cunt.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat. “Fuck. Fuck, I—”

“It’s okay, baby. Breathe. Deep breaths, honey,” Jack reassures.

He thumbs your chin up. Kisses you. “Relax. We’ve got you.” Distracts you with his fingers against your clit. Rubbing while he intermittently thrusts up into you.

Your forehead falling against his pec. You can feel Robby patting your waist soothingly. “You’re—mmph, fuck.”

Robby aligns himself.

“Big stretch, honey.” Jack guides your face out from hiding, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him.

You feel overheated. Robby nudges himself in. Breaching your hole. The absolute stretch of him along with Jack. Slowly but surely.

You let out a hiss of breath, and Jack’s hips roll up into you. Heartbeat stuttering. Fingers digging into the meat of his arm.

“Fucking hell,” Jack huffs.

“Almost there,” Robby promises. Pushing. Chest to your back, beard against your skin. Pressing kisses to your shoulders. “You’re doing so well, baby. Just a little more.”

It’s a lie. You know it’s a lie. There’s no little more to it. Robby’s barely inside you.

It’s tortuous. Divine. You feel like you’re being split open. “Robby,” you whimper.

“I know. Fuck, I know, honey.”

You can feel the push of each centimetre. The dribbling of Robby’s come providing more slick. The eventual sheathing of his cock. A snug fit. You can feel them in your stomach. Tightening, nowhere to go.

“There we are,” Robby says. A muffled groan against the back of your shoulder. “Fuck, you feel that?” Fingers sweeping, down to where they’re both inside of you. “Both of us inside you?”

Jack swears.

You whimper.

“Yeah, I can feel Jack too,” Robby says. His voice is low. Absolutely delirious with need.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack rasps.

“’M gonna move now.”

You cry, nodding. A pathetic sound of agreement before Robby moves.

Jack’s bruising grip on your thighs. Robby bearing down on you. Squished between the both of them, forehead against Jack’s chest. Jack’s moving too, thrusting up while Robby fucks into you. You can hear them above you—kissing. Exchanging air. That tightening in your stomach again.

“Fuck,” Jack breathes. “Y’gonna come, baby?”

“Uh huh,” you slur out. Pressed between them. You feel heady. Briefly wondering if cross-contamination can be a thing with this drug. “Jack,” you hiccup.

“Yeah, baby, just let it happen. Robby’s fucking us good, isn’t he?”

You nod, breath hitching.

The sudden release. Snapping inside. You moan, wordless. Nonsensical noises punched out of you. Jack, mercifully, stops moving. Hands on your thighs, holding you in place as your walls clench. But Robby—he grunts, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he continues fucking into you.

You’re whining. Everything bordering on too much. “Robby.”

“One more, please, one more,” Robby begs.

Another lie. You know it. “Okay,” you mewl, regardless.

And Robby ruts into you until he’s coming. Jack following. You can feel the both of them inside of you. You know that Robby is still not done. The drug remains present in his system.

“Fuck,” you huff. “Too much. Jack, ’s too much, I can’t—”

“Okay. Okay, I got you, baby. Shh, it’s okay.” Between your combined efforts, you somehow get Robby off of you. Both of their cocks sliding out. You’re gasping at the emptiness. The way their cum oozes out of you.

Robby paws at you. “No, I need—”

“It’s okay. Not going anywhere.” You adjust, kissing him. Drawing him towards you. Until Jack’s in your space, and you slip out from between them.

Robby’s on Jack, kissing him instead.

“Alright, I got you, big boy,” Jack says.

Fuck. You have a feeling you’re going to be here for the whole night shift.

[skymouth]

if i write smth without my usual filthy smut in it, will you promise to still love and support me or are we all too horny for that

[skymouth]

first date — jack abbot x reader

A first date gone wrong. Then right?

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader Word count: 0.7k+ Tags: Reader is wearing a dress Notes: i saw this reel and couldn’t stop thinking about jack abbot doing this, so. here we are

Your date lays a hand over the check book. “Are you coming back to mine or are we going back to yours?” he asks.

“I’m—sorry?” You’re blinking at him.

“Before I pay. Are we going to mine or yours?”

“I’m—I was planning on going home.”

“So we’re going to yours?”

“I’m going on my own.”

“Why would I pay for you if we’re not going to go back together?”

You can hear the underlying question. It’s not about going back together. It’s about him being able to sleep with you. He’ll pay the check only on the condition that you’ll give up your body to him.

“That wasn’t ever my intention for today. We’re just getting to know each other.” You met him on a dating app. Exchanged social media to continue messaging each other for a week. Set up a first date for tonight.

He’s becoming annoyed. “What’s the point, then?”

You grab the check book, skimming to the total at the bottom. “Seriously?” Eyes back up to him. “All this over $130? If you’re that broke, you can just say that, instead of being this dramatic.”

“I’m not the one being dramatic—”

“Whatever. I can pay for it.” You take out your purse. Unfortunately, the restaurant doesn’t offer splitting the bill. You don’t like the idea of paying for him, but you don’t want to pester him into paying back his half. That means keeping in contact with him after you leave this restaurant, and you’d rather never see him again.

You dig for your card, ignoring whatever tirade he’s on.

“I’m just saying, if you just come back to mine, I can pay for it,” he says.

You roll your eyes, card between your fingers. Flagging down a passing waiter as you pick up the check book again. “Can I pay, please?”

“Oh. Everything’s already been paid for,” the waiter says, smiling kindly.

You frown. “But we…”

“The table over there.” They gesture. Not directly next to you, but one over. The table between you two have since vacated.

There sits two older men. Both are attractive. One has dark hair and a beard, greys scattered through. The other has grey curls, stubble on his face. Watching your table intently.

“Oh,” you breathe out. You mouth a thank you to them, feeling embarrassed.

They raise their champagne flutes to you, toasting wordlessly.

Your attention on the waiter again. “Thank you.” They take the check book as they leave.

“You can still come back to mine,” your date says, like he’s granting you a gift.

“We’re done, actually.” You stand up. You feel colder now, goosebumps prickling your arms. Yes, you might have dolled yourself up in a dress that didn’t exactly have a back, but the intention was to make an impression, not sleep with him.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” You grab your jacket that’s draped over the back of your chair. Slipping it on. “You really think I’d want to sleep with you after that?”

“Whatever. You’re not hot enough to be acting like this.”

“Great. So now you’re the loser that asked a ‘not hot’ person out on a date and couldn’t even pay for it. Real alpha move of you, buddy.”

You walk away in the middle of whatever he’s saying. Approaching the table with the two men. “Thank you,” you tell them.

The dark haired one shakes his head. “Not a problem.”

“First date?” Grey curls asks.

“Um—yeah. Obviously, didn’t go so well.”

“His idea or yours?”

“His.”

Grey curls tuts, shaking his head. “Can’t believe this counts as dating these days.”

“You got a ride home?” dark haired man asks.

“Yeah. I’ll probably take an Uber.”

Grey curls frowns. “An Uber?”

“Well. My ride left.”

“We can take you.”

“No offence but I’m not getting into a car with two strange men. Even if they were nice enough to pity pay for my dinner.”

Grey curls inclines his head. “That’s fair.”

“Smart move,” dark hair man says.

“Can I ask for a favour?”

“What?” you ask, cautious.

“Can I at least give you my number so that I’ll know when you get home safe?”

You blink. He looks back, steady. You have no idea what prompts you to agree, but you do. Unlocking and passing your phone to him, dial pad already on the screen.

“Thank you,” he says, and he sounds genuinely grateful.

You look at the other man. “Do you need a text too?”

The other man snorts, shaking his head. “Nope. Get home safe, kiddo.”

You call yourself an Uber as you leave. Staring down at the new contact while you wait. Jack.

[skymouth]

☆ put this star into the inbox of your favourite blogs - it's time to spread positivity!

Love,

inkdippedquills

I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!

[skymouth]

Nobody asked but a little blurb for the sub!reader and soft Dom Jack Abbot verse where you attempt to take control at least (1) time.

You get it in your head that you want to make it just as good for Jack as he makes it good for you. Similar to the first time you had spent together, you climb into his lap but refuse him any attempts at touching you.

“I want to do this for you,” you say.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Jack knows how this is going to go but he lets it happen. He’s more amused than anything else.

And when you sink down on his cock, he has to fight everything in him to keep his hands to himself. You asked to do this one thing for him. The least he can do is put in the effort. For you.

You try. Of course you try. The slow up-down movements as you ride him. The little moans you let out. The fixation on the grunts you hear from him.

“Baby,” Jack groans, fingers curling into fists to stop himself from grabbing you. That tether of control is a tight line.

“Feels good,” you tell him.

And he chuckles, because you had said this was supposed to be about him. “Yeah? You getting what you need from me?”

“Ah, mhm, yes.” You get a little lost, a little cock drunk with him inside you. You bury your face against the crook of his neck and start whining because he’s not touching you.

“Jack,” you complain. Like this isn’t a consequence of your own desires.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Need more.”

You feel the rumble in Jack’s chest as he laughs, not unkindly. Enamoured. Incredulous. “Yeah? You want me to take over now?”

As soon as you utter the confirmation, his arms are tight around you, pulling you down into the seat of his lap as he fucks up into you.

You’re crying with relief. Content with his control. Why did you ever think otherwise?

Jack kisses along your jaw. “You’re ridiculous, baby.” The tender tone softens his words. “It’s my job to take care of you. And it’s your job to take what I give. You got that?”

You’re nodding against him, frantic. “Yes. Yes yes, yes.”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Come on my cock. I know you need to. Soon as you had me inside you, it’s all you wanted. I know you tried, baby, but this—fuuuck—this is how it’s meant to be.” Jack’s hand slipping between your bodies, providing that extra stimulation.

You’re coming before you know it. Tightening, walls convulsing around him.

“There you go. Isn’t that better?” Nosing along your cheek.

“Yeah. Yes.”

And it’s the last time you tried something like that.

[skymouth]

teehee indeed!!!! in my head, he can’t be mean when he’s in love. he’s definitely a ‘take care of you’ dom than a ‘punish you’ one.

[skymouth]

sunlight all around — rabbot x reader

You asked Jack for everything. That includes Robby.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Reader x Michael Robinavitch (Rabbot x Reader) Word count: 15.3k+ Tags: Dom/sub; BDSM; Threesome; NSFW Content (Thigh riding; Fingering; Sex Toys; Sexual overstimulation; P in V sex; Oral sex; Blindfold; Restraints); AFAB reader; Strangulation; Slut-shaming language; Dom Jack Abbot; Dom Michael Robinavitch. Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou. Notes: title from hadestown’s all i’ve ever known.

Cross posted to AO3.

Part 1 | Blurb 1 | Part 2 | Blurb 2 | Series tag.

When you wake, it’s to your alarm.

An immediate jolt of your body. You stretch to fumble for your phone, faltering at the arm around your waist.

“Turn it off.” Jack’s gruff voice behind you. Face buried into your back.

Oh. Oh, last night happened. Last night was definitely real.

“We’ve got work,” you say, voice thickened with sleep, sliding the alarm off from your phone.

“I called us out.”

You pause. “When?”

“Last night. I forgot that you probably had an alarm.”

You rub your eyes, blearily staring at a message from Lena that tells you to take it easy and to reach out if you need anything else.

“C’mere.” His breath fanning across your back.

You can’t help the shiver that runs through you at the sensation. Phone placed flipped down, turning around to face him. “Thank you.”

He hums.

“But don’t manage my schedule without consulting me first,” you say. “Please.”

Jack blinks at you. You both know the added Please is just to appear polite. “Okay,” he relents.

“Thank you.” Shuffling into him, your eyes drifting shut again.

The next time you wake, you’re riding his thigh. You don’t even remember if you had been dreaming or not. Just that you’re awake, chasing your pleasure. Fuck. This is embarrassing.

“Uh uh, baby.” Jack’s awake. Was woken up by you grinding yourself against his thigh. It took everything in him not to get himself inside you while you were asleep.

This feels doubly embarrassing for you. He’s witnessed you acting like a teenager with a wet dream.

“Don’t stop just because you woke up.” And his hand grips your hip, dragging you up his thigh. He pushes his knee in closer.

Your forehead thumps against his chest. Moaning. “Jack.”

His fingers nudging your underwear aside, smearing your slick along his fingers. Catching your clit.

You buck up, whining. Sensitive, still. From last night. Yesterday. Whatever time of day it was. Night shift has long altered the way you perceive time.

“Three wasn’t enough for you, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “You need more than that? I’m not taking care of my baby, is that it?” Two fingers sliding inside of you.

You muffle your gasp into his sternum. “No,” you keen. “You do.” Pushing yourself closer to him. Like you want to crawl behind his ribcage, insert yourself right next to his heart. “You do.” You can’t have him thinking less of himself. The problem is you, it’s always you. Too needy. Too much.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay, honey. I’m not mad,” Jack says. His thumb against your clit. Rubbing. “Just take what you need.”

Tears in your eyes, fucking yourself into his fingers. It feels good. Too good. Your clit still feels sensitive. “Hurts,” you whine.

“Yeah? You want to stop?”

“No.” Mouthing at his skin, along his collarbone. A hand gripping his bicep.

“You still want to come?”

“Yes,” you utter. “Please.”

“Yeah, of course you do. Just sleeping next to me made you so horny you started humping my leg in your sleep, huh? Couldn’t even let me fucking rest. You wanted this, baby. Show me what you wanted to take from me.”

You could combust into flames, with the way he’s talking, the way he’s making you feel. Fire broiling beneath your skin. Exhaled with the moans you release.

Your orgasm crashes into you. Body shuddering, soft little ah, ah, Jack, ah, please emitted. Your arm hooked around his shoulder, riding his hand. Down on his fingers, up into his thumb.

“Fuck,” Jack groans. Lazy kisses along your jawline, his other hand against the crown of your scalp, angling your head back. His fingers still moving. “God, you’re so perfect.”

Trembling with the overstimulation. High pitched whimpers escaping from your throat. Tears leaking.

“Too much?”

You nod. Make a complaining noise, unable to speak.

“Okay, baby.” Shuffling closer to kiss you, lips on yours as he slides his fingers out. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” Murmuring. Shifting back down.

“Don’t go.” Words pressed against his neck, into his carotid.

“Never.” A promise woven between the two of you, legs tangled together.

Jack keeps staring at you.

The confines of your apartment walls, a meal shared during the sunlight hours after yesterday.

You’re both on your couch. It’s not a large one, but still big enough that you can occupy the opposite ends with your feet in his lap.

You put down the book you’re reading, looking up at him. His focus on you.

“What?” he asks.

“That’s my question to you.”

“You’re staring.”

“So are you. You’ve been staring since we woke up.”

“I can’t look at you?”

Despite the way you were completely exposed to him yesterday, you get shy at his question. Looking away, teeth sinking into your lower lip as your face scrunches, a smile that you don’t sanction stretching across your lips.

Jack studies you, grinning. “Getting shy?”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

His eyes are like fire when they’re trained on you. “So talk.”

“I… hm. You gotta stop looking at me like that.”

A sly smile on his face. Definitely aware of his effect. “C’mere.” Straightening up, hand rubbing up your ankle.

You place the book on the rug below, crawling across the couch to decrease the space. Perch yourself in his lap. Palms to his face, cradling. His attached to the side of your thighs. You’re both quiet, studying each other. “You keep looking at me like you want to say something.”

Jack slides one of his hands to one of yours, angling his head to kiss your palm. Somehow you knew him well enough to know that about him. “You were out of it, but… you said you love me. Yesterday.”

You smile, a small thing. “I do. I’m not expecting you to say it back. I know it’s complicated, um—with you being a widower.”

Jack forehead creases. “I was—”

“It’s okay.”

“But I—”

You lean in to kiss him. Maybe because you want him to understand that you don’t have the expectation. Maybe because you don’t want to feel like him saying it is merely an obligation to respond, just because you said it first.

“It’s okay,” you say. Bumping you nose against his. “I mean it. Please don’t say it yet.”

Jack frowns. “Okay,” he says. The obvious answer, simply because you asked. And he will give into you, time and time again.

Nothing changes.

At work, that is. Outwardly.

You’re still professional, maintaining an invisible degree of separation.

If Jack looks at you and thinks about the noises he knows you make; the way you become eager and desperate for him; the way you submit for him; and is a little heavy handed with the praises just to see you squirm? Well. That’s only for him to know.

And for him to deal with, after your shared shifts are done. In the privacy of his or your bedroom walls.

In the wake of Jack taking a day off for you, you’re told you’ll be shunted with a double shift—starting with the day shift, then staying for your regularly scheduled night.

Weeks later, they finally cash it in. You should have known the rare weekend off was too good to be true. 48 hours off just to body-slam you with 24 hours on. Whoever managed the schedules had a sense of humour that rivalled the wishes made to a monkey’s paw.

You come in half an hour before shift change. Part of it is to ensure you get to see night shift. The other part of it is to maintain a good relationship with the day shifters. There’s only been a few occasions where you work with them. Most often than not, it’s an outstanding MCI. During those times, the last thing on your mind was a good impression.

“You better be in one piece when I come back,” Lena says, winking at you.

You can’t help the laugh. “Of course I will be.”

Dana grins. “Day shift has less wild patients. We’ll be fine.”

“20 bucks,” you say. “20 bucks to Dana if I’m in one piece by the time night shift gets back.”

“Deal.”

“You betcha.”

A handshake between the two charge nurses. You’re both the bet objective and witness. You make yourself scarce as they hand-off their duties.

“Here you go.” Dr Shen gifts you an iced coffee.

Your mouth drops opened. Regardless of how many times you’ve wheedled the attending for one, his Dunkin traditions remain a solo thing. “For me?”

“Quit making it a big deal before I take it back.”

“Wait, no take backs.” You grab the cup.

“Good luck. You’re repping night shift today.”

You almost feel like a kid being dropped off at school. “With you running things? I don’t think we have much of a reputation.”

Shen makes a face. “I’m taking the coffee—”

“No take backs!” You scamper away. Or, at least, try to. A two person collision, resulting in a firm hand gripping your shoulder to steady you.

“Careful—”

A sucked in gasp. “I’m so sorry, Dr Robby.” Thankfully, whatever coffee deity exists has deemed you worthy enough that the beverage hasn’t splashed onto him. You think you could die from mortification if it did.

“Just as I was talking about repping the night shift,” Shen mutters, assumedly under his breath, but it ends up being loud enough for you to hear.

Robby eyes your drink, then his attention flickers between the two of you. He shakes his head. “There cannot be two of you.”

“Of course not,” you say, quick, before Shen can impose whatever untruths he considers necessary. “I’m nothing like Dr Shen. You can actually rely on me, Dr Robby, sir.”

“Remind me to never do anything good for you, ever again,” Shen says, scowling. Evidently, you’ve never heard of the saying ‘never bite the hand that feeds you’.

You press your lips into a line, trying not to giggle. You make the mistake of meeting Robby’s gaze, who looks like he, too, is fighting a losing battle to mirth.

There are two of you. He doesn’t know how Jack does it. He can already feel the beginnings of a headache, and he hasn’t even officially started yet. Hell, Shen is meant to be going home soon. He shakes his head.

“Hey, there you are.” Parker rescuing you from the testosterone party at Central. An arm hooked around your shoulders, a quick greeting to Dr Robby before she waylays you. “I know we’re going to do hand-offs soon, but I’ve got a kid in Central 11. I really need your touch in there.”

“Yeah, of course. You got it, Dr Ellis.”

“Thank you.” She takes note of the iced coffee, grinning. “Shen was missing you today. We all did.”

“I’ll be back with you guys in 12 hours.”

“Is this your first 24?”

“First full 24.” You’ve done less hours before. Unscheduled overtime that saw you doing 18 hour days, sometimes. Woes of working in a hospital.

“Good luck. Have fun. But remember you’re stuck with us, not them.”

“Oh really, us and them?” McKay sidling up to the conversation, raising an eyebrow at Parker.

“You can’t poach our nurses,” Parker says.

“Don’t act like you guys aren’t trying to poach Mohan and Santos.”

“No comment.”

McKay turns to you.

You silently mime zipping your lips. You’re sworn into silence.

“This is why we don’t like night shift.”

“Hey,” both you and Parker protest.

McKay only laughs. “Alright, you can head out, Parker. We’ll take care of the stray.”

Parker salutes the both of you before she heads for the break room.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just haven’t pulled a 24 yet. They’re just making sure I’m good for it.”

McKay gives you a look that says she means more than just today. The last minute day off that Dr Abbot had taken had circulated the rumour mill around the Pitt. Time is the only thing that buried it.

But the way that McKay looks at you—it’s like she remembers that she had missed seeing you during that shift change. People had been so preoccupied with Dr Abbot that they forgot about the night shift nurses—the absent one, and a worried charge nurse.

“If you ever need to talk to someone,” she trails off.

“Thank you,” you say, because it’s easier than telling her that you would rather not. Jack finding out had been embarrassing enough. You were lucky that he was him. That you were you. That it worked out for the both of you.

As if sensing your unwillingness to talk, McKay squeezes your shoulder before she walks away. “I’m in chairs if you need me.”

“Got it, Dr McKay.” You take yourself back to Central. You try not to make in abundantly obvious that you notice Jack there. Arms crossed talking in low tones with Robby.

Jack sends you a lingering, sidelong look that you pretend doesn’t make you shiver. A slow tilt of his head towards the break room, an eyebrow raised. A silent request. And like all his requests, you obey. You make your way there. Busy yourself with washing the dishes dumped in the sink. Not technically your job, but it keeps your hands occupied.

Two minutes later, Jack’s in the break room, the door closing behind him.

Robby doesn’t know what compels him to follow, waiting until Jack’s no longer paying attention to him.

“Just take care of him like you would me,” Jack says.

Robby’s creeping. He knows. He doesn’t hear you say anything, but you must reply with a look, because Jack laughs. It’s something soft and fond. Not a sound he usually hears inside the walls of the Pitt.

“Alright. Maybe not.” Then he snorts. “Not unless he wants to.”

“Unless he—what?” you ask.

Jack hums.

From the sliver of opening, Robby sees Jack lean in close to you. Oh. Jack’s kissing you. Pieces falling into place. The long story that Jack never really told him in full. The day off he had taken. The only explanation he provided to Robby was that something’s wrong with one of my nurses.

It was you, all those weeks ago.

Really, Robby should have known. Jack’s ambience in the Pitt changed, not a drastic one, but something that usually followed in the wake of one of those nights. Sometimes Robby found Jack a willing partner when he noticed that the other attending was in his own head; sometimes they were each other’s fulfilment. It’s been a long friendship, the two of them. There was very little that wasn’t shared between them.

And yet, not a word about this.

Interesting.

Robby walks away before anyone starts to get suspicious of his presence outside the closed break room.

The thing about scrub change during night shift is they don’t get the luxury of taking time. Not like the day shift. And especially not between the heathen hours of midnight to 3 AM. Those three hours are always filled with intoxicated people, alcohol poisoning, and an abundance of vomit and blood.

With a smaller pool of staff, Jack has forgone squirrelling away into a bathroom for scrub change. It’s not an enacted rule, per se, but when every one of his doctors are balancing a higher volume of patients and fluids, it’s hard to spare the extra ten minutes to change clothes, get the new scrubs, then change again in a bathroom.

It’s something that the rest of the night shift has also adopted. Shen, Parker, Tim, Bridget. Lena, in the rare occasions that she leaves her station at the Central desk. All the other nurses and doctors that you work with.

It had taken you a while to get used to it. You didn’t have the years of familiarity when you first joined. But it had been one of those nights. A toddler crying so forcefully they made themselves sick. A man found unconscious in his home, and the first thing he did upon waking was expel the contents of his stomach. A woman with an arterial bleed.

“Scrub change!” you called out to Lena. She waves you off. As long as Lena knows where everyone is, the department will run smoothly. It was one of the first things you learned when starting. Tell Nurse Lena everything. She’ll take care of it.

Usually you’d change in the bathroom. But. You can hear how the night is getting to everyone. Even in the quick way that Lena waved to acknowledge you, hair plastered to her forehead.

You don’t have time. You need to get back out there.

You’re stripped down, goosebumps across your skin. Old scrubs in. Waiting for your new ones.

And that’s how Jack finds you. Directed towards the scrub machine by Lena when he asked for an extra pair of hands. He knows that his new staff are a little more uncertain about changing right in front of the machine. So he’s expecting to find you there clothed.

He says your name. “I need—”

“One sec.” Hopping with a knee bent, sliding into your pants. The top pulled on after. “Yes, sir?”

Jack’s looking away, jaw set. It’s not the first time he’s seen his staff out here. But it’s the first time he’s seen you. He had no idea you had any tattoos. Scratch that—why the fuck would he need to know that about you?

“Need you in Trauma 2,” he says, eventually.

“You got it, Dr Abbot.”

So.

Night shift scrub change. Different from day shift. A fact you forget after helping Dr Whitaker with an arterial bleed.

“Whoa!” Dana’s the one that drapes a spare patient gown over you.

“What—?” You blink at her.

She blinks at you.

“This isn’t night shift,” you breathe out your realisation.

“This isn’t night shift,” Dana agrees.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” a new voice. Crap. “If I had a body like that, I’d show it off too.”

“Thank you, Myrna.” You flee into the bathroom. Fucking hell. So much for not embarrassing yourself in front of the day shift. Donning the patient gown, you’re back at scrub change, waiting for the new set of scrubs. It already feels like a longer process. You’d already be in new ones at this point. Jack was definitely onto something when he made the decision.

New scrubs obtained, then back into the bathroom to change. Patient gown discarded.

“So, when you guys are trying to talk me into joining nights,” Santos’ voice, walking alongside you to Central. “Is this what I have to look forward to? A free show?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You saw that?”

“Oh, come on, who didn’t?” she says, cackling at the groan you let out.

“It’s just faster,” you try to defend. You’re at Central, eyeing the board above you.

“Fucking Jack,” you hear Robby mutter under his breath. He’s sliding his phone into his back pocket, leaning over the computer.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, shuffling closer to him. You think you’d bury yourself if an authority figure was mad at you. “Please don’t take me to HR.”

Robby shakes his head. It’s already happened a number of times when any night shift staff had to do a stint during the day. Jack Abbot remains the bane of his existence. “No HR. Just try not to let it happen again.”

“Yes, sir.” You don’t notice the way he looks at you at that.

He’s thinking, probably too much, about things he shouldn’t be ruminating on. The way you are with Jack. The dynamic you share. If any of that obedient yes sirs make their way into it.

“There’s a head lac in North 3,” Robby says, instead.

You look at Santos.

“Hell yeah,” Santos grins.

You follow her in there.

An Anna Morales. Late 20s, will probably need stitches. An accident that she’s being vague about. She didn’t want to deal with the cost of an ambulance, so her boyfriend drove her to the PTMC. When he realised there was going to a wait, he told her he’d go home and wait for her call if she ever got into the ER. She had just called him a few minutes ago when McKay got her through chairs.

A stellar review of a boyfriend that has you and Santos trading judgemental looks.

“Hey, they told me to find you in… here.”

You had already been stepping aside when the door opened.

Turning towards the newcomer.

Oh. Shit.

The boyfriend.

You recognise him. Kevin N. Early 30s. Pictures on an app. Four months of talking, of dates. Then a Saturday when you decided to take the leap. To put trust into him. And he left. Ghosted you. No texts, no calls. Radio silence.

Santos says your name, a little too annoyed for it to be the first time.

“Yes, sorry.” You busy yourself with setting up a tray with the tools she needs. Sterilised and clean tools. Avoiding the way Kevin looks at you as he takes a seat by the bed. By Anna.

You try not to throw up while you help Santos. Hoping that she’ll dismiss you as soon as she doesn’t need you anymore.

Santos keeps up a steady stream of conversation as she works. Her bedside manners have come a long way since she first started. You chime in every now and then. But you know you’re not as engaged as you usually are. Your skin’s crawling every time you feel Kevin’s gaze on you.

“Excuse me,” you say. Your tether’s cut short. You exit the room, shutting the door behind you. Technically, there’s no need for you and Santos to both be in there.

You’re heaving as you escape into the restroom. Your first instinct is to call Jack. You make it to the third ring before you hang up. Feel the static in your head as you watch his contact light up the phone screen. You slide to decline the call.

Sent: sorry was just missing you Jack: It’s okay. I have time to take your call. Sent: don’t worry about it. just got busy. sorry Jack: I miss you too, sweetheart.

Breathe. In and out. You pocket your phone and head to the break room next door. You know that caffeine would only increase the shaking, but you don’t think you can afford something that’s supposed to help you relax. You’d only fall asleep. You’re not even halfway through your 24 hours yet.

The door opens as you’re waiting for the coffee.

Robby steps through. “You alright, kid?” Though he knows he has a tendency to pull long hours, he knows how tough a 24 hour shift can be. They don’t get assigned often. And when they do, the attendings and charge nurses are always alerted.

You paste on a grin, nodding. Attempt to ignore the thudding in your chest. “Hanging in there.”

“You need anything?”

You take a sip from your mug. “Real coffee.” The break room’s sludge tastes like coffee-flavoured water. Even paling in comparison to the iced coffee that Shen had gotten you. And that was finished hours ago.

The corner of Robby’s lips twitch upwards. “And you say you’re nothing like Dr Shen.”

“Wait—no. No, I didn’t mean it like that.” This is easy to fall into. A little ribbing. Not thinking about the patient and her boyfriend that you just left with Santos.

Robby grins a little more openly. “You know, you can talk to me if you need anything, right?”

“I know. Thank you, Dr Robby.” Again, it’s easier to thank the generosity than dismiss them altogether. Something you’ve learned from dealing with people that you know mean well.

“You don’t have to wait for Jack.”

Your gaze snapped onto the attending, trying to swallow past the thick thing in your throat. “Um—I’m just. Used to working with the night crew.” Not quite a lie, not quite the truth either. You know Robby’s prodding, but you’re not sure what for. You can’t exactly deny that you’d rather have these talks with Jack—you’ve been working with him for two years, now. It would make sense that you’d trust him more than the day shift attending.

“I know he told you to take care of me.”

Oh shit. Jack said that in the break room when it was the two of you, alone. And unless Jack later relayed that to Robby within their own conversations you weren’t privy to, Robby wasn’t meant to know that. You remain frozen.

“But you also need to take care of yourself,” Robby says.

You blink. You have no idea where he’s trying to lead this discussion. “I’m—I’m okay.”

“You seem stressed.”

“I’ve still got 15 hours left on my shift.”

Robby nods, but remains unconvinced by your words. “Hey.” And his hand lays heavy on your shoulder.

The weight of it stills you, eyebrows creasing as you peer up at him. Waiting. He probably has some kind of wisdom he wants to impart onto you.

But he stays silent. Breathing. You don’t realise you’re matching it until your face eventually smooths out.

His thumb drifting, rubbing up and down over the juncture where shoulder meets neck. “Relax,” he murmurs.

And you can’t resist the way your eyelids flicker shut in response. To his touch. The tone of his voice.

“Good,” he whispers.

You don’t realise you’re swaying into him until you feel his solid chest against you. Feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Letting out a noise. Half complaining, half comforted.

“There you go.” Low tones. Soft. Talking you down from trembles that you hadn’t even noticed have wracked your frame. “I know something’s got you stressed out. I just want to take care of you like Jack would.”

The mention of Jack’s name is like cold water dumped on you. Sobering. You suck in a breath and draw away from Robby. Blinking wildly. “I—um—I have—I have to go.”

“It’s okay—”

But you’ve already left the break room.

Robby sighs, taking out his phone to send off another text to Jack.

It’s still not shift change yet. Guilt is a heavy thing in your chest, and what was once you looking forward to it, turns into dread.

You have to tell Jack what happened with Robby, even if you don’t fully understand what exactly transpired. It just felt comforting.

You’re bypassing dispatch to head towards the stairwell. You don’t realise you don’t hear the door close behind you.

You need a breather, and you’re kind of apprehensive of heading to the usual places. Robby might be there. Not to mention, Kevin and Anna are in the ED.

“Hey.”

You pivot, fast. Not having expecting anyone to follow you out. Much less…

“Kevin,” you say. Swallow thickly.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says. He’s approaching like you’re a cornered animal.

Maybe you are. Your eyes flicker to the door behind him. The stairs present another way out.

“I wanted to apologise.”

“Right now? While I’m at work?” You can’t help baring your teeth.

“You haven’t been making it easy for me.”

You blink. “You ghosted me.”

Kevin drops his head into a nod. “Yeah. And I’m apologising for it.”

You still haven’t heard him say the word ‘sorry’. “I’m not going to say anything to Anna, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s water under the bridge at this point.” Part of you wants to laugh. Him being an asshole to the nth degree landed you right into Jack’s arms.

“Water under the bridge?” Nose flaring. Jaw ticking.

“Yeah. It’s fine. I’ve moved passed it.”

“Moved passed—?” Scoffing, lips forming a scowl. “Moved passed it? Passed me?”

“You left. It’s been weeks. And clearly, you’ve moved on too.”

He shoves you backwards.

Stumbling, your head colliding into the wall behind you. Starbursts of white flashing across your vision. “Ow, what—?!”

An arm barred across your chest. “You do not get to move on—”

Trying to push at him. “Get off of—”

“Shut up. You fucking bitch.” His fingers around your throat. Cinching, pushing on top of your trachea. Fingers and thumb digging into the flesh on the sides. “You don’t get to fucking move on from me.”

You try to kick, fists furling, punching at his arms. Shoulders. Anywhere you can make contact.

“Stop fucking struggling. You like being choked. You want this, you fucking slut.”

Stars dancing in your vision. Unable to get air in.

“Hey—oh, fuck—!” A voice breaking through the ringing in your ears.

“We need security out here!” Another voice.

A blur of movement. The weight forcibly removed from you. You slide down the wall, hacking out coughs. Inhaling lungfuls of air.

“Holy shit. Are you okay?” Whitaker kneels in front of you, crowding into your space. Fingers going for your neck.

You shy away from him.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. But I really need to check on you.”

“What the hell happened?” Another person.

“I got him!”

Blinking, looking over Whitaker’s shoulder, down the hall to see Santos on Kevin. He’s face down, trying to wriggle out from whatever hold Santos has whilst she’s perched on him.

You see Mike move towards them. Cuffing Kevin. He yells something.

“Come on, let’s get you up.” Whitaker helps you stand. You don’t know what it is that makes you feel unsteady on your own feet. Adrenaline. Fear. A previous lack of air. Something else. But you’re grateful for the support he provides.

Santos pushes the door open. “Dr Robby!”

“We need an empty room!” Whitaker calls out. He has one arm around you, helping you walk.

“Six is opened!” Dana relays.

“Holy shit, what happened?” Princess follows you in.

“Mike has him,” Santos says. She’s gloving up. “Fucking asshole was choking—”

“What the hell?” Robby.

There’s too much happening.

Princess shines a light into your eyes, checking your pupils. Lifting your eyelids. “Robby.”

His arms are crossed, watching them mill around. Steps in closer at Princess’ alert. “Subconjunctival hemorrhaging,” he murmurs.

The flashlight blessedly clicked off.

Princess holds out a finger, making you track her movements.

When she’s done, Santos elbows Whitaker out of the way, gingerly tilting your head back to inspect your neck. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

You nod.

“Hurt to swallow?”

You swallow. Nod again.

“What about talking?”

You take a second. “I think—hurts,” you wheeze, wincing.

“Did you lose consciousness?”

You’re caught between shaking your head and nodding.

“Vision went fuzzy?”

You nod again. Thank God for Santos. She’s questioning in a way that allows you not to speak. She’s going to be a great doctor, you think, even if she decides her future is outside the walls of the Pitt.

You raise a hand. Guide it to the back of your head.

“You hit your head?” she asks.

You confirm.

“We need a CTA. Let’s keep this room for observation,” Robby says. “Minimum six hours. You know the protocol.” And this, he directs to you.

You dip your head. There goes the rest of your 24 hours shift.

Whitaker’s across from Santos on the other side of the bed. Checking the back of your head. “No bleeding.” Fingers on your scalp, palpating.

You flinch.

“Responsive to pain. A little tenderness but no lacerations. That’s good news, right?” His gaze flickers from Robby, then to Santos.

“We’ll wait for the scans,” Robby says. No false hope.

Whitaker presses his lips into a line, as if attempting to give you a reassuring look.

He, Princess, and Santos make themselves scarce.

Robby lingers in the room, sitting on the stool beside the bed. “I called Jack,” he says eventually.

You look at him.

“We both know I had to. He’s already on his way.”

You shoot him a tired thumbs up.

Silent, again. Then, Robby huffs out a chuckle. A hand at the back of his neck, massaging. “Shit. Jack’s never going to let me borrow you for day shift again.”

You can’t help the laugh. Then you wince. “Ow,” you manage, hoarse.

“Sorry, kiddo.” A hand on your shoulder, peering at you.

Again, you can’t help the way that you seem to settle under it.

Princess reappears. “CT’s ready for us.”

Robby feigns checking the bruises around your neck. Hand moving away. “Let’s go.” Between Robby and Princess, they push your gurney to the elevator to get your scan.

By the time you’re done and returned to your comfortable prison in room six, Jack arrives. A rap of knuckles on the door, then it’s opening.

Jack’s face—his eyes on you. Face stony. “Robby,” he says, nodding at him, both a greeting and dismissal.

“Alright. See you out there.” It doesn’t take further prompting for him to leave. The curtain drawn, door closed behind him.

Jack performs the same exams that Princess, Santos, and Whitaker have done. Eyes the monitor quietly tracking your vitals—you muted it as soon as Princess hooked you up. Silent as he does so. You know there’s something brewing in his eyes, dark. The tenseness of his frame. You watch him move around. Never settling.

“Jack,” you say. Your voice is still raw.

“Don’t talk,” he says, from where he’s standing by the computer. Scrolling through your chart.

“Jack,” you croak again.

He turns, eyes hardened as he levels his gaze with yours.

“Can you just come here?”

And he does, because he has never known what it’s like to not yield before you. Crossing the room. You don’t hesitate to reach for him, grabbing his arm to pull him closer. Face buried against his broad chest as you allow yourself to finally shatter.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and pushes the guardrail to the gurney down. Removing the barrier that separates you.

The trembling of your body, held together by strong arms enveloping around you.

“Okay.” A kiss pressed to the top of your head, a hand rubbing up and down your upper arm. An understanding of what you need from him in this moment.

He’s holding you like you’re something fragile, something gentle settling in his chest. A method of soothing himself as well as you.

The tightening of his muscles ever since Robby had called him to let him know that you had gotten hurt. The way he couldn’t let himself calm down until he saw you. And even when he did see you—God, the bruises around your neck. The red spots in your eyes. Your voice still hoarse.

To hold you in his arms, reminding himself that you’re alive. Hurt, but alive. That’s what he needs, and if that’s what you need, then he will give in, tenfold. He would immolate himself to keep you warm, if you ever asked. How dangerous a love like this.

“Hey,” Jack says, and his voice is equally hoarse for a different reason. Shifts back for a moment, hands framing your face. Thumbs wiping against your wet cheeks. “Hey. Fuck. You scare the shit out of me sometimes, you know that?”

You open your mouth.

“Don’t say sorry.”

You shut your mouth.

Jack shakes his head, chuckling gruffly. Leans in to kiss you. A thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

You grab one of his hands, pulling it down. As soon as it glides past your chin, his hand attempts to slide out of yours. You hold fast.

“Baby—” he starts.

“Please,” you manage. “Please, I just want to feel you.”

He stares down at you, eyes dark. He doesn’t say anything, but you note the moment his resolve falters. The breath he releases, the way his eyelids flicker as they shut. Jack kisses you again, and his palm rests against the side of your throat. Not pressing. Not firm. Just his touch, present.

You feel yourself melt into him. His other hand on the gurney, like he’s stopping himself from grabbing onto you.

There’s a knock on the door. “It’s Robby.” The door’s opened, but he hasn’t pulled back the curtain yet.

“Yeah?” Jack pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand still on your throat, thumb brushing against your chin.

“Police are here. They need to take a statement.”

You frown. “I’m not pressing charges.”

“It’s hospital policy. NFS,” Jack reminds you.

Non-fatal strangulation. Again, it’s protocol you know from working here for two years. You never expected to be on the receiving end of it.

“Can you stay?” you ask.

“Robby can. He’s chief attending.”

Robby clears his throat. The curtain slides, metal rings clinking against each other as he pulls enough to step into the room. The curtain ruffles behind him.

You feel your heart thud wildly, like you’ve been caught.

Jack doesn’t move away.

Robby’s gaze fixes on Jack’s hand against your neck. Flickers between your deer-in-the-headlights expression, and Jack’s relaxed look angled over his shoulder. “John’s out there,” he says, instead of commenting on anything. “He can take care of things for a little bit. He knows we’re in here.”

Of course. You completely missed that night shift started. That meant Robby was officially off the clock. And Jack was meant to be working, not babysitting you.

You move back, like you’re wanting to detach yourself from his hand. “It’s—it’s okay—”

Jack turns back to you. His hand remains where it is, thumb digging lightly into the line of your jaw. “Robby said I’m good to say.”

“But—”

“I’m staying.”

Your eyes shifting to Jack, then over his shoulder to Robby, still near the curtain. Just one step into the room. “Thank you,” you say.

Robby dips his head in acknowledgement. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Your heart rate’s pretty high.”

All three of you now studying the monitor.

“Uhh,” you manage. That’s embarrassing. You feel like you’re still riding the adrenaline high from when Robby came in and Jack hadn’t moved away from you. He still hasn’t. “I just… wasn’t expecting you to come in.”

Robby snorts. “Not the most compromising situation I’ve seen him in.”

Jack just laughs. Thumb brushing against the angle of your jaw before his lips graze your temple. “Robby has a thing for watching,” he murmurs.

Your mouth drops open, frowning. “You’ve—you’ve done things together?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, casual as ever. Grins down at you before he steps away. Sinking into the stool beside the bed with a muted groan.

You have more questions that they apparently, will leave unanswered.

Robby pulls back the curtain, opening the door. “Ready for you,” he calls out.

Two police officers enter, and the room feels smaller. They introduce themselves to you. Officers Reyes and Boyd.

“This should be fairly straightforward,” Reyes says. Kind eyes, despite the years weathering her face. “A few standard questions and then we’ll be out of your hair. It’s protocol for us to respond to these situations.”

“I appreciate it, officers,” you say. You cross your arms over your chest.

Boyd flips open a notepad.

“Do you remember if you said anything to him that could have been taken as hostile? I know people can get angry about the wait times here,” Reyes begins.

Your brows knit together. “He’s not a patient,” you say. Maybe your brain is sluggish from being starved of oxygen for a few seconds, but you’re slow to realise what’s happening.

Boyd blinks up from the notepad he’s jotting in.

“He’s a visitor. He came in for a patient. In North 3.”

“Right. And what was his relation to the patient?”

“A partner. The patient’s his girlfriend, or something. This wasn’t a random—I knew him.”

And just like that, it’s out in the open. You keep your attention on the two officers, but you can see Robby shifting behind them, lax as he leans against the wall. And Jack—you don’t want to look. Because you know how smart he is. He’ll connect the dots as soon as he even has a fraction of the picture.

Conflict welling inside you. You wanted him to stay, but you also want him out of the room in this moment.

Reyes looks at you. “Are you sure you don’t want to press charges?”

“I’m sure.” A long a messy process, you think.

She sighs. “Okay. What’s your relation to him?”

“An… ex-something. It wasn’t really labelled.”

An honorary scoff from the older woman. “Dating these days.”

“And how long did you know him?” Boyd asks.

“Four months.”

A brief moment from the corner of your eye, you can tell it clicks for Jack. The quiet intake of air. The shift of the stool.

“And the last time you talked to him?” Boyd asks.

“A month or so ago, maybe,” you answer.

“So you coincidentally met him today?”

“Yes. I was helping a doctor with a patient. I wasn’t expecting to see him here.”

“Prior to this attack would you say this kind of violent behaviour is typical or atypical for him?” Reyes asks.

“Um… atypical,” you say.

Boyd flips to another page of the pad. “When you saw him today, did he say anything that could be taken as hostile?”

“No. I didn’t talk to him. He didn’t talk to me either. I figured we were going to ignore our… history because his girlfriend was in the room.”

More notes from Boyd. It kind of unnerves you, but you know it’s part of his job. “So when you finally got to talk to him…”

“I went out into the stairwell to take a break. He followed me out there. He said he wanted to… apologise for how we left things.”

“And how did you leave things?” Reyes, this time.

You give her a wry look. “I slept with him and then he ghosted me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Men,” she says, derisive. She carries herself like an auntie that you would want to gossip with, wine glass in hand.

You smile a little in response to her. “I told him it was water under the bridge and he seemed… angry at that.”

“And then he attacked you?”

“Yes. He pushed me. I stumbled. I hit the back of my head on the wall. And then he…” And your gaze fall to your hands. Absentmindedly wringing your fingers. Running your nail against the pad of your thumb. “He—um—choked me.”

Reyes says your name, soft. “At any point, did you fear for your life?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, and you feel cold and small for admitting it. “I, um, I tried fighting back but I couldn’t—do anything. Against him.”

“Okay,” Reyes says, gentle.

“Did he say anything? While he was choking you. To make you think he was threatening your life?” Boyd asks.

“Um—no.”

“But he said something?” Reyes again.

“He said I should like it,” you tell her. Even though your voice carries to the other occupants of the room, you feel safer directing your words to just her. “Because I… asked him to during sex.”

Reyes is already shaking her head, even before you finish speaking. “That has no bearing on what happened—”

“Did you?” Boyd asks.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you want him to—?”

“Boyd,” Reyes warns.

Your mouth falls opened. “He tried to kill me—”

“You said he wasn’t typically violent but you were also asking him to—”

“Officer Boyd.”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Both Robby and Jack are standing. Robby already has the door opened, the noise of the ED disturbing the room again. Jack stands between you and the officers.

“I think it’s time you leave my hospital,” Robby says, curt. It registers to you that he was the one that spoke up just moments before.

“I am so sorry,” Reyes says, to you. “I will be talking to Officer Boyd after we leave.” Half to you, half as a threat to Boyd.

“Thank you, officers,” Jack says, equally short in addressing them.

Robby walks out with them, the door closing again.

You feel humiliation sear your face, clog your throat, burn your eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“No, none of that.” Jack steps into your space, curling his own fingers around yours. Stopping your blind mission of picking them apart. “Look at me.”

With tears in your eyes, you do. Frustrated and ashamed. Face tilted up at him.

Squeezing your hand. “It’s not your fault. What happened wasn’t on you. Never was, alright? Tell me you understand.”

You want to. But a splintered noise in your throat releases as you crumple. And Jack sighs something ragged; this isn’t a wound to be mended in a day, even if it’s what his hands are known to do. Too intimately familiar with the knowledge that healing isn’t linear.

Twenty minutes after the police had left, Robby pops in to tell Jack that he’s leaving, and that the ED needed their night attending on the floor again.

“You alright?” Robby asks you, after Jack leaves with a kiss to your forehead.

You nod, but you can tell that he doesn’t believe you. “Can you tell Dana that she owes Lena $20?”

Robby’s bemused look is enough to make you laugh. “Do I want to know what it’s for?”

“20 to Dana if I made it through to night shift in one piece.”

Robby shakes his head. “Now that’s just tempting fate.”

You grin.

“Yeah, I’ll tell them.”

“Thanks, Dr Robby.”

His hands are braced on the rails of the bed. “You know it’s not your fault, right?” he asks, quiet.

You don’t verbally answer, but the silence is answer enough. Your lips pressed into a line, nodding too late.

Robby blows out a breath. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” He reaches out, cuffing you under your chin.

You blink at the gesture, and he leaves with a soft smile.

Six hours of observation pass without further complications. You’re sent home after Jack checks on your CT results and vitals one last time.

“I’m sending Robby over to yours,” he says.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you tell him.

“For my peace of mind. Please.”

And you’re not able to say no to him. The way he fights off the smug smile lets you know that he knows that about you.

“Whatever,” you say.

Jack grins. “Thank you.”

Half an hour after you get home, Robby is there. You slide over the guest slippers, letting the door close behind him.

“You really didn’t have to babysit me on your time off.”

“He owes me. I owe him.”

“Right. Because of compromising situations.”

Robby shrugs, gaze firmly on you. “We have… shared interests.”

You shake your head before leading him through to your tiny apartment, heading for the living room. You hear him follow. “I don’t really know what you’re meant to be doing, but feel free to set yourself up in here.” Between the kitchen and the living room, you assume the living room wins that competition, thanks to the couch.

Fluffing out the blanket you have on there. Pivoting, faltering in your turn when Robby is in your space. Not a few steps away like you had assumed, but too close behind.

His arm hooks around your waist so you don’t fall. “Sit. Let me check you.” From his pocket, he fishes out his flashlight.

You swallow, removing your hand from his chest; you had placed it there for balance. “Jack already checked before I left.”

Robby raises his eyebrows at you. He doesn’t even have to speak to argue with you.

You groan, realising your losing battle. Dropping onto the cushions.

Robby lowers into a crouch in front of you. And like personal space is nonexistent, his arm across your knees, stabilising himself as he shines the flashlight into your eyes. Tests your pupils; murmurs to himself about the healing of the blood in your eyes; clicks the flashlight off to perform an eye movement test.

Fingers pushing your chin up and aside, scrutinising the bruises. “Breathing’s okay?”

“Yep. And talking. And swallowing. Probably good to eat.”

“You haven’t eaten?”

“I was hooked up.”

Robby pushes himself up with the arm across your knees. Grunting a little as he does so. He heads into your kitchen.

“We could probably just order something,” you say, frowning as you follow him.

He gives you an unimpressed look. “Jack said to take care of you.”

You’re reminded of Jack coming to yours to take care of you after he found out about the sub drop in the hospital. Different kind of taking care of, you assume.

“You want to call him?” Robby’s phone already sliding out from his pocket, blindly holding it out to you as he digs through your fridge. Like he’s aware of your internal thoughts.

You take it, watch him rifle through your things. Unlocking his phone with a swipe. “You don’t have a password?”

“They’re annoying.”

“Oh my God, you’re so old.” You click onto his contacts. Jack’s is starred as a favourite. You call him, phone to your ear. Heading towards the living room. You’re still within earshot, and Robby’s periphery if he looks over. But it’s gives an illusion of privacy.

“What’s up, brother?” Jack greets.

“No Robby. Just me,” you say.

“Give me—” Rustling, the noise of the ED muffled. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. We’re okay. I’m just—you told him to take care of me.” You don’t phrase it like a question.

But he responds, anyway. “I did.”

“In what way?”

Jack makes a noise, and you know he’s shrugging with the answer, even if you can’t see him. “Whatever way you need.”

“I need you to stop beating around the bush with this. Please.”

“Whatever you would want from me, he can give you as well.”

You’re standing still in the living room. Watching Robby mill around your kitchen. The stove’s on, the flame turned to low. He found your pot from the cupboard. “And you’re okay with it?”

“If it’s Robby, yeah.” Like it’s a simple thing. “We’ve been friends a long time.”

“Just friends don’t do this kind of stuff.”

“Maybe not,” Jack hums. “You okay with it?”

“I’m—trying to wrap my head around it.”

Robby’s hunted down the chopping board and knives. Has dug around your freezer for protein as well.

“You asked me for everything, baby,” Jack says, soft. “That always included Robby.”

You swallow around the cloying thing in your throat. “Yeah.” Something in your chest aches. There’s love there, you think, between them. If not reciprocated by Robby, then at least from Jack’s perspective, it’s present. A hanging thing between them.

“When’s your break?”

“It’s already past 2. I’m definitely not getting one until after 4.”

“Gremlin hours,” you acknowledge distractedly. Still watching Robby. You could do something here. Permission has been granted. Whatever you want from Jack. “Stay on the line.”

“Okay?” Jack says, confused.

You pull the phone away from your ear, press the button to place the volume on speakerphone. Stride into the kitchen. “Robby.”

“Yeah?” He barely has time to look up from the chopping board.

You’re on him. Lips on his.

Robby makes a muffled, surprised noise before the knife clatters on the chopping board. Hands on your waist, stabilising as he kisses you back. Responding. “I take it you had a good talk?” Robby asks.

“He’s still—” You press the phone against his chest. One of his hands grab for it.

Then you sink to the tiled floor. On your knees, looking up at Robby.

“Shit,” Robby huffs, looking down at you wondrously.

“Can I—” You swallow, wetting your lips. “Is this…” Okay? Allowed? Alright with him? With either of them?

Robby seems to sense your hesitance. The other hand stroking your face. “You wanna suck me off while Jack listens to us?”

The phone crackles with Jack’s responding low hiss. Caught up on what’s happening on the other side.

You nod. “Can I?”

“Yeah, honey,” Robby says.

You look at the phone, cradled against his chest. Then back at Robby.

“Jack,” Robby prompts.

“Yeah, that’s okay. More than,” Jack manages.

And somehow, this is you, in your kitchen with Jack on the phone, Robby with his pants pooled around his ankles, leaning against the sink. With you on your knees, lapping at Robby’s balls, digits curled around his hardened cock, pumping him.

Robby’s fingers tightened in the roots of your hair. Groaning aloud. “Fucking hell.”

Then you’re sliding his cock into your mouth. Your jaw feels unhinged with the width of him. He’s big—you feel it in the strain in the corner of your lips.

“That’s it, honey,” Robby grunts. “All the way in.”

You slide further. Gagging around him. Tears in your eyes. Your nose to his pubis. Your ears ringing.

Robby’s mouth moving, saying something. You don’t hear. Talking to Jack, maybe. You hope. His fingers flexing against your hair. Pushing you down.

You stay. Seconds. Then his hand moves and you pull away, sucking in air. Drool all over his cock.

“Look at you,” Robby says. Caressing your face again. “You’re so pretty like this. You want to let Jack see?”

You shiver, nodding, mouthing at his cock again. Take him back into your mouth.

“Look up for me.” Robby takes a picture with his phone. Taps at the screen.

And the moment Jack sees it. “Fuck,” muttered out, hoarse. “Jesus, fuck, you’re killing me.”

You suck in your cheeks, sliding back and forth around Robby’s cock. Despite the crappy apartment, you don’t attempt to hide the sounds emanating from your mouth. Wet. Slurping. All because you want—need Jack to hear it from the phone.

Robby’s fingers are twisted in your hair again. Fucking his hips into your throat. Using your mouth like it’s your cunt. You’re clenching around nothing at the thought of it.

Robby groans. “That’s it, fuck, that’s it. So fucking good like this. Gonna come down your throat. Is that what you needed, you little slut?”

You’re moaning around him. Jack never seemed to want to insult you, and you never asked him to. But this. A hand between your legs just to give yourself some semblance of relief.

And then he’s coming. Spilling dregs of himself down your throat as he groans. And you’re swallowing him down. Everything. His hand keeping you there as he grinds into your face. You let him use you. You want nothing else.

“Fuck. Fuck. Come here.” Robby pulls you up. Still has the phone; Jack’s breathing hard on the other side.

You lean in to kiss him. It’s uncoordinated. Robby walks you backwards into the living room. Deposits you on the couch. Strips you of your bottoms without any ceremony. Tosses the phone next to your head.

You’re bent in half, ankles to your ears. He’s pushing and you’re holding your legs up for him.

And his mouth is on your wet pussy.

You’re gasping, humping into his face.

“He eating you out?” Jack’s voice is rough.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, oh my God.”

Robby eats you out until you’re crying, blubbering for release. And only when Jack says that he needs to return to work in a few minutes does Robby let you come.

Jack’s voice in your ear. “That’s it, baby. I wanna hear how good he’s making you feel. I know. You’re being so good for us, baby.”

Robby cleans the both of you up after he decides when you’re done. You’re whining, holding onto his hand as he tries to move into the kitchen.

“I’m going to put everything away.”

You look up at him. Teary-eyed. Letting go of his hand. “Okay,” you say, despite it being laced with displeasure.

“I’ll be back.” He makes fast work of packing away the ingredients he had prepared. Into containers then the fridge. Turning the stovetop off.

When he’s back in the living room, he dumps himself onto the couch. Pulls you against him. It’s not a big space, but you make it work. He’s laying across the cushions, and you’re tucked against his chest.

You both fall asleep like that.

When you wake up, your head’s pillowed in a lap. Fingers running through your hair. Your awakening dictated by slow movements.

“You feeling okay?” Jack’s soft murmurs. He places the book he was entertaining himself with down, helping you sit up.

You hum, reaching to rub at your eyes.

Jack stops before you can make contact, tutting at your forgetfulness. “Let me see.” A palm slotted to your face, tilting your head. Checking your eyes, then the bruising around your neck.

“What time is it?” You twist his wrist, peering at his watch. 8:37 AM. Already after shift change—Robby must have left; Jack came over to yours instead of going home. You’re not sure on the timeline of it.

“Robby made matzo ball soup. He said you fell asleep before you could eat.”

“Hm, got distracted.”

“Alright. Up. We’re both eating.”

You hum, following him along. Still feeling bleary with sleep. You’re sat on the dining chair. Jack drapes a jacket on top of you. You pull it tighter around your shoulders, studying the fabric. Taking in the scent of it. Unfamiliar to you. “It’s not yours.”

“Hm?” Jack takes out the container from the fridge, two bowls, two spoons.

“The jacket. It’s not yours.”

Jack blinks at you. Then shrugs, bustling around. “Must be Robby’s. He probably forgot it.”

“Isn’t it cold?”

“He’ll live. He’s probably got another one at work.” Two bowls of soup placed on the table. Jack shifts his chair so he’s sitting to the side, diagonal from you, not across. “You feeling okay?”

You hum your confirmation, tucking your spoon into the soup.

He watches you skim the top of it, then again. Not eating. Yeah, you’re definitely overthinking something but being cagey about it. He leans forward, catching your gaze. “Out with it.”

You try not to look away from the intensity of his eyes. You know that if you do, he’ll just chase it again. In a more obvious way. “Was it—was what we did okay?”

Jack tilts his head. “I said it was, didn’t I?”

You’re nodding. “You did.”

“Was it okay for you?”

“Yes.”

“And after?”

“We fell asleep on the couch.”

Jack inclines his head like it just affirms whatever knowledge he already had. Probably insight gained from check-ins with Robby. “Okay.” Attention flickering between your eyes. “You want to see him again?”

“Is… is that okay?”

“More than okay.”

“But we…” You swallow the words down, like you can’t verbalise your thoughts.

“Hey,” Jack says. Pushes both the bowls further into the table, pulls your chair closer to him. It screeches against the floor, but you both pay the noise no heed. “Whatever you want with him isn’t going to take away from us. It’s just more. And that’s okay.”

“For you too?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you lo—”

“I love you.”

And his words sit. Lingers in the space between you. You make a noise, caught between hopeful and wounded.

“I know you have your hang ups about me saying it,” Jack continues. “But I do. Okay?”

You nod, sniffling. “Okay. I love you too.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He watches you, for a second. “Come here.”

You climb into his lap. It’s not comfortable—the chairs are crappy and wooden but he doesn’t make a complaint with you straddling his thighs. Tucking your face into his neck.

Jack rubs his hands up and down your back, your arms. Fingers cradling the nape of your neck. Lifting you out to kiss you. Gentle. “Okay, crybaby?” A murmuring tone, ridiculously fond.

You let out a wet chuckle and kiss him again. And somewhere along the way, you’re grinding into his lap, and Jack makes an amused sound.

“Really?” Fiery eyes turned up to you, voice hoarse. “Robby ate you out and you still need more?”

“Jack,” you say. Beg him.

He kisses your cheek. “Eat first.” He grabs your thighs, spreads out his legs. Slowly thrusts his hips up to your core.

You whimper. “Jack.”

“I know. Eat first, okay?”

“You’re mean.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen mean, baby.”

You’re back in your seat, swamped in Robby’s jacket. Feasting on the soup that he made for you—the both of you.

The healing is straightforward. Your eye returns to normal. The bruises fade. Jack stops acting like you’ll evaporate if he dares to look away.

You don’t know if Jack and Robby talk about you, or their status. But Robby looks at you more during handoffs. Talks to Jack, low tones between them. You have no way of deciphering their conversations.

You pick up a few shifts during the day, not 24 hours, but exchanging them for your regular nights. Covering absences for other nurses; Kim is sick; Jesse’s on a much needed weekend away.

You get to see Robby more. Other than more eye contact and seemingly innocent touches, nothing changes.

And then a coincidental night off for you. Jack’s shift is scheduled to finish earlier than usual. Robby doesn’t work the next day. Maybe not from the hands of fate, but purposefully moulded by them. They are attendings, after all.

A text from Jack, then a call, checking in about plans. Dinner and after.

All of you, in Jack’s place. A slow meal. Jack talks to Robby like they haven’t had a chance to catch up in years. You’re content to listen to them, not quite taking in what they’re saying, but listening to the timbre of their voices.

You don’t realise how much you’re staring until Robby pauses, looking over to you.

“Anything you want to say?” he asks.

“No,” you answer, honest.

“Okay.”

Your leg’s balanced on your knee under the table. Jack cups a hand over your ankle, thumb massaging your Achilles’ tendon.

It’s an otherworldly kind of domestic. Until you end up in Jack’s bed. Naked. Spread out under Robby. His knee between your legs, and you’re rutting against him, tugging him in for a kiss.

Jack digs through the nightstand. Blindfold, ribbon restraints, suction vibrator. Deposits them on the bed. Distracts you with kisses while Robby busies himself with tying you to the bed frame at the head of the bed.

“Not too tight?” he asks.

You swallow, feeling your heart race. Tug at them experimentally. “No. It’s fine.”

Jack kisses down your neck, lips over your pulse. Hums at the rapid thudding beneath. “You’re okay, sweetheart. We’ll take care of you.” He kisses you again, once. “Ready for the blindfold?”

You confirm, and then the fabric over your eyes. Around to the back of your head. Tightening, but not damaging.

“Okay?” Robby asks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“You can stop at any time,” Jack reminds.

“I know.”

“Okay. I’m going to let Robby have his fun first, okay?”

You nod. “Kiss first?”

Jack swipes a thumb across your bottom lip before he leaves you with another one. Lingering. Heated. Has you instinctively wanting to reach for him, to feel him beneath you fingertips. But the restraints stop you.

“I love you,” he whispers, like a shared secret.

And you’re bucking your hips into air. Wanting to say it back but he moves away. The bed shifts, weight moving. Robby’s hands spreading your thighs open. Situating himself there. He eats you out first. Doesn’t let you come. Just tastes you.

Until you’re begging for more. Until you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. Whining every time he takes you to the edge, then draws back.

“Robby, please,” you cry. “Please, I just—once. Please, let me come, please.” You have no idea how long this has been going on for. Your thighs are messy, sticky with Robby’s saliva and your slick.

Robby hums. “What do you think, Jack? Good enough for you?”

You hear Jack breathe, somewhere to the side. Not knowing where he is, but knowing he’s watching—you didn’t think you would enjoy it, but something is lit within you. “Yeah. Good enough for me.”

Robby licks a stripe up your slit. Takes the vibrator, turns on the suction. Nudges it against your clit.

You almost weep with relief. “Unghh, thank you, thank you, Robby, thank you.” It’s a quick thing, your release. From the edging. From the direct suction. You come. Fall apart. And Robby refuses to move the toy from your clit.

Grips your thighs. Licking, sucking at your entrance.

“You wanted to come, honey,” Robby tuts, when you’re bowling past your second one, and he’s still not letting up. When you’re struggling in his hold.

You haven’t seen mean, yet, Jack had said. This is what he meant, you realise. Robby. Giving into you, but on his conditions.

And you’re crying. Full, heaving sobs, absolutely ruined. The circulation to your hands probably cut off by now, with how tightly you’ve twisted your fingers into the fabric. You’re not sure. Your arms were tingly. Now numb past your elbows to your digits. You don’t pay it too much heed. You could lose your phalanges, and you wouldn’t care.

“Please,” you cry. “Please, Robby. Please.”

You hear him laugh. A mean thing. Tongue delving inside you, the toy buzzing incessantly on your clit. The toy’s the issue. You’re on your fifth, you’re pretty sure. Because of that damn toy. Suction, forcing out orgasm after orgasm.

“Please, Jack—”

“Oh ho ho, no, honey,” Robby says, thick with condescension. And he presses the toy firmly against your clit in response to you daring to reach out to Jack, to disobey the established chain of command. “He’s not going to help you.”

“I can’t. I can’t, please, I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can.” Robby’s slides a finger in, crooked. Dragging out your slick for him to continue to lap up. His beard rubbing against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

“Please.” Halfway fractured. Begging for more and for less. Your legs over his shoulders, heels digging into the expanse of his back.

“Give me your colour.”

You whine. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

You feel him move away. You try to grab a hold of him, but your hands are tied, trapped above you. You sob, legs attempting to tighten around him. “No, please, don’t go. Just—Robby.”

“I need a colour, honey.” And his voice. Softened. Gentle. A far cry from the man that degraded you for needing him.

“Green,” you choke out. “Please, one more.”

“One more and then we pause?”

You’re nodding, tears wetting the blindfold. “Please.”

“You’re okay, baby.” The brief reprieve as his lips ghost over your inner thigh. A barely there kiss. Then the toy back on your clit, his tongue slipping inside you again. Tasting.

You moan through the oversensitivity. The suction well past too much. But you can do this. Can be good for him. For Jack, too, even if you can’t see or touch him. Your fingers flexing against the fabric.

“There you go. You need this, don’t you? Need to come six times like a fucking slut. Being so good for Jack and me.”

A gasp of air. The vice-like clenching around his finger. So hard that he can feel it. You’re trembling into your sixth orgasm. Breathing raggedly, almost like you’re hyperventilating. Pulling on the restraints above you. Outright sobbing.

Hips moving into the toy, and away. Chasing and running. Too much and wanting more.

His tongue slathering, licking into you. You can hear the squelching. Your face feels hot. Embarrassed by the sounds your body makes.

“Robby,” you whimper, shaking. “Pause, you said pause. Please, Robby.”

“Alright. I got you. I got you, honey.” The toy turned off and discarded. Robby moving up your body. Undoing the knot that ties your wrists to the bar of the bed frame. Fingers at the strings of the blindfold.

You whine, shaking your head.

“You want to keep it on?”

“Yes, please.” You think you need the comfort of the darkness, right now.

“Okay, honey.”

You’re being shifted, the both of you lying on your sides, facing each other. Your face tucked against his chest. But you still feel like you’re shaking apart, unable to ground yourself, despite Robby holding you.

You don’t realise you’re crying until you feel Robby speak, more so than hear what he says. His thumbs brushing away tears that leak under the blindfold.

And then the weight behind you. The arms around you. Familiar. Lips against the curve of your shoulders, up the side of your neck.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.” Grazing your jawline.

“Jack.” You hadn’t realised you were uttering his name, over and over again.

“Right here.”

You shift, angling your head. Catching his lips with yours. Fingers gripping the hand that Robby has on the side of your leg. You feel Robby’s knee nudging between yours, thigh aligned with your sticky core. A stuttering breath as you grind yourself onto it. It borders on painful, but riding out the aftershocks helps soothe you. And he knew that, somehow.

“You’re perfect, baby,” Jack whispers. “Taking what Robby gave you? You did so good for us.”

You want so badly to ask Robby if he shares the same thoughts. But he doesn’t volunteer, and asking feels too much like digging a scalpel into your chest, beating muscle on display, for him to discern your worthiness, to leave or to cherish. You’ve always harboured a greed that knows no bounds.

You hate yourself for needing that reassurance from him, too.

Your fingers shifting, interlacing with Robby’s. His digits folding over yours. It should be a moment of tenderness but feels clinical from him. Responding, but not given. The way he touches you feels methodical.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you answer. Maybe you’re not being good enough. Maybe Robby doesn’t like you as much yet. If you’re better, maybe he will.

“Yeah? You good to start again?”

You’re nodding.

Jack gives you another kiss, one that has you melting into it. Lost in him. Jack shifts back to breathe, and every millimetre he pulls away feels like something defined with regret. “Go give Robby some love, sweetheart.”

You’re hiccuping, the blindfold damp against your skin. Unseeing as you shuffle along Robby’s thigh, until you’re pressed against his chest. You feel Jack follow your movements, his lips grazing the back of your shoulder. You shiver.

“Hey, honey,” Robby murmurs.

You reach out, feel the coarse hair of his beard beneath your finger pads. Your thumb outlining the corners of his lips. Dragging to the curve of his bottom lip. Inching in until your lips are on his. Once again, he responds. Answering when you kiss. Starting off gentle until you’re rutting yourself against his thigh, and his fingers are digging into the meat of your side.

Until you’re whimpering with the need for more, despite the overstimulation. You need him inside you. Any one of them.

“Alright, up you get,” Robby says.

You’re unsteady on your knees, Jack in front of you. You’ve long lost the orientation of the room, of the bed you’re on.

Jack kisses you again, tongue sliding into your mouth. Soft and reassuring. Hands roaming, touching. Any time your fingers move pass his bare pelvis, he snags your wrist. Correcting wordlessly.

You hear Robby shuffle behind you.

“Down on the bed, baby,” Jack whispers. “On your front for Robby.”

You move, lying down. Your hands brushing against Jack’s knees, you think. Your hands shifting up, grabbing his thighs for the contact. To feel grounded. His hand covers yours, thumbs circling over the back of them.

Bunched up sheets between your legs. Rolling your hips into it, just for some semblance of friction. You let out a moan.

Robby inhales sharply, watching the tattoos across your back ripple with your movements. “That’s real pretty, honey.” Soft. “But we didn’t ask you to do that.” Fingers catching your hips, seizing your movements. You try not to cry. “Bring your knees up for me.”

With his guidance, you do. Legs drawn up under you, presenting yourself to him. It’s not a position that you’ve done a lot with Jack. You’re too clingy, you think. Would prefer to see him. This feels almost impersonal.

“You want Jack in your mouth?”

“Fuck,” Jack hisses, quiet.

Your brain stutters. Somehow, it hadn’t crossed your mind. “Yes.” Can feel yourself salivating at the thought of it.

“Yeah, course you do,” Robby chuckles, low and dark. He draws himself up. He must be on his knees too, thighs bracketing yours.

You feel the head of his cock slide between the swollen lips of your cunt. Resting there. Teasing. You try to grind back onto it, to take it—take him—into you. You’re keening, a pathetic sound that’s brimming with your desperation to be full.

Robby laughs. The heavy paw of his hand swats the swell of your ass.

You jerk at the sting. Feel yourself clench around nothing. “Robby. Please. I need you.”

“Oh, I know.” Once more, the head of his cock swiping the wetness at your entrance. “I can see you. You’re dripping.”

“Please.”

It’s a slow process. Robby draws it out. A tortuous slide into you. Has you scrabbling against Jack’s thighs, his hands caressing yours. Your face turned, cheek against the mattress in the space between his legs.

Robby’s cock pushing into you, the stretch of your walls. Aching. You moan around it. Through it. The stuttering inhales, the hitching of your breath.

“Jesus, honey,” Robby manages, hoarse. Rolling his hips into you with unhurried movements. Experiments of motions to test how your body responds.

You’re sure you have a bruising grip on Jack’s thighs. You’ve lost yourself in recitations of wordless sounds. Feeling yourself ripple around Robby.

“Alright,” Robby bites out. “Your turn, Jack.”

You hear Jack move in front of you. Hear him groan.

Then.

Robby fucks into you, once. Hard. Pushing you further up the bed. A cry punched out of you.

Closer to Jack. His hands on yours, guiding. “Keep your hands on my thighs. Tap three times if you need to stop.”

You nod.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Okay. Three times to stop.”

“There we go. You’re doing so good, baby.”

You shudder at his words. Feel Robby jerk into you as you tighten in response. Robby lets out a breath, a quiet chuckle.

You already feel saliva pooling under your tongue. You swallow. Mouth opening, lips over your teeth. Jack rests a hand on the back of your head. Pushes you down over his cock. The stinging of the corners of your lips. The weight of him on your tongue. Sliding further in. You bob your head, up and down. Tongue flexing up against his length, hollowing out your cheeks.

“Fuck,” Jack grunts.

Robby waits. Has been waiting. Only when Jack meets his eyes, and nods, does he starts to move. Fucking into you.

Your muffled noises, trapped. Your mouth and cunt full. A fucking vision to them.

“Fucking knew you’d be good at this,” Robby murmurs.

You feel dangerously warm. Delirious. Like this is occurring in a dream. Hazy, like a smoky fire on a distant hill. You shift, moaning around the slide of Jack’s cock in your mouth. Dipping your head in repetitive motions. Can hear him come apart as you do.

“That’s it,” Robby says. His thrusts are slow, measured. Giving you reprieve, seemingly content to watch you please Jack. “Show me how good you are for him.”

Oh. Robby has a thing for watching, Jack had said. The break room, probably. When you thought it was just the two of you, and somehow Robby knew that Jack told you to take care of him. How much did he watch through the curtain, before he came in to tell you the police wanted to collect your statement?

Lifting off of Jack’s cock, saliva dripping onto him. He groans, a hand cupping your face. Soft in his touch.

You rub your cheek against his palm, kitten licks to the tip of his dick. Then you’re sliding down again. Feel him all the way, the tip of his cock head up against the back of your throat. You stay like that, your head fuzzy. Hear his muted moans, like you’re underwater.

You swallow around him. He fucks his hips up into your face. Fingers buried into the roots of your hair, clenching.

Robby draws out, almost all the way, then fucks into you. Once.

You choke, throat spasming around Jack. Your fingers digging into the muscles of Jack’s thighs. But not tapping out. You tighten around Robby, roll your hips against him.

Robby grabs the flesh of your sides, then does it again. Pulls out, almost unsheathed. Then thrusts back inside.

You whine around Jack’s cock. Coming up for air again, mouthing at the length of him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect, baby,” Jack says, ruined. His thumb brushing against your cheek. Tugging lightly at the corner of your lips. “So good for us.”

You keen. Robby rocks into you, intermittent motions like he’s taking the edge off for himself. Not after your pleasure. Just his own. Different from Jack, but somehow, you find inextricably hot.

He’s using you.

“Come on,” Robby rasps. “Make him come. Then I’ll fuck you after. That’s what you want, right? Don’t even have to say anything. I can feel you clenching around me. Just begging to be fucked. Just like—that.”

Your head bowed, pressed against one side of Jack’s pelvis. Panting. Fuck, you’re burning. All Robby is doing is talking to you, and you feel like you can’t breathe. Something fluttering in your stomach.

“Jesus, Robby,” Jack breathes out. You can feel the twitching of his thighs. Minute reactions to Robby. He’s not unaffected either.

“Fuck,” Robby bites out. Slowly thrusting into you. Once again, the movements are aimless. Not for you. Just to sate himself. “So turned on you it’s making you dumb, huh?” Robby drapes his weight on your back. Pressing his cock in further.

You whine. You’re so sure the tip of his dick is at your cervix. Hips flexing against him again.

A hand in your hair, guiding, pushing. “I said, make him come.”

You try to nod, mewling at the sting of your scalp when you can’t. “Yes, yes sir, please.” Sliding back onto Jack’s cock. Still blindfolded, completely missing the look Robby and Jack share. Something undecipherable, even with the years they’ve known each other. The way Jack jerks into your mouth. The sharp inhale from Robby.

“Fuck,” Jack grunts.

You hollow out your cheeks, heading bobbing up and down like you’re on a mission. Saliva guiding the way. Wet and noisy. The obscene sounds coming from you, from your mouth stuffed full. But you don’t care. No, what you care about is making Jack come. Like Robby told you to.

You can feel Jack’s cock jerking in your mouth. He’s close. You can hear him. You bury his cock all the way down your throat. Move one of your hands to fondle with his balls. Listen to him groan.

Then he comes.

And you swallow around him. His hand, or Robby’s hand, you’re not sure anymore, in your hair. Forcing you down.

You stay. Swallowing. Drinking his release. Then you move again. The hand on your head falling away. You’re lifting your head, up and down. Hear Jack swear as you continue to suck on his softening cock. Slide up his dick, tongue on the slit. Suckling the tip.

“Fuck, fuck.” Jack tries to grab your head.

But you grasp his hand. Interlocking your fingers. Continue. Sliding back down.

You hear Robby chuckle, sinful and deep, by your ear. Spread across your back. “That’s it, honey. That’s a good cockslut. I can see why he keeps you around.”

“Fucking Christ—baby, that’s—” Jack fucks into your mouth with his spent dick. Fingers digging into your hand from where you’re holding his.

And you’re still going.

“Okay, that’s enough, baby. Fuck, that’s enough.”

You pop off of him. Heaving. Mouthing and kissing above his thighs, along the pubic bone and pelvis.

“Did Jack teach you that?” Robby asks, lips grazing the back of your neck.

You shiver at the sensation. “No.”

Jack huffs out a breathless laugh. “I’m pretty sure I saw heaven the first time that happened.”

Robby smiles against the soft skin of your nape. “So you just came along, all perfect for him, hm?”

“Pretty much,” Jack whispers, tone unbearably soft.

“Robby,” you whine. You try to fuck yourself onto his cock. Still inside you. Still hard. “Please, you said.”

“Oh, I remember what I said, honey.” He lifts himself off your back. Kneeling upright again.

“Please.”

“What do you think, Jack?” Robby asks. His fingers trace the black artwork on your back, making you tremble under his touch. “Is it time for me to fuck your slut? Been good enough for you?”

Jack releases a noise. Eyes scorching when he meets Robby’s gaze.

“Please,” you cry. Pushing yourself backwards into Robby. “Please, Robby. You said you would if I made him come. I did, I did. Please.”

Robby laughs, momentarily watching you struggle. “Not me, honey.” Attention back on the other man. “Ask Jack.”

“Jack,” you sob. Lifting your head.

Even though Jack can’t see your eyes, he knows. The way you’d look. Dilated pupils, how shiny and wet they’d be from your tears. How he can’t say no to you when you look at him.

“Jack, please, I want to feel him. Please, Jack, I was good, I promise, please.”

Robby swears, hips grinding into you. You moan.

“You were so good for me, baby,” Jack says, a hand caressing your face.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Jack answers, just as quiet, completely lost to you. “Robby.”

“You wanna lie down?” Robby asks him.

Both Jack and Robby move. With their guidance, you’re kneeling up long enough for Jack to settle comfortably on the bed. Then Robby situates you on top of Jack. You let out a noise, half moan, half sigh. Completely content to feel Jack against you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You hum, chin tilted. And wordlessly, his lips find yours. A messy exchange of saliva. Jack’s tongue in your mouth. Against yours. A hint of teeth nibbling your lower lip. Carried away by kissing him. Until you’re rutting against him. Hissing when your clit rubs against him.

Then Robby fucks into you. Hard. Punching the air out of you. You keen. Trying to catch your breath but he keeps up the pace. Relentless as he fucks into you. Just as you had been begging him to. He doesn’t think there was ever a world where he could withhold this from you, from himself.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Jack rasps. His hands roam, squeezing. Touch scorching. “Robby making you feel good?”

“Yes, yes, he’s, mhm, yes. Oh—”

“Fuck,” Robby grunts. “Taking me so well, honey.”

You arch your back just a little, feel him slip in further against that spot inside you. You’re both moaning around the deeper slide of him. Feel Robby’s grip on your waist as he fucks into you, again and again. You hope his fingers dig in hard enough to leave bruises. A souvenir to remember this and him by.

Jack’s fingers delving between your bodies, the space made when you curved your spine.

You whimper, reaching to grab Jack’s wrist, to stop him from rubbing circles against your clit. Based on the previous six orgasms that Robby gave you with the toy, you’re still too sensitive.

“Too much for you?” he asks.

You hum in affirmation. “It’s—mm, this is—ah.”

Robby releases a breathless laugh. He fucks into you like it’s his mission, like it was what he was put onto this Earth to do. Hitting that spot, on target with each thrust.

Jack takes your hands in his, fingers interlacing. Lies them on the bed above his head. Until your arms are stretching up. You feel the scorch of it, rekindling the burn of when they had been tied to the bed frame.

You cry out.

“There we go, honey.” Robby leans down, until you start to feel the press of his weight on top of you. Not entirely to suffocate you, but enough of his body aligning against yours.

Your breath hitches in your throat. That fire building in your stomach. Fucking yourself back against him. “Ah, ah, mm. Oh my God, Robby.”

And Jack recognises it. The stuttering of your gasps. The way your mouth drops open in broken off moans. The whimpers in the higher register of your voice. “Holy shit,” he utters, reverent. “You’re going to come, baby? Just from Robby fucking you like this?”

Your forehead against the curve of Jack’s chest. Crying out. “Yes. Yes, he’s—so good, he’s—I’m—” Half formed sentences, lost to wordless noises of pleasure. You’ve never been able to come from penetration alone. You’ve accepted it as a truth about yourself. Even told Jack about it.

And then comes Robby, an act of defiance.

“Yeah?” Robby grunts. His movements are more urgent. Like he needs to see you fall apart under him. To take something from you that hasn’t already been claimed by someone else. “Never been fucked like this before? No one’s been treating this little slut right, is that it? Just needed my cock inside you to—fucking—come like this?”

You’re keening, feeling yourself tighten around him, impossibly. Lava, all encompassing. All around you. On your flesh, consuming.

“Fucking hell, Robby,” you hear Jack groan. His hold on your hands start to bite.

“That’s it. Fucking come for me.” Robby’s reaches, fingers curling around your throat. Lifting your chin up. Squeezing the sides, above your pulse.

You gasp.

“Robby,” Jacks voice.

“You like this, don’t you? Can feel you tightening around me. Need to be fucked like a goddamn whore.”

Robby thrusts, once, twice.

And then you’re coming around him, a forceful avalanche. Imploding supernova. Heaving when Robby lets go of your neck. Riding out your orgasm as Robby buries himself deep, rolling his hips.

“Fuck, baby, look at you,” Jack says.

You’re crying. Sobbing, grinding yourself against Robby. Robby hooks an arm around your stomach, face buried against the notches of your bared spine. Grunting as he comes, hot breath fanning your upper back. You feel his dick twitching with it. He thrusts into you, milking out his own orgasm. And you take what he gives, whimpering with the overstimulation.

“Fuck me,” Robby huffs.

“Come on, I got you.” Jack releases your hands, rubbing up and down your arms.

You’re absolutely gone. Floating. Moving through molasses.

“Robby.”

“Yeah?”

“On your side.”

Robby tucking your back against his heaving chest, still inside of you, softened. Jack shuffles close. You’re nestled between them. Robby has a hand splayed on your stomach. Jack’s hand rests against your chest.

Jack kisses you. His other hand against your cheek. Fingers nudging the strings of the blindfold. “Can I take this off?”

You hum. An affirmative sound, you think, given that Jack gingerly removes it off of you.

You keep your eyes closed. And even if they were opened, the room would be dark. Blacked out curtains framing the windows, no lights on.

Wiping at your wet cheeks. “So beautiful, sweetheart. You did so good.”

You’re shuddering, nosing against his jaw. And yet, something not quite clicking the way it should. That greed within you, again. A gaping hole that swallows.

You’re sobbing, still. Too fractured. Too tremulous.

“Hey, I’m right here,” Jack murmurs, picking up on your erratic breathing. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?” Fingers through your hair, against your cheek. “Baby, hey.”

Robby’s hand soothing up and down your thigh.

“Not good,” you manage, hoarse.

“What? What wasn’t good?” Jack asks.

“Robby.”

And Robby goes still behind you. Deathly so. “Honey—” He tries to move. Back and away. Out of you.

You’re shaking your head, crying. “No.” You clench around his already flaccid dick. You don’t want him to go.

Robby hisses. “Jack.”

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What happened?” Jack asks.

“Not good for Robby,” you utter.

“What wasn’t good for him?” Jack asks. Clarifying.

Robby still feels his heart in his throat.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper.

Robby swallows. Makes an incredulous noise. “Yes, you were. You were so good for me. For us.”

“You haven’t kissed me,” you hiccup.

Robby mouth opens, prepared to argue. He has. Remembers your lips against his. But really, if he’s cataloguing those moments, they’ve not been initiated by him. Too unsure to know where and how he fits in this. What he’s allowed to do and take.

Robby’s fingers gripping either side of your chin, angling your face to him. Kissing you. The scrape of his beard. The push of his tongue against yours. His hand smoothing down, resting over the front of your neck.

You keen, jerking your hips.

Robby parts, swearing at the sensation of velvet walls rippling around him. He can’t go again.

You make a noise. Jack shushes you. Kissing you again. Robby takes the moment to detangle himself from you. Sliding out, throwing the condom away in the bathroom. Cleaning himself up. Then runs hand towels under warm water from the sink.

Bringing himself back to the bed, passing a towel over to Jack. You’re on your back, and Robby’s cleaning you up, towel against your skin. And even though Robby’s sure you’re exhausted from seven orgasms, you buck up lightly at his ministrations.

“How the hell are you keeping up with this, man?” Robby asks, glancing at Jack.

Jack snorts. “I’m not. What do you think you’re here for?” Kisses the curve of your shoulder, gentle.

Robby chuckles. “You’re insatiable, you know that?” Aimed towards you, now.

You’re whining.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. Robby will make you feel better,” Jack murmurs from beside you.

“You think you can do one more?” Robby asks, something raw and hungry in his voice.

He barely waits for your answer, already moving south of the bed, between your legs. A greedy thing, inside of him. An abyss that answers yours, buried in the cavern of his chest. How completely fitting that Jack found the both of you to call his.

You’re whimpering, digits twisting in Robby’s hair. And his fingers are sliding into your sopping cunt and he’s groaning as your hips thrust up when he mouths at your clit. Jack is a solid thing next to you, alternating between gentle kisses and talking you through the oversensitivity.

You’re trembling when you come, and Robby’s rutting his half-hard dick against the sheets beneath him.

Robby cleans you up again. Takes the towels to bathroom. Then he’s back on the bed. Tucking himself on your other side.

When you feel him, you bodily turn, facing him. Your eyes blinking, getting used to the darkness of the room.

Robby thumbs your cheek. “You’re so perfect, baby,” he rasps out, faint words ghosting over your lips before he kisses you again.

You sigh, a quiet sound, sinking against his chest, eyes closing. Robby’s hand rubbing your upper arm. Your breathing gradually evens out, falling asleep.

“You okay?” Jack asks, eventually. His chin hooked over your shoulder.

And when Robby looks at him, Jack’s eyes are already on him. “Yeah.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Just thinking.”

“Quit thinking. We just had mind-blowing sex.”

Robby huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah, we did.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Jack kisses the back of your shoulder; you shuffle closer into Robby’s chest.

“Yeah?” Sternum cracked open in the quiet room. Gaze moving between Jack and you. Silently daring to wish.

“Whatever you want. ’S always been yours, Robby.” And Jack sounds so sure of himself, so certain, that Robby believes in that quiet hope. Of the three of you crowded in a too small bed, for more than just tonight.

Part 1 | Blurb 1 | Part 2 | Blurb 2 | Series tag.

[skymouth]

✍️✍️✍️ let’s do it. pretend i’m licensed

[skymouth]

gravitational — robbylangdon x reader | tipping point #3

Following Robby’s breakup, unforeseen circumstances during the 4th of July shift leads you to move in with Frank Langdon.

Certain dynamics change and develop, even after Robby comes back from his sabbatical.

Pairings: Michael Robinavitch x Reader x Frank Langdon (RobbyLangdon x Reader) Complete word count: 46k+ / Tumblr word count: 15.5k+ Whole work tags: Stalking; Suicidal ideation; Unsolicited photos and sharing of photos; Stabbing; Patient death; Gun Violence; AFAB Reader; Accidental Voyeurism; NSFW Content (P in V sex; P in A Sex; Vaginal Fingering; Multiple Orgasms; Oral Sex; Double Penetration in Two Holes; Come Eating). Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou. Notes: feeling like i overpromised and underdelivered but at least there’s a happy ending this time :)

Due to Tumblr’s blocks per post limit, this post features the first 15.5k words. The full work is available on AO3.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 - COMPLETED | Series tag.

Robby: We need to break up.

Sent: Are you being serious right now? Sent: Through text? Robby: I’m sorry. Robby: You can still stay at mine. Sent: Asshole

You can’t stay. Despite the offer, you refuse to be the kind of person that haunts the walls of a home you’re no longer welcomed in.

You pack your things and Uber to your place. Keys jammed into the lock, turning, hurled back into your crappy apartment on the third floor. It’s quiet. Motionless and undisturbed.

You wrangle four hours of sleep until your alarm blares from your phone. You perform your morning routine. Albeit, you’ve no time to spare for food.

You don’t think the worse part about heading into the Pitt is seeing your now ex. No, it’s having to face everyone that told you to be mindful of him. You had let him lull you into a false sense of security. Let yourself believe that he was safe. That he wasn’t lying when he said it wasn’t casual.

A clean break before he heads off to sabbatical, you assume.

Fucking asshole.

You’re here an hour earlier than you should be. Another quick meeting with Annalise and Wes. They’re determined. Haven’t lost their resolve to set this right for you.

You’re down in the ED before Robby is due to arrive. Part of you wonders if he also struggled to fall asleep.

Another part of you tries not to care so much.

You smile thinly at the questioning glances thrown your way when you insert yourself into the noise of the ED.

Shen frowns at you when you’re approaching the desk at Central, inspecting the board. “You okay?”

“Yep,” you say, a little too quickly to be believable.

He lends you enough grace to not call you out on the obvious lie. “No boba for your best buddy?”

You snort, expectant of his questioning. “Long night.”

Shen’s face pinches. Disgusted. “Ew. I don’t—ew. That’s too much information.”

You don’t correct him. Shaking your head. “Sorry, dude.” About the boba, more than anything.

“New attending came in today, by the way. Dr Al-Hashimi,” Shen says, tilting the straw to his coffee towards you.

You take a sip. “That’s early. Thought she wasn’t starting until tomorrow.” After Robby leaves tonight.

“She wanted to meet everyone. Got us all bagels. They’re in the break room if you want some.”

You can’t help the grin. Food seems to be the agreed upon way for making a good first impression. You did that. Hell, you’re still doing it.

You join the residents when they’re making rounds. Successfully avoiding Robby when he’s quickly attached to an incoming trauma.

“You should always wear a helmet.”

A new voice.

Mel’s eager greeting lets you know who it is—Langdon. You were meant to be replacing him, and he returns today. A surprise, if everyone’s reaction is any indication.

You share a brief introduction with him before you’re both swept into the chaos of the Pitt.

“So, what’s your deal?”

You angle your head to the side.

Langdon’s there, arms crossed over his chest. Rising to the tips of his shoes, rolling onto his heels, then back again. His attention is on the board above you.

“My deal?”

“Robby’s mad at you, too.”

“Oh.” Too, he said. You assume he’s talking about the icy front that you’ve noticed between he and Langdon. Mirroring the way Robby avoids being in the same room with you, like you’re some inescapable, waking nightmare.

“He’s… not mad at me. He’s just avoiding me,” you volunteer.

“Why?”

You raise an eyebrow. Silent long enough that Langdon looks down at you. “You first.”

He blinks, surprised. “You don’t know?”

“No. I got here after you, so I don’t know what your deal is. Other than the whole ‘prodigal son returns’ thing.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I—uh, I’ve been in rehab because I was addicted to drugs. I was working while… using. Robby found the drugs in my locker. I betrayed his trust.”

“Holy shit.” You’re staring at him, and his gaze is steady on yours. Like he’s prepared for judgement. “That’s where you’ve been this whole time?”

“On and off, yeah. Rehab’s usually 90 days. I repeated it.”

For ten months, you assume.

“Your turn,” Langdon says.

“What?”

“Why is he avoiding you?”

“He—broke up with me. Last night. Through text.”

“Oh.” Something passes over his face, too quick for you to make sense of. And you’re unfamiliar with interpreting his cues, you think.

“Yeah. Not as dramatic, huh?” you say.

Langdon grins, and it changes his face. From brooding statue to a kind of boyish charm. “Still entertaining. Better than my drama.”

“Oh, I’m so glad my misery is entertaining you, Dr Lang—”

“Doctors.” Robby’s voice is like a startling splash of cold water.

Langdon jolts. “Robby—”

“We’ve got a busy hospital. We don’t need you two slacking off.”

“Got it.” Langdon scurries away.

You stare at Robby.

He looks at you over his glasses. “You too.” His voice is less tense than it was when he was addressing Langdon, but it’s lost the softness that you’re used to receiving.

You let out a breath of disbelief, shaking your head as you grab a tablet from the rack on the desk. “Sir, yes, sir.” Mocking as you walk away from him.

The day passes glacially, at first.

Louie.

The black out.

No air conditioning. The heat makes tempers rise.

When night finally descends, it’s a small reprieve. The evening air proves cool when people step outside for breaks.

Today didn’t feature a MCI, but it’s up there with the crappier shifts you’ve had, inclusive of the shit you’ve experienced in LA. You can’t wait to go home and rely on your fast internet and devices. No more living in analog.

You’re at your locker, waving tiredly to Princess as she passes you to get to hers.

You unlatch your lock, spying an incoming figure from the corner of your eye. Looking up instinctively.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Robby shoves a sheet of A4 paper in your hand.

Frowning, you fold open the paper.

And stare.

A printed photo of you in your bedroom. In the act of taking your shirt off. Curtains drawn. The camera’s from inside the room. Near your wardrobe, if you had to make an informed guess.

Chest hammering. “Where did you get this?”

Robby tugs on the strap of his bag, slung on his shoulder. “In my bag. Where you left it—”

Oh. Oh, fuck, you can’t breathe. “I didn’t—”

“Oooh, what’s this—” Princess’ voice. She’s by her locker.

You run over to her, snatching it from her hands, ignoring her noise of complaint. You’d apologise for being rude, but you can’t think of anything else except the photos.

You, again. On your bed, asleep. “No one touches their lockers,” you say.

“What—?”

“Where’s Gloria?” You run out into the ED. “Gloria!”

She’s at Central, talking to Dana and Abbot. Debriefing after today.

“Gloria!”

You hear Robby calling out to you, following.

Gloria turns, frowning when you come to a stop before her. She says your name.

“The cameras,” you wheeze, trying to collect your breath. “They were offline?”

“Yes. Our whole system went down. You all worked analog tonight, Doctor.”

You’re shaking your head. Pushing the collected photos into her hands. Two of them. You know there’s another one in your locker—you spied the paper but hadn’t gotten around to opening it before Robby interrupted.

“What is this?” she demands.

“Matthew Williams,” you say, and hear Dana suck in a breath. “He was here. He left these here, in everyone’s lockers.”

Gloria crumples the pictures in her hands. Something sorrowful in her eyes, apology heavy in her tone. “Our cameras were down.”

“I know it was him. Those pictures are from my bedroom, Gloria. He knows where I live. He’s been inside my room.”

Gloria’s hands on your shoulders. Her face pinched with sympathy. “I believe you. I do. But without our cameras, we don’t have evidence of him doing this. I am sorry.”

You shake your head. You’re—tired. Angry. He came here to fuck with your head and left without anyone knowing. Took advantage of the chaos left in the wake of taking the system offline.

“Where are you going?” You’re not sure who says it. Ringing in your ears.

“I need a second.” You march towards one of the Behavioural rooms.

Dana and Gloria follow, but stop when the door closes behind you.

It’s silent. The rooms aren’t soundproof, but it’s the closest thing you to privacy.

Abbot and Robby are left standing by Central. Meeting each other’s gazes.

“We can get police to check for prints,” Abbot suggests. “We just gotta block off the lockers until they get here.”

“Yeah, that’s going to be fun. Telling everyone they can’t go home after today.” Despite his biting words, Robby’s the one that finds Ahmad, asking for his assistance in securing the locker bay.

Princess already knows. It doesn’t take long for word to get around to everyone else. No one’s going home unless they’re happy to leave without their belongings in the lockers. Shift change can’t happen unless the incoming staff are okay with leaving their belongings unattended until they can access their lockers.

And in the Behavioural room, you let out a scream of frustration. Something boiling inside. You never considered yourself a violent person, but.

Your closed fist slams against the wall before you can think.

“Whoa, whoa!” Dana shoves the door opened.

“Fuck,” you hiss.

“Jesus Christ, let me see.” She holds your wrist, inspecting your knuckles. “You done now? You feel better?”

Her tone makes you feel ashamed. Embarrassed. You’ve never punched a fucking wall before. “Sorry.”

“South 16 is free. We’ll get it cleaned up. Figure out your next steps.”

Because you can’t go home, you realise.

Dana stays with you in the patient room. You almost fight her about patching yourself up, but the baneful glare she shoots you makes you cede to her ministrations.

“Close your hand for me.”

You do. Your knuckles sting, but that’s all.

“Great. No other damage. You’re still good to work tomorrow.”

Robby knocks on the closed door. Waits until Dana opens it. “Police are here. They’re checking the lockers. Gloria’s talking to them, but…”

A look passed between Robby and Dana, and she leaves too, allowing him a moment with you. “Hey,” he whispers, low.

You’re sitting upright on the bed, the gurney raised to support your back. “Shouldn’t you be on your merry way already?” This marks the first moment alone you’ve had together all day.

He simply stares at you, like the very notion proves ridiculous. “I can’t leave like this.”

Right. Because of the cops checking the lockers, you assume. His belongings are probably considered evidence too, seeing as he had a picture in his bag. “Sorry,” you say, momentarily. Even though you’re bitter about how things have seemingly transpired between you, you don’t wish to inconvenience him any further.

Robby merely gives you another look. One that you can’t quite parse. Shaking his head. “You should… stay at mine.”

“I’m not—”

“Come on,” he insists. “Be smart about it. You’re not going back to your apartment. Not when you know he’s been there.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Maybe book a hotel room, or an Airbnb, or rely on the goodness of your coworkers’ hearts to spare you their couch until you get your shit together. Hopefully, if they’re not pissed off by not being able to leave after the wild shift that marked the fourth of July.

“You don’t have to go.”

A wry chuckle, a slow shake of your head. You should be telling him that. “It’s not your business anymore, Robby.”

His jaw tenses, a bland smile across his face. “Right.”

“You made that choice for us. You don’t get to be angry at me for it.”

“I’m not angry,” he says, angrily.

You give him a look.

“I’m…” He blows out a breath. “Just stay at my house. You’ve already been living there.”

“Because we were together. I’m not going to stay if we’re not together anymore.”

“I’m not going to be there.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what—?”

There’s a knock on the door. Silence ensues between the two of you until it opens.

“Hey,” Langdon says, poking his head through. “Uh—Gloria’s after you, Robby.”

Robby grits his teeth. “Fine.” Takes two steps out of the room before throwing a quick “Thanks, Langdon” over his shoulder. Things are definitely still frosty between them.

“How’s it going out there?” you ask, before he can question your wellbeing.

Langdon tilts his head. “I think everyone just wants to go home.”

“Yeah. Me too.” But you can’t. There’s an easy solution, but you’re stubbornly debating with Robby about it. Logically, it’s the simplest answer. A space that’s rent free and already familiar to you.

A sympathetic expression purses his lips. “I heard. It really sucks. It—genuinely sounds like something out of a horror movie.”

You snort. “Yeah. Um—welcome to my life for the past… nine months?” It’s quiet again. Langdon lingers in the room. You assume he’s been recruited into your babysitting detail that occurs when something Matthew Williams related pops up. “Did you see the pictures?”

Immediately shaking his head. “No. No one saw them. Well—no one else saw them.”

Robby, Princess, Gloria. Maybe Dana and Abbot, since they were with Gloria when you gave her the photos. But you know word spreads fast.

“Hey, I…” Langdon starts.

You look at him. Wait for him to construct his thoughts, whatever they are.

“I have a spare room.”

You blink. “Like a guest bedroom?”

Langdon’s eyes shut, chin dropping to his chest. Raising his head. “In the spirit of vulnerability—um, Abby and I were on the rocks even before I went to rehab. And when I actually had to go, she was suddenly a single mother to two kids. She didn’t sign up for that. So we’ve been… officially separated since then. Once we get to twelve months, we’re filing for divorce.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

“Well. It’s not as dramatic as yours,” he says, lips curving into a smile.

“I don’t—”

“It’s fine.”

You frown. “You didn’t tell anyone about you and Abby, did you?”

Langdon’s attention drops to the ring he still bears on his left fourth finger, twisting it. “No. I was kind of hoping to pretend things were normal when I got back here.”

You watch him, now that his focus on elsewhere. “You know—I don’t know you very well, but I have a feeling you’re being strangely vulnerable with me.”

“I’m a strange man that’s inviting you to live with him. The least I could do is give you some ammo over me.”

You breathe a laugh.

“And you don’t seem to have a good track record with the men in your life. So, I’m throwing you a bone.”

“Ah, there it is. Thank you, asshole.”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

The banter is nice. It feels like some semblance of normalcy on a capsizing boat.

“I’m still paying rent for my apartment,” you say. “I don’t know if I can afford to pay you too.”

Langdon shakes his head. “That’s not an issue for me.”

“Seriously?”

“I was planning on living solo anyway. The guest room was…” He trails off, clearing his throat. “Doesn’t matter. It’s yours now.”

The guest room for his kids, you assume. Your chest twists, not at the idea of taking it, but because he’s already settled on giving it up.

“It’s one bathroom only, though,” he adds.

“I can live with that. And, just so you know, I did just punch a wall.” You raise your hand to him.

“Okay.”

“Just because we’re sharing our vices.”

He chuckles wryly. “I think I can live with that.”

Someone knocks on the door. It opens seconds later, Ellis popping in.

You blink at her, having forgotten she was still here in the midst of the busy day.

“Hey, you. I heard what happened. Do you need a place to stay?” She gets straight to the point, tugging you into an one-armed hug.

She doesn’t assume you’ll be at Robby’s because she had cornered you in the bathroom, demanding to know what you two were obviously fighting about. You had to come clean about the abrupt breakup through text.

“Uh, I’m good. I’m staying with Langdon.”

She pulls a face, brown eyes flicking to him, then back to you. “I mean, he’s not the worst company, but I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” you say.

“Hey,” Langdon grouses at the same time.

“I like you too much to live with you. You’d get sick of me, and it’s the last thing I want.”

Ellis tuts, humoured. “I just wanted your cooking all to myself.”

You poke her side. “I swear you’re just using me for food.”

“Take it as a compliment—it’s good cooking.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.” She looks over to Langdon, who’s leaning against the wall by the door. “Didn’t know you had a fancy guest room.”

Langdon smiles. “Residency money helps. So does Abby’s.”

Your brows knitting together, hidden from Ellis’ line of sight. He’s still maintaining the lie.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Ellis pauses, like she’s debating something. “Hey, I don’t know if you know, but I wanted you to hear it from me—I ended up getting that fellowship we were both going for.”

He blinks. “That’s great, Parker,” Langdon says. Genuine. “This place needs you. You’re a great doctor.”

“So are you.”

The corner of Langdon’s lips tick upwards.

“Alright. That’s enough of my break. This double’s killing me.” Ellis squeezes your shoulder, before heading out.

The police clear what they can so that staff can go home. Outside of personal belongings, the lockers are emptied for evidence.

Robby still hasn’t left.

You spot him when you leave through the ambulance bay, trailing after Langdon, feeling steadier than before. When you had left the patient room and didn’t see him, you assumed he was eager to depart. Something ugly and heavy sitting inside your chest.

Except, he’s here. Wearing that thick jacket of his, missing the backpack. Leaning against that bike of his.

When he sees you, he pushes up, striding towards you. “Hey.” Eyes slicing towards Langdon, then to you.

“I’ll—yep. Getting my car.” Langdon makes quick work in escaping.

“Here.” And looped through Robby’s finger are his house keys.

You shake your head. “I don’t—”

“Just take them. You need a place to stay—”

“I’m staying with Langdon.”

Robby frowns. Lips pursing. “With Langdon,” he echoes, affronted.

“He—has a spare guest room.” And now you’re lying to keep his lie. You owe him that much, you think.

An internal debate that you know wars within; grooves lining Robby’s forehead. “Whitaker will have the keys if you change your mind,” he decides on, clasping the keys into his fist.

“Why would Whitaker have your keys?”

“He’s house-sitting for me.”

“Right.” You hadn’t realised they were that close. You were blind to a lot of things about Robby, it appears. You could be mad. You have every right to, you think, about a lot of things. Instead, the day has worn you down.

You compose your energy into something amiable. “Have fun, Robby. It’s not going to be the same when you’re gone.”

Robby’s jaw works, gaze travelling away. Down, then over your shoulder, to the doors behind you. Then down again. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t…” His words waver.

The silence grows. He doesn’t fill it, merely shaking his head.

You feel disappointed, but you don’t know why. Maybe you wanted an explanation. Even something as infuriating as ‘It got too real and I panicked’ would be preferable to his reticence.

But he provides nothing.

“I’ll see you when you get back, Robby.” And before you can overthink it, your uninjured hand lands on his forearm. Squeezing. “I don’t know what you’re searching for, but I hope you find it out there.”

Robby’s eyelids shutter closed. Like your words have wounded him. He says your name. Swallows thickly, before changing tactics. “Goodbye,” he whispers instead, hoarse.

A honk of a car. Close enough that you can only assume it’s Langdon idling by the curb, waiting for you.

“Goodbye, Robby,” you say.

He lifts a hand, hesitating. Then it latches on your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Shifting his hand so his thumb brushes against the circular scar on your cheek. “For everything.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry. I just—” You cut yourself off, sighing. “We could have made it work. Long distance, or whatever.”

“I know.” He sounds like he truly believes it, and it confuses you even more. Because if he did, then why would he feel the need to break up with you?

“Robby—”

“I love you.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.”

His head drops into a nod. So gingerly, his lips to your forehead. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, lingering.

You sniffle. “I’ll see you when you’re back.” You step away, adjusting your bag.

Walk to Langdon’s car. It’s silent when you buckle yourself in, and he pretends he doesn’t notice you wiping away your tears. The road is empty at this time of night as he drives, the radio filling the space between you.

“Do we need to get your things?” Langdon asks.

The unspoken knowledge that your things are in your apartment. Where you know Matthew now has access to. You stare at the dashboard ahead of you. “Um. Is—do you have anything you could spare me? For… tonight?”

“Yeah. ’Course.”

“Thank you.” For his understanding. For his offer of a home. For the ride.

It’s roughly a twenty minute drive without the rest of Pittsburgh traffic to get to his place. He’s renting out a small house.

“The bathroom’s the second door here.” He directs you down the hall, at the tail end of a half-hearted tour of his place.

“Oh—you can shower first. It’s your place.”

“Uh. Sure. Your room’s this one. It’s not really set up, yet.” He flicks the lights on to the room, the both of you hovering by the pushed opened door.

You assume his room is the one at the end, further away from the bathroom between your rooms.

“I can do that,” you say. “Unless you have a problem with me going through your linen cupboard.”

“Nope. No secrets in there. Learnt my lesson with hiding contraband in small spaces.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ. Did they teach you about shitty, self-deprecating humour in rehab?”

Langdon makes a disagreeing hum. “That one’s all me.” He takes a step backward, down the hall to his room.

“Hey, um—thank you. Really. I know this is a lot for a stranger.”

His knuckles rap on the doorjamb twice, lips flattening into a smile. “Don’t mention it.”

You busy yourself in the kitchen while he’s in the shower. Something quick and easy with what he has in his fridge and pantry.

“You don’t have to do that,” Langdon says, when he’s done. Freshly showered, wearing a t-shirt and sleep pants.

“It’s the least I can do,” you say, plating up dinner for the two of you. “Can I take your car tomorrow? Mine’s still in evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Oh shit, you don’t know that part.” You explain what happened in the hospital’s parking lot—to Ahmad, to your car; gesturing to the circular scar on your cheek left behind from the gun.

“What the fuck?” he says emphatically, when you’re done.

“Yeah. Anyway,” you dismiss, “car, please?”

Langdon blinks, trying to regain his bearings after your abrupt change of topics. “Yeah, of course. What do you need to get done?”

“I wanted to go to mine. Get some stuff. Mainly rice.”

“I have some.” He heads for his pantry next to his fridge, opening it. Takes out the instant rice.

You had seen it while perusing his pantry before, electing to ignore it. You make a face at his offer. “Don’t insult me.”

“Oh, come on. We’re doing rice elitism, now? You’re too good for instant rice?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Is it because I’m white?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

A sneer with no heat behind it, aimed at you. “Okay, maybe you should have taken Parker up on her offer.”

“No, you can’t get rid of me, now. On that note, can we be a shoes off household?”

“Seriously?”

“I also have house slippers I can get from my place.”

A resigned drop of his head, lips twitching as he shakes his head. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Thank you,” you chirp.

After the first night you spend at Langdon’s place and at the end of your shared shift, he had driven you to your apartment after you told him your address. He went up with you, even with your insistence that you were fine to go alone.

Your things had already been in a bag from when you had taken them from Robby’s place to yours the night of the 3rd. Langdon’s the one that unplugs your rice cooker while you’re grabbing everything you need from the bathroom.

You don’t touch the bedroom, even though logic tells you that other places in the apartment could be monitored as well.

You’re in and out in less than ten minutes.

The next weekend after the 4th of July, you ask Santos for self-defence lessons. You don’t want to sign up to a gym, since it meant giving another corporation your personal information. Maybe you’re being paranoid, but Santos eventually agrees—her apartment suddenly has an empty room.

The first time Langdon drives you to her place, they both stare at each other, until he blinks, relenting. “I didn’t realise this was your place,” he says.

Some boundary crossed. You don’t quite know what their issue is, just that they’re hostile to each other, even with some efforts of professionalism.

“You’re living with Langdon?” Santos asks, after twenty minutes of practising deflections of punches.

“I needed a place to stay,” you say. You feel wrong-footed—Santos is your friend. When you first started in the Pitt, she was one of the only ones that didn’t seem to measure you up against Langdon. You don’t want her to feel slighted. But he opened his home up to you when you needed one.

“Robby’s place is free. Whitaker’s in there right now,” Santos points out.

“Robby broke up with me.”

“Since when?”

You chuckle, dry. “On the 3rd of July. Before his sabbatical. He texted me.”

“He texted you?” Even she sounds surprised by it.

“I’m assuming he wanted a clean break to fuck whoever he wanted for three months.” The punch you throw is sloppy.

Santos easily catches your arm, tugging you in to lightly tap her knuckles against your sternum. The evident winner. “Doesn’t sound like him.”

“I didn’t think so either.”

She lets go of you. Rocks onto the balls of her socked feet. “If you need to escape your new roommate for a few days, I’ve got a spare room.”

You study her. The way the offer is genuine, but her own kindness makes her uncomfortable. “Thanks, Santos.”

“Whatever,” she dismisses. “I’m done for today. Let’s get some takeout.”

You text Langdon to let him know you’re having lunch with Santos, and you receive a thumbs up in return.

Once a week, on the weekend that you’re all not working, Langdon continues driving you to Santos’ apartment. Hanging back by the steps to the stoop, waiting until the door shuts before he heads back into his car.

They’re not friendly. But more often than not, Santos simply nods at Langdon in a lacklustre greeting. During the weekends when you’re both at her front door; when they see each other after clocking in in the Pitt.

The day you find out about his bad back, you swap lockers with him by the end of that same shift. You refuse to take no for an answer. You inadvertently have access to each other’s lockers, since you have to memorise his code, now that you’ve swapped.

Living with Frank is interspersed with moments of friendship and an incident that you force yourself to wipe from memory.

A random rise to consciousness in the middle of the night. Blearily rubbing your eyes.

And you hear him.

Bedsheets rustling and then the unmistakable sound of a moan. Bitten off. Muffled.

Shit.

You should not be hearing this. A quick check of the time lets you know that it’s well past 3 AM. Neither of you should be awake. Especially when you both have work.

Remaining awake and hearing him feels voyeuristic. But you can’t fall asleep. And you feel like you can’t move because if you do, you’re alerting him to the fact that you’re awake. Which is the last thing you want to be doing.

You feel trapped. Shutting your eyes. Attempting to tune him out. You’re an adult—he’s an adult. This is a normal thing. Bodies have needs. He probably hasn’t been with anyone in a while, seeing as he’s been through rehab, separation, and now an essentially random roommate.

The least you can do is grant him some grace. Right?

You even out your breathing. Try to focus the sound of your breath leaving your body alongside the rise and fall of your chest.

Definitely do not concentrate on the noises from the room next to yours. The walls are—they’re not thin, but they’re not soundproof, either. You don’t know what the layout of his room is. If his bed is close to yours on the other side of that wall.

He’s quiet enough that if you were asleep, you wouldn’t have been disturbed.

But you can still hear him.

The movement of sheets. The squeak of the bed frame.

A drawn out groan. Ragged breathing.

Stop listening. Stop listening.

It’s quiet.

Then the rustle of fabric. Footfalls. His door opening. The bathroom door opening.

You eventually fall back asleep.

The next morning passes normally. He, obviously, had no idea what transpired. You’re stopped at a red light, sitting in the passenger seat when you ask, “What’s the roommate policy on bringing a home a date?”

Frank blinks. Casts a quick, inquisitive look in your direction before his attention returns to the road. “Uh, go for it? I don’t really care.”

“Cool,” you say. “Um—same goes for you. If you… want to bring dates home.”

He snorts, driving once the light is green. “I’m meant to avoid big changes during my first year of recovery. That includes new relationships.”

You look over at him. “We’re getting close to your first year, right?” It’s August—next month would make it 12 months since his departure from the Pitt, and the start of his rehab.

“Shit,” Frank huffs. His knuckles blanch against the steering wheel. Licks his lips. “Um—December 31st is my one year.”

You almost ask what that means. But you process it. Benzos would need to be detoxed from his system. There was probably a withdrawal process, since cold turkey isn’t a safe option. “It still counts.”

“Not to me.”

Your lips twist, unhappy. But you’re not going to try and argue with him about it. “Isn’t—moving houses and being separated considered a big change?” you ask.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says, casually. “But it was a long time coming. Can’t say it came out of nowhere.”

“Jesus, Frank.”

“I’m handling it. I’m still sober.” And like he can still feel your eyes on him, he shoots you a look. “Would you feel better if I gave you my sponsor’s number?”

“I didn’t mean it like I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” Frank says, simple. “But you also deserve to feel safe when you’re living with someone that was an addict.”

You swallow. “I knew your circumstances going in, though. You didn’t randomly spring it on me.”

He hums. “I would feel better if you had my sponsor’s number. And probably my therapist’s too.”

Your mouth is agape. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’ll send them to you.”

And you both know it’s decided, because this is the kind of decision that only he can make.

“Thank you,” you say. It feels like some kind of monumental step towards the burgeoning—friendship, or roommate, or whatever label you two share.

Frank makes a noise of acknowledgement. “So are you seeing someone at the moment?”

You frown. “What?” His question feels like a non-sequitur.

“You asked about bringing dates home.”

You did. But only because you heard him pleasuring himself last night, and wanted him to know that it was okay for him to bring people home if he needed to. But you can’t fucking admit that to him.

You clear your throat. “Um. No. I’m not—seeing anyone. I don’t think I’m built for the… casual dating game that everyone seems to be doing right now.”

Frank side-eyes you. Brow furrowed. “You were with Robby.”

You can feel the judgement emanating from him. “And?” you ask, slightly terse.

“I’ve never seen him go seven weeks with the same person. Casual is all he does, especially after…” He trails off.

“Adamson,” you finish. You know this. Dana’s told you.

He frowns. “No. Well—Collins. But I guess it happened at the same time.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Collins?” you echo. “Heather Collins? They were a thing?”

“Crap.” Frank pulls into the parking garage. Slowly drives to find an empty space to park. Long fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “You didn’t know about them?”

“Robby didn’t say anything.” No one had said anything, but they did try to warn you about… entangling yourself with Robby.

“It was a while ago. Back when we were still med students and Robby wasn’t chief attending yet,” Frank explains.

“And Adamson was alive.”

“Yeah. They—Robby hasn’t really been the same since Adamson passed. And it wasn’t Heather’s job to make them work if Robby wasn’t going to try either.”

You can’t help but wonder what version of Robby you got. Not completely healed, but seemingly ready to go the distance. Or was pretending to give you everything the same brand of cruelty that everyone tried to warn you of?

“Sorry,” Frank offers. The car’s parked. He tugs the handbrake.

“No, it’s—don’t be sorry.” You feel like this is something you needed to hear. To tamp down the thoughts that have been straying to Robby whilst he’s on sabbatical. “You’re not his keeper, Frank.”

“Still. You’re my friend. And Robby’s—kind of still my friend, even if he’s fucked off and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“You too, huh?” You’re both out of the car. Walking towards the elevators that’ll bring you up to the ED.

“Honestly, I’m not surprised. I feel like Abbot’s the only one that’s lucky enough to get updates from Robby. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

You spare a thought to wonder if Santos or Whitaker would also be receiving updates. You’ve watched Robby embrace Santos’ presence, especially when you first started. And despite Whitaker’s temporary presence during his rotation, he’s close enough to Robby to be offered house-sitting duties.

“That’s mature of you, Langdon.”

“Don’t get it messed up,” he says, smirking. His arms grazes against yours, a gentle bump. A soft and familiar touch. “That’s just the therapy talking. Not all of us can be perfect angels like you.”

“Has anyone ever told you that your therapised self is annoying?”

“No, actually. A lot of people have said they like me better like this.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

Frank grins.

Two months into living with Frank, Abby Langdon shows up on the front porch at 9 PM, manila envelope in hand.

This isn’t the first time you’ve met her.

No, the first time you met her was when Frank still wanted the kids to visit him, even with his new living arrangement with you. Since their separation, Tanner and Penny stayed over every second weekend.

Abby wasn’t a cruel person; Frank had access to the kids at her place, so long as he called ahead if he wanted to see them more than a fortnight. More often than not, he would use his weekends to see them, after driving you to Santos’ place.

Almost immediately after you had moved in, Abby wanted to meet you. Even though you passed every police check required to work in the hospital, she didn’t personally know you. She wanted to know who was living with the father of her children.

And you couldn’t begrudge her that.

You had spent the night leading up to meeting her worried. Too worried to sleep. Worried that you were going to make such a bad impression that Abby wouldn’t let Frank’s kids visit anymore. You weren’t sure. You just knew that it would be disastrously bad.

You tossed and turned so much that Frank ended up outside your door. Knocking.

You contemplated feigning unconsciousness. But decided against it. Shuffled towards your door, opening it. “Sorry,” you say. You know exactly why he’s here.

“You’re stressed,” he observes.

“I don’t want to fuck it up for you,” you admit. It’s been two weeks of living here with him. Your interactions mostly made up of cordial conversations interspersed with rare moments of vulnerability. Like this. Like when he first asked if you were okay meeting Abby.

“You won’t,” Frank says. “Honestly, after my fuck ups, I’m surprised I haven’t lost all access to them.”

“You’re being too hard on your—”

“It’s fine.” He waves away whatever argument you were preparing to make in his defence. Instead, he takes a step backwards, beckoning you. “C’mon.”

“What?” Despite your question, he doesn’t answer. Merely walks out the hallway, into the kitchen. And you follow, the light flicking on.

You watch, and it only takes a few moments for you to realise what he’s doing. “Hot chocolate,” you say. “Really?”

“It helps my kids when they can’t sleep.”

“Do you think I’m twelve?”

Frank frowns, stirring the contents in the saucepan. “My kids are three and five.”

“So you think I’m five years old?”

“You said it. Not me.”

You flip him off when he looks at you.

Frank laughs, soft.

A few minutes later, there’s two mugs of hot chocolate on the kitchen counter. Topped with mini marshmallows.

“I know you’re worried for my sake,” Frank says.

Your fingers closed around the mug. Seeping the heat of it. “Because it means a lot to you. And you were nice enough to let me live here. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Idle conversation and two hot chocolates later, Abby is at your doorstep in the morning. You’re still incredibly nervous. You had woken up earlier than necessary for your day off. Filled with an intense need to appease her through cookies.

You don’t know how many times Abby has been to this house prior to you moving in. But she walks around, inspecting the decor. Pauses by picture frames that Frank has up.

She’s wearing socks; her loafers are by the front door. You have no idea when Frank told her about your no shoes preference.

“Are these your parents?” Abby studies the lone picture you have of them. A framed photo that you took out of your room and placed at the mouth of the kitchen when Frank noted that there was space for more pictures.

“Yeah. They’re in LA.” You don’t quite know how much information to offer. You don’t know how transparent Frank was when telling her about your situation. “I miss them.”

“I would too,” she says. Heads into the kitchen where you are. “But you can’t see them.” Not a question.

“No.” But you answer anyway. “Maybe when it’s all settled. When he’s behind bars. I know it’s not a great situation but I promise you, he doesn’t know that I’m here, and if your kids come by, they’d be safe, and—”

Abby smiles, dipping her head in a way that reminds you of Frank. “I know,” she says. “Frank’s not perfect, sure, but he’s a great father. I never wanted to take that from him. Or my kids.”

You’re nodding. Rapidly. “Of course.”

“With everything that happened with him—it’s…”

“It’s not what you signed up for,” you say.

She sniffs, fingernails tapping across the counter.

“I don’t know if it’s worth anything, but any time he talks about you, he defends you. He doesn’t hate you for the separation. He still cares about you.”

“I care about him too,” Abby says, wistful. “We were in love, once. But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You don’t owe me that.” You think about Robby. Feel something twist in your chest at the reminder. You were completely blindsided by the breakup, and now you don’t have any means of closure with him on sabbatical.

Abby stays for two hours. You talk with her, and by the end of it, you send her away with containers of cookies that she gladly takes.

Every two weeks, she shows up on your doorstep with Tanner and Penny. Stays for fifteen minutes, taking home any other baked goods or meals you decide to give her.

So. Abby at your door again.

You nod, something sad and understanding twisting your face as you step back to let her in.

You make yourself scarce in your room. She leaves after the better part of an hour. You don’t hear Frank shuffle into his room, so you head out into the kitchen. “Let’s go,” you say, his car keys dangling from your hand.

He’s sitting one of the kitchen stools, staring at the unopened envelope on the counter. Barely looking at you. “I’m not in the mood.”

“We’re going to get ice cream. And a bunch of shit to make mocktails.”

“We can just get it delivered.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I don’t really want to go.”

“Are you seriously going to make me go by myself?” It’s a low blow. In the time that you’ve essentially moved in, he’s always accompanied you. Almost like a dog, alerted of your departure by the front door opening. Even when you just need a short walk to clear your head, he insists on trailing after you in silence.

“Oh my God, you are annoying,” Frank groans, pushing off the kitchen stool.

You grin. “You’ll live.”

In the car, at a red light, you cast him a glance. “I can try and call Garcia. Maybe she can join our pity party.” From what you can extrapolate from their interactions when she’s on traumas, you’re sure they get along.

Frank snorts, a derisive sound. “Don’t bother.”

“I thought you were friends.”

“I was gone ten months,” he says, “and I didn’t hear from anyone.”

You frown, silence ensuing as you drive under the green light. Frank was an R4 when he left. Which means he’s been working in the hospital for four years. You can’t imagine working somewhere for that long and not caring about them when they disappeared for ten months.

You can’t help but think of your friends back in LA.

“What about you?” Frank asks.

“What about me?”

“You talk to anyone back home?”

“I changed my number,” you say. And you stayed off social media. At Javadi’s insistence, you made new accounts, pretending you lost access to your older ones. Small, private. No pictures of you on there. You hadn’t wanted to give Matthew a chance to find you. And yet, he still had.

“I—uh. Thought that if I reached out to anyone back home, he’d know where to find me. He found where my parents lived. That’s why I left in the first place.”

Frank stays quiet. You like that he doesn’t rush to offer condolences. Eventually, he says, “Sounds lonely.”

You park the car outside of a brightly lit grocery store. “Sounds like we both were. C’mon. Snacks and mocktails.”

You end up on the couch together, invading his personal space, limbs outstretched. Three different flavours of mocktails, six between you, scattered across the coffee table. Watching an exorbitant amount of trashy shows.

You show up to work the next day lacking sleep, but you think it’s worth it.

Robby comes back from his sabbatical on a Monday.

If you’re being honest, you can’t say that you had ever forgotten his return date. A heavy thing that you couldn’t unshed, regardless of how much you wished to.

He seems—mellow. Even after everything, you’re glad he took a break from the Pitt, because he seems more relaxed. The first time he’s happy to defer to Dr Al-Hashimi regarding an incoming trauma, she blinks in shock before resuming her lead.

You’re the one that has to hunt him down. “So we’re not going to talk about it?”

Robby pauses, tucking the tablet under his arm. “I was trying to… create a professional boundary by not bringing it up at work.”

“You don’t think we’re a little too late for professional boundaries?” you bite out.

He sighs. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“Right. Of course.” The implication there is that you’re the difficult one.

The professionalism established. From whatever you were, to this. The distance clearly helped him.

“Look, we can—”

“No. It’s—it’s okay.” You walk away before you can think too deeply into it.

You spend most of that day presenting cases to Al-Hashimi rather than Robby, despite knowing that her presence in the Pitt is only temporary with Robby’s return.

There’s a moment when you leave a patient’s room. You see Robby and Frank. Talking to each other. You’re not close enough to eavesdrop. It could be about anything. It could be about a case. But.

You’re already familiar with Frank’s expressions. You live with the man. It’s not impersonal enough to be about a patient.

It makes something in your stomach twist. Robby’s willing to talk to Frank, but not to you.

By the end of the day, Robby finds you again at the lockers.

“I thought you had a higher one,” he notes, casual. Leaning against the slab of them.

You shove your things into your bag. “I swapped with Frank,” you say.

“Frank.” He remembers it was ‘Langdon’ when he left.

You zip up your bag. Closing the locker with a sigh. “He’s got a bad back.”

Robby flattens his features into a smile. “Yeah, ’course.”

You stand, twisting the strap to your bag on your shoulder.

“Do you have a second? I wanted—to talk,” he says.

“I think Frank’s waiting for me.”

“Please.”

You pause. His eyes crease in the corners, tilting his head in a silent appeal.

With a sigh, you incline your head in wordless agreement, and the two of you make your way outside to the ambulance bay. You can’t help but look around. “No bike?”

Robby rubs the back of his neck. “I got rid of it.”

You can’t help the raise of your eyebrow. “Wow, changing it up after three months. Must be a record for you.”

Robby levels you with a look. No anger to it, but accepting. Like he’s deserving of your barbed words. “I didn’t see anyone during the three months I was away.”

“That’s not any of my business, Robby. You can do whatever you want. You made that really clear when you broke up with me.” But still. Part of you feels relieved. Another part of you still wants to know why he broke up with you in the first place.

“That was never the reason why we broke up.”

“That’s not the point. There was—nothing. You just broke up with me out of nowhere.”

“You didn’t ask me to stay.”

“You—you wanted me to ask you to stay when you already had one foot out of the door? I loved you, Robby, but I’m not that desperate.”

“Loved? It’s only been three months—”

“Don’t try to do this—”

“Three months isn’t that long—”

“Everything okay here?” Frank.

His easy assertion makes you realise that your voices had been rising in volume. You had gotten dragged into Robby’s orbit. An ever-consuming black hole.

Your eyes remain on Robby. Waiting.

But he doesn’t say anything. Jaw clenches, turning away. Hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

You can’t help the disappointment that afflicts your features. You feel stupid for it. “Yeah, we’re okay,” you assure Frank. “I’m done here. I was just leaving.”

“’Kay. Let’s go, then.” Frank stands aside.

You go first. Frank follows after you.

Once again, like those three months ago, Frank turns the radio up so neither of you need to fill that silent void. You burn the afterimage of the passing streetlights on the inside of your eyelids.

Dinner happens on the couch, in front of the TV. Some kind of trashy show playing. You’re not quite paying attention enough to remember why they’re screaming at each other. Frank reheats the food you’ve prepared for the week, and drops down next to you.

Close enough that his thigh is almost on top of yours.

“You,” you start, “have the whole couch to sit on, asshole—”

“I need to get the remote—”

“Nuh uh, I chose this. I was here first—”

“I was getting you food. I do one nice thing—”

You smack the remote into his chest.

“Ow,” he huffs, grabbing it from you.

Halfway through the second episode of whatever Frank chose to watch, your head’s already resting against his side. Slid halfway down the couch in your mindless quest to get comfortable.

Frank’s hand rests on your furthest shoulder. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” you yawn.

His hand strays from your shoulder to the back of your neck, squeezing gently. “Just so you know, this comforting thing’s more for you than me.”

You bring your elbow back enough to prod him. “Just when I thought you were such a good friend.”

“Hey, hey, whoa, this is abuse.”

“I will show you real abuse if you keep this up.”

“Whatever happened to ‘do no harm’?”

“It never applied to you.”

“Oh wow, so much for the Pitt’s precious, little angel—”

“Fuck off with that—”

“Okay, okay, wait—” Frank wrangles you back down.

You settle against him again. His fingers ghost over your shoulder. Down to your collarbone, then back to your shoulder. Distracted and repetitive motions.

“Sorry about… him,” Frank says, softer.

“Did he talk to you at all?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

He stays quiet for a moment. “Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want to know.”

A heavy sigh. “He wanted to apologise.”

“Really?”

“Hm,” Frank hums. “For brushing me off on my first day. Didn’t realise how difficult the whole—rehab and coming back thing must have been for me.”

“I’m glad you got that from him.”

“Yeah,” he says. “’S weird. That was all I wanted from him on my first day, but now… I don’t know. I feel indifferent.”

“Is it because I’m still mad at him?”

“No. Well—maybe? I think I just realised how—highly I thought of him. And how embarrassing it was. I was trying so hard to get out of coworker jail and didn’t realise he was only ever going to see me as a resident.”

“’M sorry, Frank.”

“I think that’s just how he is.”

You wonder if that’s how Robby’s going to perceive you now. Just a resident, now that he’s done with the relationship.

The fast pace in which the weeks pass make it easy to fall into that coworker void with Robby. You can’t help but feel disappointed, despite being eager to accept that you two were done. You still feel his eyes on you, watching when you’re working together.

By the start of November, your 12 month lease in your vacant apartment contractually ends. You don’t renew it. You officially live with Frank, able to contribute to the rent.

“How about we celebrate, roomie?” You lean against the desk next to Frank, placing your tablet down.

He takes it, slotting it back into the holder. “What’re you thinking?”

“Either we do takeout or go somewhere for a proper dinner.”

“Takeout,” he decides, almost immediately.

More often than not, post-shift dinners are quiet and comfortable in your kitchen. The idea of expending more energy to go out after a shift would make any sane person want to cry.

“Pick a cuisine.”

Frank deliberates. “Sushi.”

You hum. “Alright. Surprising, but let’s do it.” You hold out a fist for him.

He bumps it. “Here’s hoping we get out of here on time.”

“Don’t jinx it, asshole.”

“If anything goes wrong,” McKay says, looking up from the computer she’s sitting in front of, “I’m blaming the two of you.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you defend.

“Guilty by association.”

Your mouth drops open.

Frank laughs.

“McKay, I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” she says. “But you’re slacking on the food you bring into the ED.”

You tsk. “That’s because Frank eats most of it before I can bring it in.”

“Wow, the angel’s really throwing me under the bus?” Frank asks, affronted by your betrayal.

“If it means getting McKay to like me again, yes,” you say to him, flipping him off for the nickname. And to McKay, “I swear, it’s all his fault.”

McKay laughs, shaking her head, clearly humoured by your bickering.

“You guys alright?” Robby draws close, clearing his throat.

And that’s another thing.

You can feel the eyes watching you, and Robby tends to make appearances when you’re getting too chummy with Frank in the ED. You’ve picked up on it. Frank’s picked up on it. You’re pretty sure half the ED’s picked up on it, if the way McKay hides a grin into her propped up fist is of any indication. She eyes the three of you like it’s reality TV levels of entertainment.

You shoot Frank a look.

He meets your gaze, eyebrows arching up, lips twisted into a smile.

The unspoken communication that says Here we go again.

“Just peachy, boss man,” Frank says.

Robby tilts his head, eyes narrowing.

“I’m going to check on my patient,” you say. You don’t need to, but it’s better than hanging around whilst Robby is on some kind of disrupting warpath.

Robby has been less likely to bite someone’s head off because of their pacing—Mohan was the first to notice after he came back from sabbatical—but he still snaps when he gets prodded too far. You don’t want to be the one that does that.

“Let me know which sushi place,” Frank says.

You hold out a hand to Frank as you pass.

He slaps it, fingers sliding against each others.

“Your patients are waiting,” Robby says, if not a little terse.

Another look shared between you and Frank.

Yeah, you two getting along is definitely something that Robby hates. You’re not quite sure what part of it he dislikes the most—that you’ve attached yourself to the once scorned resident, or that Frank no longer chases after Robby’s presence in the ED.

Hours later, your dinner is picked up from a small sushi joint on the way home. It’s evidently cheaper than getting it delivered.

Dinner in the kitchen, a random channel flicked on on the TV, quiet and low in the background. Peaceful and comfortable.

It’s normal. It’s routine.

Until you’re both done and you’re crouched in front of the cupboards, rummaging for a container to pack the leftovers in.

On the way up, you smack your head against the edge. “Fuck,” you hiss, already pressing your hand against the area along your hairline.

“Oh—shit.” Frank very clearly heard the sound. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you grumble, more embarrassed than anything.

“Let me see.” He draws close.

Your hand drops as you turn, leaning against the kitchen counter.

He’s crowded in front of you, fingers prodding at your head. “You got any concussion symptoms?”

“Nope, I’m fine.”

This kind of closeness is a familiarity already known to you. It’s not any different to winding down on the couch together, your feet in his lap, or his arm around you.

And yet.

“You sure?” he asks. Concentration lines his face, his hands coming up to stabilise your head, scrutinising your pupils.

“Very. Just feeling stupid,” you say. Your eyes darting between his, like you don’t quite know where to focus.

“Well, you’ve certainly knocked out the very few brain cells you have left,” he teases, once he’s determined that you’re not hurt.

“Hey, we both know I’m your senior, which means I have more brain cells than you.”

“You’re only my senior because I had to repeat my R4.”

“Oh, boohoo. And who’s fault was that?”

Frank half-sneers, ducking his head to laugh.

You angle your head up. Suddenly aware of how close he is.

His fingers still cradling your face. His thumb brushes against your cheek.

You don’t know who makes the move to get closer. But you are, and the kitchen feels so quiet outside the pounding of blood between your ears.

You think Frank breathes out your name. A hand trails down your jaw; his tongue peeks out to wet his lips.

“We—” you breathe, swallowing heavily, “we shouldn’t do this.”

Frank’s eyes track the movement of your throat. Slender fingers resting above your racing pulse. “Right,” he agrees, chin tucked to his chest. Dark strands of his hair fall in front of his eyes.

Instinct making you brush it aside.

His eyelids flutter shut at the almost there touch. Capturing your wrist between his digits. Lowering your hand, your knuckles ghosting against his lips.

Your breath hitches.

He releases your hand.

You step back. Your back hits the kitchen counter. “Frank…”

“Nothing changes,” he says, swallowing thickly. You watch his Adam’s apple bob with the action. “I—really like being your friend.”

You nod, tucking your hands behind you. Gripping the edge of the counter. Stabilising or restraining yourself. “I care about you, Frank. I don’t…”

“I know,” he offers.

You don’t think he does. Both of you having different conversations.

“Good night,” he whispers, and he leaves to the hallway. His bedroom door closes.

You let out a shaky breath. Fuck.

Nothing changes, he had said. Except you’ve been in bed for what feels like hours and you can’t fall asleep. You can’t do anything except toss and turn and think about how close you were to him. The blue of his eyes. The length of his fingers as they encircled your wrist. The soft of his lips against your knuckles.

You’re so fucked.

You know this, even as your hand delves under the elastic of your underwear. Applying pressure to your clit. Your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You can’t make a noise, because it’d be too obvious what you’re doing.

It’s been a while. The last time you had done anything was with Robby.

And yet, all you can think about is what it would have been like if you had both allowed the moment to continue, instead of stopping it short. What kissing Frank would feel like. How far he would have wanted to take it. If he would sound anything like that time you heard him through your walls.

Your breath is hitched in the darkness of your room. Your fingers gathering your slick. Smearing up and down your slit. Up towards the bundle of nerves.

You wonder if Frank’s also struggling to fall asleep. If he can hear you. If he’s doing the same thing as you.

You’re so so fucked.

An established fact, and yet, when you’re sweating and riding your fingers, you keep going. An escaped gasp, two fingers buried inside you. Curling up, massaging against that soft spot within. Your other hand rubbing against your clit.

You’re a mess. You know. Wondering if Frank would be good at this—he probably would be. He was married. Had two kids. Probably knew what he was doing.

You make yourself cum on your own fingers to thoughts of him. Too weak limbed and tired for a proper cleanup after your efforts.

The morning after, it’s the same routine. Nothing changes.

Frank still rises early than you, prepares breakfast and coffee, timing it so it’s still hot when you’re showered and dressed. Shuffling into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” you say, and try to compose yourself into someone that hadn’t just thought of their housemate while touching themself.

Frank hums. “There’s still leftovers if you want it for lunch.”

“Yeah. I’ll pack them.”

He heads to the bathroom for his shower.

Nothing changes. Last night was an outlier. This is a return to normal.

“SVA incoming! One driver. Three minutes out,” Dana alerts.

“Let’s prep Trauma 2,” Robby instructs. He scans the available faces.

“Whitaker—with me.” And he knows he needs a resident. Flickers between you and Frank—Mohan’s already on her own case with Santos in Trauma 1.

Robby decides on you. “You ready?”

You nod. Look over at Frank, who settles into a smile.

He holds a fist out to you. You bump it with your own.

“Get a move on.” Robby’s brows are furrowed, gaze sweeping between your hands.

You try not to grin as you leave with Whitaker. Out into the ambulance bag, preparing for the rush.

You think you’re ready. But.

The doors of the ambulance open. You and Whitaker on the gurney.

And when you see the driver—

Ringing in your ears. You recognise her.

“Mrs Tran,” you call out in Vietnamese, “Mrs Tran—Huong, can you hear me?” Your knuckles against her sternum, rubbing to rouse her.

“You know her?” Whitaker asks, across from you.

“Her daughter was here. I treated her before.” Lily Tran. From the top of your head, you recall it being a stomach ache.

You both push the gurney into the trauma room. Robby following. Princess and Vivi already in there.

Mrs Tran groans. Eyelids fluttering.

“Huong, you had a car accident. You’re at the hospital now.”

Vivi and Princess bustle around you. Hooking Mrs Tran up to the machines.

A complaintive sound, hoarse. “Lily…” she utters, struggling with her words.

“Was she in the car with you?” One driver. No mention of a passenger involved. If she was in the car…

You don’t know why in the wake of potential bad news, your eyes seek Robby. He’s already looking at you, face set. Frowning.

“No…” Mrs Tran huffs, and your attention drops back on her, “at school.”

“Lily’s at school?” Today’s a weekday, you remind yourself. She should be safe.

She nods. Struggles to swallow.

“Car… following…” Is all Mrs Tran manages before her eyes roll up. The monitors beeping. Alerting.

“Huong!”

“BP’s crashing!” Vivi.

The room flies into action.

“Shit. Did you catch what she said?” Eyes already darting up to Princess as you scramble.

“A car was following her,” Princess offers.

You spend 20 minutes in Trauma 2. Working on her. She’s unconscious, but not in a life-threatening position. Her vitals are stable.

“Good work,” Robby says to the room. A fist out in Whitaker’s direction, who bumps it.

You nod in their direction, letting out a steadying breath. “I’m going to chart her up,” you say. Snapping off your gloves, heading out from Trauma 2.

“Robby!” Dana’s voice at Central.

The sharp tone makes you straighten instinctively. Robby’s gentle hand on the small of your back before he bypasses you.

Two cops at Central.

Frowning, you get closer. Place yourself near Dana, the both of you close enough to Robby. Hospital staff outnumbering the police. You see Whitaker at the computer, pretending he’s busy typing, but attention focused on the cops.

“We need to take a statement,” one of the cops says.

“She’s stable but she’s not awake,” Robby explains slowly.

“Can you let us know when she is?” the other one speaks.

“Is she in trouble?” you ask, frowning. Your arms are crossed over your chest.

“No, nothing like that. She was on call with dispatch at the time of the accident.”

“She was worried. She said another car was following her.”

The cop inclines her head. “We’re investigating the cause of the crash, and the claims of there being another driver.” She takes a card from her pocket, passing it over to Robby. “Give us a call when she’s awake.”

“Will do, officers,” Robby says.

You watch them walk away before you head over to Dana. “Have you called her emergency contact yet?”

“Yeah. About ten minutes after she got in,” Dana says.

“Thanks. You know who it is?” You have no idea who her emergency contact would have been—from what you’ve gathered from conversations with her when she was here, she’s alone in Pittsburgh with Lily. No other family. And Lily wouldn’t be listed as an emergency contact; she wouldn’t even have a phone.

“Her neighbour. An older lady. Had to use translating services.”

It reminds you of your parents, alone in LA. Creating their own family when all their siblings and cousins are overseas. Finding a community within neighbours, people that speak your own language.

“Hey.” Dana’s hand on your shoulder. Squeezing. “You need to know how to put them away.”

You chuckle, dry. “You’re one to talk.” You know Dana’s the type to carry the patients home with her, even if it’s a standard case.

“That’s exactly why I’m telling you. You don’t want to end up like me, kid.”

“You act like it’s the worst thing in the world—it’s not.”

You both fall silent, studying the overhead board.

“How’s your case going?” she asks, eventually.

“We’re making progress,” you tell her. “Real progress.”

“Good. I’m glad. Really need to see that bastard behind bars.”

“Yeah, you and me both. It’s certainly been a ride.”

“Why don’t you take ten while it’s qu—”

“No!” you interrupt. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Jesus, kid. Get out of here.”

You leave for the break room with a call to page you if you’re needed.

“Hey.” Frank’s at the table, stuffing his face with food.

“Hey—is that my noodles?”

“You said you weren’t feeling them since we have them at home,” he defends.

You tsk, opening the fridge. “I was going to give it to Parker.”

“Give her something else. I wanted your noodles.”

“You could have packed your own. We have more than enough at home.” You make a habit of meal prepping on Sundays—he insists on taking part.

“I could demolish another for dinner.”

You shake your head. You don’t know how he can do it. You could have the same thing for dinner every day, but God forbid you have it twice in one day.

Grabbing the communal dish of fried rice you made for everyone. Portioning a serving for yourself, then microwaving that instead. Companionable silence as you both eat, reminiscent of your months inside the walls of the house. Some meals shared on the table, others haphazardly eaten while he drives to or from the Pitt.

“You okay?” he asks. He absentmindedly grabs your finished bowl, washing the dishes in sink.

“Yeah.”

“How’s Trauma 2?”

“Stable. I’m worried about her, though,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

“Police are waiting for her statement. She was being followed when she crashed.”

“Followed? By who?”

“Don’t know yet. They’re still investigating who it was.” You eye the clock high on the wall, getting up. “Gotta go. I’ll see you out there.”

Frank hums his affirmative answer. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

You make it to Central, intending to check the board. You hear you name called.

Dana and Kiara. Another older woman. Greying strands amongst dark hair. And—

“Lily,” you breathe.

Lily Tran runs up to you. Fingers twisting into the straps of her backpack. Rocking back and forth on her feet. “They said Mommy’s here.”

“She is,” you say. “We’re taking care of her right now.” A hand rests on the top of her head.

“This is Van,” Dana introduces. “She’s Mrs Tran’s neighbour. And you already know Lily.”

You move your hand to shake Van’s, introducing yourself in Vietnamese. You talk to her—she barely works, hence why she was at home when she got the call. Her husband is the moneymaker. She picked up Lily from school when she got the call. She’s never been called into the hospital like this before, so she wasn’t sure what to do.

“It’s okay,” you reassure. You smile at her, then redirect to Kiara.

“Why don’t we head to the family room?” Kiara suggests.

“Yes, it’ll be better in there.” You let Kiara lead the way with Van.

Lily snags your hand, swinging as you both walk. “Are you one of the doctors helping Mommy?” she asks. Her head’s swivelling, inspecting every inch of the hospital.

“I am, yes. I’m doing my best to help her,” you say. You know you’re not supposed to make promises, as much as you want to.

“Okay,” she says. “Mommy will be okay. You helped my tummy feel better. So you’ll help her too.”

You barely clear the doors that lead to the nurses’ station in North.

“I’m—”

“Need some help in here!”

You whip around, seeing Whitaker pop back into Trauma 2.

No.

You turn to Kiara.

“Go,” she urges. “Lily, why don’t you come with me, okay?”

You barely look back when you run into Trauma 2.

“What happened?” you ask over the tones of the machines. Alerting. Frantic beeping.

“She just crashed! I was checking on her!” Whitaker says.

Nurses and doctors filing into the room around you. Another fifteen minutes in Trauma 2 with Mrs Tran.

“We need Robby,” you say.

“He’s with Dr Mohan,” Princess says.

You scan the room. You, Frank, Mel, Whitaker, Princess, Vivi. You can handle this, you tell yourself. You have to.

The seven of you try to get her stable. You think you have it.

Until that insistent flatline of her heart.

You lower the gurney, starting compressions on her chest. “Come on. Huong, come on, you can’t do this.”

It’s not enough.

“Swap out,” Frank says, after the first pulse check.

Another round of epi. Another check.

You swap again. Fingers interlocked over her chest.

“Pulse check.”

The whine of asystole.

Frank again.

“Should we—?”

“No,” you snap around heaving breaths. You can’t even tell who was talking. Your turn on compressions again “More epi.”

Frank says your name.

“No! We need—I need—”

You don’t see the look that Frank shoots Mel. Mel scurries out of the trauma room.

Princess’ lips thin out. “Dr Langdon?” she defers.

Frank observes you. “Five more minutes.”

It falls on deaf ears. You’ll take as long as you need to with this.

Robby enters, Mel following. Sees Frank standing by, arms crossed. Princess at the computer. Whitaker lingers, unsure what to do. He’s been here before, with Milton. Unable to give up.

At some point, Vivi had left too, but you didn’t realise. Efforts concerted on Mrs Tran.

Robby positions himself across from you. Says your name. Soft.

It makes you look up. He’s not here as Robby—he’s Dr Robinavitch, the senior attending. “No.” Shaking your head, arms burning. Sweat dotting along your hairline. The back of your neck.

“How long has it been?” Robby’s eyes cast over your shoulder.

“Eleven minutes,” Frank answers.

“We have to call it.”

You can’t help the cry. “No, no, I have to—”

Robby hand closes over one of your wrists.

It makes you stop.

The flatline drags. You’re staring at Mrs Tran’s chest. At your hands. At Robby’s on yours. Everything’s blurry.

Robby calls the time of death. Princess notes it on the computer. Frank steps in to turn off the monitor so the flat tone stops.

“Let’s take a moment of silence,” Robby says, quiet.

The room feels too hushed, despite the people in it. You step away from the gurney. Robby’s hands falls to his side. You’re staring at Mrs Tran’s face. Slackened. Pale. Incredibly still. This isn’t your first loss—no, you’ve been through this before in your previous med student and residency years, but this. It feels like a fresh wound. Something anew.

The silence reigns. Suffocates. You can barely draw a breath.

A moment of silence with Lily in the family room. Waiting. Convinced that you were going to make her mother feel better. Instead, you let her die. Couldn’t do enough.

Robby opens his mouth, probably ready to dismiss everyone.

You’re out as soon as you hear the intake of breath as he was preparing to speak. The door shoved open.

You want to escape. A little moment to break down. But you can’t.

Dana calls your name. Steps in front of you. Hands grabbing your upper arms. “You don’t have to do this,” she says. Soft but firm.

“I have to,” you say, voice already shaking. “I have to tell her.”

“You don’t. It’s not your job, okay? I can do it. Kiara’s can. Robby can. It’s not up to you.”

“But she—Lily said—”

“I know. I know, honey. Just let us handle this part, okay? We’ll get Perlah to prepare Mrs Tran for the viewing room. Take a break.”

You drop your head into a nod, even though you know you won’t take a break. You need to do something for Mrs Tran—for Lily.

Dana squeezes your arms before dropping her hands. “You ready?” she asks, attention moving to someone behind you.

You shift to the side, keeping your attention on the ground. You can’t look at him.

Robby sighs. “Yeah.” Takes a step to follow Dana when she goes. Stops in front of you.

You still don’t look at him. Back to the furtive demeanour from when you started working here. You can see his hand move, like he wants to touch you. But he doesn’t.

“Take twenty,” he says instead. Then he walks away.

Only when he’s gone, do you move. To Trauma 2. No breaks. You need to get this done.

“Hey,” Princess says, shocked when you’re back in the room. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I need to,” is all you say. You busy yourself, divorcing your mind from your body. You need to finish this. If you can’t be the one to tell Lily, then the least you can do is help her see her mother one last time.

Princess ends up requiring more of something. You don’t quite remember, but you’re the first to volunteer yourself to get it. The need to feel useful, even if it’s something as simple as fetching materials.

You’re near the nurses station when it happens.

A door bangs open. A clamouring of voices.

Footsteps running.

“Whoa—”

“Lily—”

“Stop—”

You barely have time to catch her around the shoulder. “Lily.”

“No! Let me go!”

Half-bent, trying to keep your hold on her. “Lily, listen to me—”

“No! Mommy! Mommy!” Struggling to escape.

“I’m so sorry, Lily—”

“You said you were helping her!” she yells. Face red and wet with tears.

“I know. I know, I’m so sorry.” You feel her words sink in your stomach. You drop to a crouch in front of her.

“No.” Her voice cracks. The lack of fight crumples her body against yours.

You wrap your arm around her, a hand on the back of her head. You refuse to look anywhere else. If you meet anyone else’s gaze, they’ll behold your failings.

She shakes. “Mama,” she wails. Hiccuping, sobbing.

And you hold her.

Bite your lip to stop yourself from crying too. This is not the time for your grief, you tell yourself. This is not about you. You gather yourself enough to lift her up. Walk towards the family room that she ran out from.

The door is still opened. Dana touches your shoulder when you pass by to sit on one of the chairs. Lily stays in your lap, head against your shoulder, sobbing. She remains otherwise unresponsive to Kiara’s and Van’s attempts at talking to her.

You feel like you have no choice but to stay. Hand intermittently rubbing her back.

You sense Robby’s presence rather than see him. Next to you, hovering. Not sitting—he hasn’t sat down since he, Kiara, and Dana tried to chase after Lily. A hand leaning on the top of the backrest of the chair.

The chair creaks as he moves.

“Robby.” Your hand reaches before you can consider the action.

His hand falls away from the chair.

Yours land on the now warmed backrest.

“Yeah?” he asks, quiet.

You tilt your head up to look at him. Trying to justify asking for him. In a way that isn’t just you being selfish and asking him to stay for you.

And he would. He doesn’t have the courage to permit the words to spill from his lips, but if those syllables left your mouth, he’d stay. Would do anything if you asked.

“I—left Princess in Trauma 2. She needed something. I didn’t have time to grab it,” you say instead. A coward’s way out.

Robby nods, corners of his eyes creased with worry. “I’ll handle it.”

“Thank you.”

His gaze flickers between your face, to your hand on the backrest. Then he steps away.

Robby and Dana leave. Kiara stays for a few more minutes, talking to Van. Then she leaves too, her expertise needed among the rest of the Pitt. You’re alone with Lily and Van. Lily barely talks. You and Van make aimless conversation.

You don’t know how long you sit here. Your legs grow numb, but you don’t contemplate budging.

“Can I see her?” Lily asks eventually, voice hoarse.

Van takes the water bottle from Lily’s backpack, letting her sip at it.

“Are you sure?” Your gaze flickers between her and Van.

Van slips the bottle back into the mesh pocket on the side of the bag. She nods.

“I want to see her,” Lily affirms, more steady.

“Okay,” you tell her. “I need to see if they’ve finished getting her ready. Can I get up?”

Lily nods against you. You guide her down to her feet. Van helps you stand up. Your legs tingle as feeling floods them again. Pins and needles.

You wait until it goes away before you exit the room. The door closed behind you. Leaning against it, watching the hospital flow around you.

“Perlah,” you call when you see her, straightening from the door.

“Hey,” she says. Sympathy scrunches her face. “You okay?”

You nod. “Is—is Mrs Tran in the viewing room yet?”

“Yeah. She’s ready for visitors.”

“Her daughter wants—” Your voice cracks, and you clear your throat. Rapidly blinking to dispel the sting in your eyes.

“Do you want me to take her?”

“No,” you say, “I can take her. Can you let Dana know where we’ll be?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Perlah.” You draw in a steadying breath before opening the door behind you. “She’s ready. Come on.”

Van holds Lily’s backpack as they walk. Lily takes your hand. You guide her past the nurses’ station. Through the doors. Past Central. You spy Robby and Langdon treating a new patient in Trauma 2. Turning towards the stairwell doors, then into the corridor. To the viewing room.

Opening the door.

The gurney. Mrs Tran’s face is covered, but her hand remains outside the sheet.

You let Lily step forward. Guiding you in. She lets go of your hand to take her mother’s.

You move the chair that’s by the door to the gurney. Lily stands on it, and Van stays next to her, supporting.

The door closed as you hover by it, still inside the room. Giving them space. Lily cries, softer and quieter than before.

Van occasionally speaks, addressing both Lily and Mrs Tran.

You stay.

In your head, you apologise for not being able to save her. You apologise to Lily. You wonder if Van can take her in.

It makes you miss your parents.

You squeeze your eyes shut. You’ve never been religious, but you pray that Lily will be okay.

Once again, you stay until Lily says she’s ready to leave. The slow shuffle out of the viewing room, leading them back into the main ED. You catch Kiara still hanging around. You meet her gaze, nodding at her.

“Lily,” you say, turning. You lower yourself until you’re level with her. “Kiara’s going to talk to you about something really, really important, okay?”

Lily sniffles, nodding. Quieter now—despondent. Energy low.

“I need you to listen to her.”

“Can you come with me?”

Your lips thin out. “No,” you say, kind but firm, “I can’t be there when Kiara talks to you.”

Wet, brown eyes move to Kiara, then return to you. “Will I see you again?” Like a last ditch effort for some comfort.

And you can’t even give that to her. “I don’t know. I hope so, but I don’t know, Lily.”

“Okay,” she says. She crowds into you for a hug.

You embrace her until she moves away from you.

You stand.

Van squeezes your shoulder. “I know you tried your best.”

It still wasn’t enough. “Thank you,” you say.

“I’ll do my best to take care of her, too.”

You nod, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes. “It was really nice to meet you, Van.”

“You too, Doctor.”

Lily sticks close to Van as they both follow Kiara. You watch, statuesque until they clear the doors to the nurses’ station.

Until Mohan inserts herself next to you. “Hey,” she whispers, gentle.

You clear your throat. “Hey. Um—d’you have a case for me?”

Her lips purse, like she knows you’re desperate for a distraction. “I was looking for Dr Langdon.”

“I can help. I’m a senior too—”

“He’s already on it. Continuity of care for the patient,” she explains. “I think I saw him going to the ambulance bay. Can you get him for me?”

“Okay.” You know she’s allowing you a kindness. A break. You’re not even sure if Frank’s out there. You haven’t been present in the ED for the past however long you’ve spent in the viewing room with Lily. You leave towards the ambulance bay.

Outside air, the noises of traffic further away.

And Frank.

Back to the brick wall, phone to his ear. “—talk to her.”

Silence ensues. Frank runs his hand through his hair. Evidently stressed.

“Please. Abby—just for two seconds. I just need—no, I’m not trying to—”

Oh. Tough pediatric cases in the ED tend to lead staff to getting in touch with their loved ones. This is something you know, something you’ve seen. In LA, in the Pitt. Staff calling their families for comfort.

Your fingers flex. You used to be able to call your parents in LA.

“Frank,” you say.

His attention snaps up to you. Phone still by his ear.

“When you’re done here, Dr Mohan is looking for you.”

He nods. Then, “Penny,” he breathes. Angles his body away from you. “Hey, baby, I just wanted to hear your voice…”

You leave. You can’t stay here.

You’re back into the ED. For a second you entertain heading to the break room, or the rest rooms. But. You know you don’t have time. Back into the stairwell. The doors pushed open. Stagger to a stop when you see the viewing room door.

You know she’s behind there. Is it worth going in there just to say you’re sorry? Would she even want to hear that from you? She knows you failed.

Pacing the length of the corridor until you feel like you can’t breathe. The heel of your palm pressed against your sternum. You stumble with blurry eyes, dropping to your haunches. The viewing room to your side, a hand pressed against the wall.

The day catches up to you.

Shuddering breath released. Tears leaking.

Bordering on the verge of breaking down. Fuck.

Mrs Tran and Lily.

You don’t hear the door opening behind you.

“Hey.” Robby’s voice.

“Just—give me a minute.” Still hunched over, wiping at your face like it can stop the tears. Trying to recompose yourself now that you’re not alone anymore.

“No, I’m not—I just wanted to check on you.”

You let out a derisive laugh. You feel exhausted. “You get your answer?”

He sighs. His footsteps getting closer. He’s near, but doesn’t touch you. “I’m sorry. Losing someone never gets easy.”

“Shut up, Robby,” you bite out. You draw in steadying air. “Why are you even here?”

“I’m your attending.”

You let out a wet laugh. No humour in it. Shifting so you’re sitting on the ground, back against the wall. Knees tucked against your chest.

Robby takes it as an invitation to occupy the space across from you, against the staircase wall. Revolving planets, unable to drift close. “It’s not your fault.”

You’re automatically shaking your head.

“It’s not,” he insists.

“You heard her, Robby. I was supposed to—” Make it better. Help her. You wipe at your eyes again, finger nails pressing into your palms when you close your fists.

“She’s a kid,” Robby says. “A grieving kid. It doesn’t mean that she’s right.” He’s internalised it. Learned it from himself when it came to Jake after Leah.

You push yourself up, pacing again. You can’t stay sitting. “But she is. I couldn’t even help Mrs Tran, and who the fuck knows what’s going to happen to Lily because her only family in Pittsburgh is dead—”

“That’s not your fault.” Robby’s getting to his feet too.

“It is! It is my fault. I was the senior on the case, and I couldn’t even catch what happened to her.”

“I was there, and so was Frank. These things happen. You’re still a good doctor—”

“I’m not.”

He says your name. Steps closer to you.

“I’m not a good doctor. I’m not a good anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“I couldn’t even make you stay.”

Words you hadn’t meant to confess. Robby’s jaw clenches, brows furrowed. Expression pained, like you had just punched him.

“You lied, Robby. You said we weren’t casual, and then you dropped me for your sabbatical. You were gone for three fucking months, and you didn’t even try to reach out to me. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like we’re just coworkers and I didn’t matter to you.

“I didn’t get any closure. I got nothing. And all I can think about is that I still don’t know what I did to fuck things up. And none of this matters anyway, because I’m still fucking things up, and someone is dead because of me—”

“No, okay, hey—come here.” Nonsense reassurances. Robby drags you into him. Arms wrapping around you.

You don’t fight. If this was a panic attack, then maybe you would have. But this—a buildup of everything you’ve had to push down because of circumstances. Because you feared for your life after the shitshow of the 4th of July. Because you moved in with Frank, and didn’t have a moment to spare a breakdown. Because you’re still trying to balance the fucking court case and work.

“I’m sorry,” Robby whispers against the top of your head. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t you.”

You can barely hear him. Fingers curled into his shirt, sobbing. Every concept of composure evaporating in this instance.

And Robby’s aware of what this is. An expert in compartmentalising until the dam breaks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, honey.”

His lips pressed to the top of your head. You clinging onto him, in search of comfort. And he gives. He gives and gives in spades like this could amount to a modicum of forgiveness.

Until you’re stable enough to pull yourself away from him. Until you feel embarrassed by what transpired. You clear your throat, tugging the sleeves of your undershirt down to wipe at wet cheeks. “Sorry,” you say, eventually.

“Don’t be,” he says. Watching you with concerned eyes.

“You should—go back in. The ED needs you.”

“We need you too.”

“I just need another minute.” You can’t tell if it’s a lie. A means of obfuscating.

“Okay,” he says, low. Granting you this, even if he doesn’t believe it. So he disappears back into the ED where he’s needed.

You sit and decide if emergency medicine is really for you. If you’ve just wasted the past eight years of your life on this, just to burn out near the finish line.

By the end of your shift, your feet feel weighted.

Your eyes feel dried out from the amount of crying you’ve accomplished during the day. Lily ended up leaving the hospital; you were too busy to see her one last time.

You can’t tell if the rest of the shift was anticlimactic, or if you were numb the entire time.

Donnie brushes by you. “Lupe said someone was asking for you in triage.”

You blink slowly, like life is gradually imbuing in you again. “Me?” You frown.

“Yeah. I’m just the messenger. I don’t know what it’s about.”

“Alright. Thanks, Donnie.” You head off towards reception. Too tired to ruminate further on it. If someone’s asking for you, it must be someone that you’ve treated previously. It’s not the first time it’s happened.

“Lupe,” you greet when you pass yourself through the doors. A tiny nod of acknowledgement to Olsen.

“Hey,” she returns.

“Donnie said a patient was asking for me?”

“Yeah. In the corner,” she says, waving towards the inner wall, closest to the entrance to chairs. “I don’t know how long he’s been here for, but he just took a sign up sheet with him a few minutes ago. Should still be filling it out.”

You straighten up, trying to peer through the crowd of sitting bodies to see if there’s a face you recognise. “You know what he looks like?”

“Uh—Caucasian. Male. Blond hair. He had a cap and a… dark jacket. Navy blue, I think? A bit banged up but said he was happy to wait since he knew we were busy.”

“Okay.” Frowning, still, but you walk out into the lobby. Meet Olsen’s eyes, and gesture down the length of the chairs with your chin. You hope he gets the message—keep an eye on you.

Olsen nods.

You walk down, keeping a polite smile on your face as you pass the crowd of people seated.

And in the corner, you find—nothing.

An abandoned clipboard with the intake papers and a pen attached. You frown, looking around. No one else seems to be wearing a navy jacket. “Excuse me,” you ask the person closest to the seat, “are you filling this out?”

“I already filled one out. Someone else was sitting here,” the woman says.

“Do you know if he’s coming back?”

“He didn’t seem like it.”

“Thank you.” Brows remain pinched as you pick up the clipboard. Leafing through the papers show that all the fields are empty.

“Do you know how long it’s going to take until I get to see a doctor?” the woman asks. “I’ve been here for hours.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “we’re going as fast as we can.” A cursory answer, you know, but you take the clipboard with you and use your badge to pass yourself back to the desk with Lupe. “He’s gone. Left this behind.”

Lupe tuts, taking the clipboard from you. “He didn’t fill it out?”

You shake your head. “He didn’t tell you his name?”

“No. Sorry, darling.”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault.”

“Oh—what’s this?” Lupe unclips the clipboard, turning the pages over. On the back of the very last page is a rudimentary drawing of a car. “A car?”

You step closer. You didn’t even think to check it—it’s a blank page. Nothing for patients to fill out. You feel your mouth dry. A simple illustration in pen of a car. You know it could mean nothing. But…

The last you heard, they’re still looking for the other driver from Mrs Tran’s accident.

“You okay?” Lupe’s voice shatters the buzzing in your ears. “You look worse for wear.”

“There was a SVA today. The driver that came in—she didn’t make it. But they’re still looking for the other driver that was following her.”

Lupe blinks, looking down at the drawing. “And you think this was him?”

“How bad did he look?”

She can only shake her head. “I couldn’t tell.” Lupe gives you a sympathetic squeeze of your forearm. “Go home, honey. I’ll handle this.”

“Thanks, Lupe.” You give her an one-armed hug before you leave. Peer out the windows into chairs as if you can summon the person back.

Continue on AO3.

Come back and read deleted/alternate scenes when you're done reading :)

[skymouth]

sunlight all around — rabbot x reader

You asked Jack for everything. That includes Robby.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Reader x Michael Robinavitch (Rabbot x Reader) Word count: 15.3k+ Tags: Dom/sub; BDSM; Threesome; NSFW Content (Thigh riding; Fingering; Sex Toys; Sexual overstimulation; P in V sex; Oral sex; Blindfold; Restraints); AFAB reader; Strangulation; Slut-shaming language; Dom Jack Abbot; Dom Michael Robinavitch. Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou. Notes: title from hadestown’s all i’ve ever known.

Cross posted to AO3.

Part 1 | Blurb 1 | Part 2 | Blurb 2 | Series tag.

When you wake, it’s to your alarm.

An immediate jolt of your body. You stretch to fumble for your phone, faltering at the arm around your waist.

“Turn it off.” Jack’s gruff voice behind you. Face buried into your back.

Oh. Oh, last night happened. Last night was definitely real.

“We’ve got work,” you say, voice thickened with sleep, sliding the alarm off from your phone.

“I called us out.”

You pause. “When?”

“Last night. I forgot that you probably had an alarm.”

You rub your eyes, blearily staring at a message from Lena that tells you to take it easy and to reach out if you need anything else.

“C’mere.” His breath fanning across your back.

You can’t help the shiver that runs through you at the sensation. Phone placed flipped down, turning around to face him. “Thank you.”

He hums.

“But don’t manage my schedule without consulting me first,” you say. “Please.”

Jack blinks at you. You both know the added Please is just to appear polite. “Okay,” he relents.

“Thank you.” Shuffling into him, your eyes drifting shut again.

The next time you wake, you’re riding his thigh. You don’t even remember if you had been dreaming or not. Just that you’re awake, chasing your pleasure. Fuck. This is embarrassing.

“Uh uh, baby.” Jack’s awake. Was woken up by you grinding yourself against his thigh. It took everything in him not to get himself inside you while you were asleep.

This feels doubly embarrassing for you. He’s witnessed you acting like a teenager with a wet dream.

“Don’t stop just because you woke up.” And his hand grips your hip, dragging you up his thigh. He pushes his knee in closer.

Your forehead thumps against his chest. Moaning. “Jack.”

His fingers nudging your underwear aside, smearing your slick along his fingers. Catching your clit.

You buck up, whining. Sensitive, still. From last night. Yesterday. Whatever time of day it was. Night shift has long altered the way you perceive time.

“Three wasn’t enough for you, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “You need more than that? I’m not taking care of my baby, is that it?” Two fingers sliding inside of you.

You muffle your gasp into his sternum. “No,” you keen. “You do.” Pushing yourself closer to him. Like you want to crawl behind his ribcage, insert yourself right next to his heart. “You do.” You can’t have him thinking less of himself. The problem is you, it’s always you. Too needy. Too much.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay, honey. I’m not mad,” Jack says. His thumb against your clit. Rubbing. “Just take what you need.”

Tears in your eyes, fucking yourself into his fingers. It feels good. Too good. Your clit still feels sensitive. “Hurts,” you whine.

“Yeah? You want to stop?”

“No.” Mouthing at his skin, along his collarbone. A hand gripping his bicep.

“You still want to come?”

“Yes,” you utter. “Please.”

“Yeah, of course you do. Just sleeping next to me made you so horny you started humping my leg in your sleep, huh? Couldn’t even let me fucking rest. You wanted this, baby. Show me what you wanted to take from me.”

You could combust into flames, with the way he’s talking, the way he’s making you feel. Fire broiling beneath your skin. Exhaled with the moans you release.

Your orgasm crashes into you. Body shuddering, soft little ah, ah, Jack, ah, please emitted. Your arm hooked around his shoulder, riding his hand. Down on his fingers, up into his thumb.

“Fuck,” Jack groans. Lazy kisses along your jawline, his other hand against the crown of your scalp, angling your head back. His fingers still moving. “God, you’re so perfect.”

Trembling with the overstimulation. High pitched whimpers escaping from your throat. Tears leaking.

“Too much?”

You nod. Make a complaining noise, unable to speak.

“Okay, baby.” Shuffling closer to kiss you, lips on yours as he slides his fingers out. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” Murmuring. Shifting back down.

“Don’t go.” Words pressed against his neck, into his carotid.

“Never.” A promise woven between the two of you, legs tangled together.

Jack keeps staring at you.

The confines of your apartment walls, a meal shared during the sunlight hours after yesterday.

You’re both on your couch. It’s not a large one, but still big enough that you can occupy the opposite ends with your feet in his lap.

You put down the book you’re reading, looking up at him. His focus on you.

“What?” he asks.

“That’s my question to you.”

“You’re staring.”

“So are you. You’ve been staring since we woke up.”

“I can’t look at you?”

Despite the way you were completely exposed to him yesterday, you get shy at his question. Looking away, teeth sinking into your lower lip as your face scrunches, a smile that you don’t sanction stretching across your lips.

Jack studies you, grinning. “Getting shy?”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

His eyes are like fire when they’re trained on you. “So talk.”

“I… hm. You gotta stop looking at me like that.”

A sly smile on his face. Definitely aware of his effect. “C’mere.” Straightening up, hand rubbing up your ankle.

You place the book on the rug below, crawling across the couch to decrease the space. Perch yourself in his lap. Palms to his face, cradling. His attached to the side of your thighs. You’re both quiet, studying each other. “You keep looking at me like you want to say something.”

Jack slides one of his hands to one of yours, angling his head to kiss your palm. Somehow you knew him well enough to know that about him. “You were out of it, but… you said you love me. Yesterday.”

You smile, a small thing. “I do. I’m not expecting you to say it back. I know it’s complicated, um—with you being a widower.”

Jack forehead creases. “I was—”

“It’s okay.”

“But I—”

You lean in to kiss him. Maybe because you want him to understand that you don’t have the expectation. Maybe because you don’t want to feel like him saying it is merely an obligation to respond, just because you said it first.

“It’s okay,” you say. Bumping you nose against his. “I mean it. Please don’t say it yet.”

Jack frowns. “Okay,” he says. The obvious answer, simply because you asked. And he will give into you, time and time again.

Nothing changes.

At work, that is. Outwardly.

You’re still professional, maintaining an invisible degree of separation.

If Jack looks at you and thinks about the noises he knows you make; the way you become eager and desperate for him; the way you submit for him; and is a little heavy handed with the praises just to see you squirm? Well. That’s only for him to know.

And for him to deal with, after your shared shifts are done. In the privacy of his or your bedroom walls.

In the wake of Jack taking a day off for you, you’re told you’ll be shunted with a double shift—starting with the day shift, then staying for your regularly scheduled night.

Weeks later, they finally cash it in. You should have known the rare weekend off was too good to be true. 48 hours off just to body-slam you with 24 hours on. Whoever managed the schedules had a sense of humour that rivalled the wishes made to a monkey’s paw.

You come in half an hour before shift change. Part of it is to ensure you get to see night shift. The other part of it is to maintain a good relationship with the day shifters. There’s only been a few occasions where you work with them. Most often than not, it’s an outstanding MCI. During those times, the last thing on your mind was a good impression.

“You better be in one piece when I come back,” Lena says, winking at you.

You can’t help the laugh. “Of course I will be.”

Dana grins. “Day shift has less wild patients. We’ll be fine.”

“20 bucks,” you say. “20 bucks to Dana if I’m in one piece by the time night shift gets back.”

“Deal.”

“You betcha.”

A handshake between the two charge nurses. You’re both the bet objective and witness. You make yourself scarce as they hand-off their duties.

“Here you go.” Dr Shen gifts you an iced coffee.

Your mouth drops opened. Regardless of how many times you’ve wheedled the attending for one, his Dunkin traditions remain a solo thing. “For me?”

“Quit making it a big deal before I take it back.”

“Wait, no take backs.” You grab the cup.

“Good luck. You’re repping night shift today.”

You almost feel like a kid being dropped off at school. “With you running things? I don’t think we have much of a reputation.”

Shen makes a face. “I’m taking the coffee—”

“No take backs!” You scamper away. Or, at least, try to. A two person collision, resulting in a firm hand gripping your shoulder to steady you.

“Careful—”

A sucked in gasp. “I’m so sorry, Dr Robby.” Thankfully, whatever coffee deity exists has deemed you worthy enough that the beverage hasn’t splashed onto him. You think you could die from mortification if it did.

“Just as I was talking about repping the night shift,” Shen mutters, assumedly under his breath, but it ends up being loud enough for you to hear.

Robby eyes your drink, then his attention flickers between the two of you. He shakes his head. “There cannot be two of you.”

“Of course not,” you say, quick, before Shen can impose whatever untruths he considers necessary. “I’m nothing like Dr Shen. You can actually rely on me, Dr Robby, sir.”

“Remind me to never do anything good for you, ever again,” Shen says, scowling. Evidently, you’ve never heard of the saying ‘never bite the hand that feeds you’.

You press your lips into a line, trying not to giggle. You make the mistake of meeting Robby’s gaze, who looks like he, too, is fighting a losing battle to mirth.

There are two of you. He doesn’t know how Jack does it. He can already feel the beginnings of a headache, and he hasn’t even officially started yet. Hell, Shen is meant to be going home soon. He shakes his head.

“Hey, there you are.” Parker rescuing you from the testosterone party at Central. An arm hooked around your shoulders, a quick greeting to Dr Robby before she waylays you. “I know we’re going to do hand-offs soon, but I’ve got a kid in Central 11. I really need your touch in there.”

“Yeah, of course. You got it, Dr Ellis.”

“Thank you.” She takes note of the iced coffee, grinning. “Shen was missing you today. We all did.”

“I’ll be back with you guys in 12 hours.”

“Is this your first 24?”

“First full 24.” You’ve done less hours before. Unscheduled overtime that saw you doing 18 hour days, sometimes. Woes of working in a hospital.

“Good luck. Have fun. But remember you’re stuck with us, not them.”

“Oh really, us and them?” McKay sidling up to the conversation, raising an eyebrow at Parker.

“You can’t poach our nurses,” Parker says.

“Don’t act like you guys aren’t trying to poach Mohan and Santos.”

“No comment.”

McKay turns to you.

You silently mime zipping your lips. You’re sworn into silence.

“This is why we don’t like night shift.”

“Hey,” both you and Parker protest.

McKay only laughs. “Alright, you can head out, Parker. We’ll take care of the stray.”

Parker salutes the both of you before she heads for the break room.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just haven’t pulled a 24 yet. They’re just making sure I’m good for it.”

McKay gives you a look that says she means more than just today. The last minute day off that Dr Abbot had taken had circulated the rumour mill around the Pitt. Time is the only thing that buried it.

But the way that McKay looks at you—it’s like she remembers that she had missed seeing you during that shift change. People had been so preoccupied with Dr Abbot that they forgot about the night shift nurses—the absent one, and a worried charge nurse.

“If you ever need to talk to someone,” she trails off.

“Thank you,” you say, because it’s easier than telling her that you would rather not. Jack finding out had been embarrassing enough. You were lucky that he was him. That you were you. That it worked out for the both of you.

As if sensing your unwillingness to talk, McKay squeezes your shoulder before she walks away. “I’m in chairs if you need me.”

“Got it, Dr McKay.” You take yourself back to Central. You try not to make in abundantly obvious that you notice Jack there. Arms crossed talking in low tones with Robby.

Jack sends you a lingering, sidelong look that you pretend doesn’t make you shiver. A slow tilt of his head towards the break room, an eyebrow raised. A silent request. And like all his requests, you obey. You make your way there. Busy yourself with washing the dishes dumped in the sink. Not technically your job, but it keeps your hands occupied.

Two minutes later, Jack’s in the break room, the door closing behind him.

Robby doesn’t know what compels him to follow, waiting until Jack’s no longer paying attention to him.

“Just take care of him like you would me,” Jack says.

Robby’s creeping. He knows. He doesn’t hear you say anything, but you must reply with a look, because Jack laughs. It’s something soft and fond. Not a sound he usually hears inside the walls of the Pitt.

“Alright. Maybe not.” Then he snorts. “Not unless he wants to.”

“Unless he—what?” you ask.

Jack hums.

From the sliver of opening, Robby sees Jack lean in close to you. Oh. Jack’s kissing you. Pieces falling into place. The long story that Jack never really told him in full. The day off he had taken. The only explanation he provided to Robby was that something’s wrong with one of my nurses.

It was you, all those weeks ago.

Really, Robby should have known. Jack’s ambience in the Pitt changed, not a drastic one, but something that usually followed in the wake of one of those nights. Sometimes Robby found Jack a willing partner when he noticed that the other attending was in his own head; sometimes they were each other’s fulfilment. It’s been a long friendship, the two of them. There was very little that wasn’t shared between them.

And yet, not a word about this.

Interesting.

Robby walks away before anyone starts to get suspicious of his presence outside the closed break room.

The thing about scrub change during night shift is they don’t get the luxury of taking time. Not like the day shift. And especially not between the heathen hours of midnight to 3 AM. Those three hours are always filled with intoxicated people, alcohol poisoning, and an abundance of vomit and blood.

With a smaller pool of staff, Jack has forgone squirrelling away into a bathroom for scrub change. It’s not an enacted rule, per se, but when every one of his doctors are balancing a higher volume of patients and fluids, it’s hard to spare the extra ten minutes to change clothes, get the new scrubs, then change again in a bathroom.

It’s something that the rest of the night shift has also adopted. Shen, Parker, Tim, Bridget. Lena, in the rare occasions that she leaves her station at the Central desk. All the other nurses and doctors that you work with.

It had taken you a while to get used to it. You didn’t have the years of familiarity when you first joined. But it had been one of those nights. A toddler crying so forcefully they made themselves sick. A man found unconscious in his home, and the first thing he did upon waking was expel the contents of his stomach. A woman with an arterial bleed.

“Scrub change!” you called out to Lena. She waves you off. As long as Lena knows where everyone is, the department will run smoothly. It was one of the first things you learned when starting. Tell Nurse Lena everything. She’ll take care of it.

Usually you’d change in the bathroom. But. You can hear how the night is getting to everyone. Even in the quick way that Lena waved to acknowledge you, hair plastered to her forehead.

You don’t have time. You need to get back out there.

You’re stripped down, goosebumps across your skin. Old scrubs in. Waiting for your new ones.

And that’s how Jack finds you. Directed towards the scrub machine by Lena when he asked for an extra pair of hands. He knows that his new staff are a little more uncertain about changing right in front of the machine. So he’s expecting to find you there clothed.

He says your name. “I need—”

“One sec.” Hopping with a knee bent, sliding into your pants. The top pulled on after. “Yes, sir?”

Jack’s looking away, jaw set. It’s not the first time he’s seen his staff out here. But it’s the first time he’s seen you. He had no idea you had any tattoos. Scratch that—why the fuck would he need to know that about you?

“Need you in Trauma 2,” he says, eventually.

“You got it, Dr Abbot.”

So.

Night shift scrub change. Different from day shift. A fact you forget after helping Dr Whitaker with an arterial bleed.

“Whoa!” Dana’s the one that drapes a spare patient gown over you.

“What—?” You blink at her.

She blinks at you.

“This isn’t night shift,” you breathe out your realisation.

“This isn’t night shift,” Dana agrees.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” a new voice. Crap. “If I had a body like that, I’d show it off too.”

“Thank you, Myrna.” You flee into the bathroom. Fucking hell. So much for not embarrassing yourself in front of the day shift. Donning the patient gown, you’re back at scrub change, waiting for the new set of scrubs. It already feels like a longer process. You’d already be in new ones at this point. Jack was definitely onto something when he made the decision.

New scrubs obtained, then back into the bathroom to change. Patient gown discarded.

“So, when you guys are trying to talk me into joining nights,” Santos’ voice, walking alongside you to Central. “Is this what I have to look forward to? A free show?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You saw that?”

“Oh, come on, who didn’t?” she says, cackling at the groan you let out.

“It’s just faster,” you try to defend. You’re at Central, eyeing the board above you.

“Fucking Jack,” you hear Robby mutter under his breath. He’s sliding his phone into his back pocket, leaning over the computer.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, shuffling closer to him. You think you’d bury yourself if an authority figure was mad at you. “Please don’t take me to HR.”

Robby shakes his head. It’s already happened a number of times when any night shift staff had to do a stint during the day. Jack Abbot remains the bane of his existence. “No HR. Just try not to let it happen again.”

“Yes, sir.” You don’t notice the way he looks at you at that.

He’s thinking, probably too much, about things he shouldn’t be ruminating on. The way you are with Jack. The dynamic you share. If any of that obedient yes sirs make their way into it.

“There’s a head lac in North 3,” Robby says, instead.

You look at Santos.

“Hell yeah,” Santos grins.

You follow her in there.

An Anna Morales. Late 20s, will probably need stitches. An accident that she’s being vague about. She didn’t want to deal with the cost of an ambulance, so her boyfriend drove her to the PTMC. When he realised there was going to a wait, he told her he’d go home and wait for her call if she ever got into the ER. She had just called him a few minutes ago when McKay got her through chairs.

A stellar review of a boyfriend that has you and Santos trading judgemental looks.

“Hey, they told me to find you in… here.”

You had already been stepping aside when the door opened.

Turning towards the newcomer.

Oh. Shit.

The boyfriend.

You recognise him. Kevin N. Early 30s. Pictures on an app. Four months of talking, of dates. Then a Saturday when you decided to take the leap. To put trust into him. And he left. Ghosted you. No texts, no calls. Radio silence.

Santos says your name, a little too annoyed for it to be the first time.

“Yes, sorry.” You busy yourself with setting up a tray with the tools she needs. Sterilised and clean tools. Avoiding the way Kevin looks at you as he takes a seat by the bed. By Anna.

You try not to throw up while you help Santos. Hoping that she’ll dismiss you as soon as she doesn’t need you anymore.

Santos keeps up a steady stream of conversation as she works. Her bedside manners have come a long way since she first started. You chime in every now and then. But you know you’re not as engaged as you usually are. Your skin’s crawling every time you feel Kevin’s gaze on you.

“Excuse me,” you say. Your tether’s cut short. You exit the room, shutting the door behind you. Technically, there’s no need for you and Santos to both be in there.

You’re heaving as you escape into the restroom. Your first instinct is to call Jack. You make it to the third ring before you hang up. Feel the static in your head as you watch his contact light up the phone screen. You slide to decline the call.

Sent: sorry was just missing you Jack: It’s okay. I have time to take your call. Sent: don’t worry about it. just got busy. sorry Jack: I miss you too, sweetheart.

Breathe. In and out. You pocket your phone and head to the break room next door. You know that caffeine would only increase the shaking, but you don’t think you can afford something that’s supposed to help you relax. You’d only fall asleep. You’re not even halfway through your 24 hours yet.

The door opens as you’re waiting for the coffee.

Robby steps through. “You alright, kid?” Though he knows he has a tendency to pull long hours, he knows how tough a 24 hour shift can be. They don’t get assigned often. And when they do, the attendings and charge nurses are always alerted.

You paste on a grin, nodding. Attempt to ignore the thudding in your chest. “Hanging in there.”

“You need anything?”

You take a sip from your mug. “Real coffee.” The break room’s sludge tastes like coffee-flavoured water. Even paling in comparison to the iced coffee that Shen had gotten you. And that was finished hours ago.

The corner of Robby’s lips twitch upwards. “And you say you’re nothing like Dr Shen.”

“Wait—no. No, I didn’t mean it like that.” This is easy to fall into. A little ribbing. Not thinking about the patient and her boyfriend that you just left with Santos.

Robby grins a little more openly. “You know, you can talk to me if you need anything, right?”

“I know. Thank you, Dr Robby.” Again, it’s easier to thank the generosity than dismiss them altogether. Something you’ve learned from dealing with people that you know mean well.

“You don’t have to wait for Jack.”

Your gaze snapped onto the attending, trying to swallow past the thick thing in your throat. “Um—I’m just. Used to working with the night crew.” Not quite a lie, not quite the truth either. You know Robby’s prodding, but you’re not sure what for. You can’t exactly deny that you’d rather have these talks with Jack—you’ve been working with him for two years, now. It would make sense that you’d trust him more than the day shift attending.

“I know he told you to take care of me.”

Oh shit. Jack said that in the break room when it was the two of you, alone. And unless Jack later relayed that to Robby within their own conversations you weren’t privy to, Robby wasn’t meant to know that. You remain frozen.

“But you also need to take care of yourself,” Robby says.

You blink. You have no idea where he’s trying to lead this discussion. “I’m—I’m okay.”

“You seem stressed.”

“I’ve still got 15 hours left on my shift.”

Robby nods, but remains unconvinced by your words. “Hey.” And his hand lays heavy on your shoulder.

The weight of it stills you, eyebrows creasing as you peer up at him. Waiting. He probably has some kind of wisdom he wants to impart onto you.

But he stays silent. Breathing. You don’t realise you’re matching it until your face eventually smooths out.

His thumb drifting, rubbing up and down over the juncture where shoulder meets neck. “Relax,” he murmurs.

And you can’t resist the way your eyelids flicker shut in response. To his touch. The tone of his voice.

“Good,” he whispers.

You don’t realise you’re swaying into him until you feel his solid chest against you. Feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Letting out a noise. Half complaining, half comforted.

“There you go.” Low tones. Soft. Talking you down from trembles that you hadn’t even noticed have wracked your frame. “I know something’s got you stressed out. I just want to take care of you like Jack would.”

The mention of Jack’s name is like cold water dumped on you. Sobering. You suck in a breath and draw away from Robby. Blinking wildly. “I—um—I have—I have to go.”

“It’s okay—”

But you’ve already left the break room.

Robby sighs, taking out his phone to send off another text to Jack.

It’s still not shift change yet. Guilt is a heavy thing in your chest, and what was once you looking forward to it, turns into dread.

You have to tell Jack what happened with Robby, even if you don’t fully understand what exactly transpired. It just felt comforting.

You’re bypassing dispatch to head towards the stairwell. You don’t realise you don’t hear the door close behind you.

You need a breather, and you’re kind of apprehensive of heading to the usual places. Robby might be there. Not to mention, Kevin and Anna are in the ED.

“Hey.”

You pivot, fast. Not having expecting anyone to follow you out. Much less…

“Kevin,” you say. Swallow thickly.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says. He’s approaching like you’re a cornered animal.

Maybe you are. Your eyes flicker to the door behind him. The stairs present another way out.

“I wanted to apologise.”

“Right now? While I’m at work?” You can’t help baring your teeth.

“You haven’t been making it easy for me.”

You blink. “You ghosted me.”

Kevin drops his head into a nod. “Yeah. And I’m apologising for it.”

You still haven’t heard him say the word ‘sorry’. “I’m not going to say anything to Anna, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s water under the bridge at this point.” Part of you wants to laugh. Him being an asshole to the nth degree landed you right into Jack’s arms.

“Water under the bridge?” Nose flaring. Jaw ticking.

“Yeah. It’s fine. I’ve moved passed it.”

“Moved passed—?” Scoffing, lips forming a scowl. “Moved passed it? Passed me?”

“You left. It’s been weeks. And clearly, you’ve moved on too.”

He shoves you backwards.

Stumbling, your head colliding into the wall behind you. Starbursts of white flashing across your vision. “Ow, what—?!”

An arm barred across your chest. “You do not get to move on—”

Trying to push at him. “Get off of—”

“Shut up. You fucking bitch.” His fingers around your throat. Cinching, pushing on top of your trachea. Fingers and thumb digging into the flesh on the sides. “You don’t get to fucking move on from me.”

You try to kick, fists furling, punching at his arms. Shoulders. Anywhere you can make contact.

“Stop fucking struggling. You like being choked. You want this, you fucking slut.”

Stars dancing in your vision. Unable to get air in.

“Hey—oh, fuck—!” A voice breaking through the ringing in your ears.

“We need security out here!” Another voice.

A blur of movement. The weight forcibly removed from you. You slide down the wall, hacking out coughs. Inhaling lungfuls of air.

“Holy shit. Are you okay?” Whitaker kneels in front of you, crowding into your space. Fingers going for your neck.

You shy away from him.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. But I really need to check on you.”

“What the hell happened?” Another person.

“I got him!”

Blinking, looking over Whitaker’s shoulder, down the hall to see Santos on Kevin. He’s face down, trying to wriggle out from whatever hold Santos has whilst she’s perched on him.

You see Mike move towards them. Cuffing Kevin. He yells something.

“Come on, let’s get you up.” Whitaker helps you stand. You don’t know what it is that makes you feel unsteady on your own feet. Adrenaline. Fear. A previous lack of air. Something else. But you’re grateful for the support he provides.

Santos pushes the door open. “Dr Robby!”

“We need an empty room!” Whitaker calls out. He has one arm around you, helping you walk.

“Six is opened!” Dana relays.

“Holy shit, what happened?” Princess follows you in.

“Mike has him,” Santos says. She’s gloving up. “Fucking asshole was choking—”

“What the hell?” Robby.

There’s too much happening.

Princess shines a light into your eyes, checking your pupils. Lifting your eyelids. “Robby.”

His arms are crossed, watching them mill around. Steps in closer at Princess’ alert. “Subconjunctival hemorrhaging,” he murmurs.

The flashlight blessedly clicked off.

Princess holds out a finger, making you track her movements.

When she’s done, Santos elbows Whitaker out of the way, gingerly tilting your head back to inspect your neck. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

You nod.

“Hurt to swallow?”

You swallow. Nod again.

“What about talking?”

You take a second. “I think—hurts,” you wheeze, wincing.

“Did you lose consciousness?”

You’re caught between shaking your head and nodding.

“Vision went fuzzy?”

You nod again. Thank God for Santos. She’s questioning in a way that allows you not to speak. She’s going to be a great doctor, you think, even if she decides her future is outside the walls of the Pitt.

You raise a hand. Guide it to the back of your head.

“You hit your head?” she asks.

You confirm.

“We need a CTA. Let’s keep this room for observation,” Robby says. “Minimum six hours. You know the protocol.” And this, he directs to you.

You dip your head. There goes the rest of your 24 hours shift.

Whitaker’s across from Santos on the other side of the bed. Checking the back of your head. “No bleeding.” Fingers on your scalp, palpating.

You flinch.

“Responsive to pain. A little tenderness but no lacerations. That’s good news, right?” His gaze flickers from Robby, then to Santos.

“We’ll wait for the scans,” Robby says. No false hope.

Whitaker presses his lips into a line, as if attempting to give you a reassuring look.

He, Princess, and Santos make themselves scarce.

Robby lingers in the room, sitting on the stool beside the bed. “I called Jack,” he says eventually.

You look at him.

“We both know I had to. He’s already on his way.”

You shoot him a tired thumbs up.

Silent, again. Then, Robby huffs out a chuckle. A hand at the back of his neck, massaging. “Shit. Jack’s never going to let me borrow you for day shift again.”

You can’t help the laugh. Then you wince. “Ow,” you manage, hoarse.

“Sorry, kiddo.” A hand on your shoulder, peering at you.

Again, you can’t help the way that you seem to settle under it.

Princess reappears. “CT’s ready for us.”

Robby feigns checking the bruises around your neck. Hand moving away. “Let’s go.” Between Robby and Princess, they push your gurney to the elevator to get your scan.

By the time you’re done and returned to your comfortable prison in room six, Jack arrives. A rap of knuckles on the door, then it’s opening.

Jack’s face—his eyes on you. Face stony. “Robby,” he says, nodding at him, both a greeting and dismissal.

“Alright. See you out there.” It doesn’t take further prompting for him to leave. The curtain drawn, door closed behind him.

Jack performs the same exams that Princess, Santos, and Whitaker have done. Eyes the monitor quietly tracking your vitals—you muted it as soon as Princess hooked you up. Silent as he does so. You know there’s something brewing in his eyes, dark. The tenseness of his frame. You watch him move around. Never settling.

“Jack,” you say. Your voice is still raw.

“Don’t talk,” he says, from where he’s standing by the computer. Scrolling through your chart.

“Jack,” you croak again.

He turns, eyes hardened as he levels his gaze with yours.

“Can you just come here?”

And he does, because he has never known what it’s like to not yield before you. Crossing the room. You don’t hesitate to reach for him, grabbing his arm to pull him closer. Face buried against his broad chest as you allow yourself to finally shatter.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and pushes the guardrail to the gurney down. Removing the barrier that separates you.

The trembling of your body, held together by strong arms enveloping around you.

“Okay.” A kiss pressed to the top of your head, a hand rubbing up and down your upper arm. An understanding of what you need from him in this moment.

He’s holding you like you’re something fragile, something gentle settling in his chest. A method of soothing himself as well as you.

The tightening of his muscles ever since Robby had called him to let him know that you had gotten hurt. The way he couldn’t let himself calm down until he saw you. And even when he did see you—God, the bruises around your neck. The red spots in your eyes. Your voice still hoarse.

To hold you in his arms, reminding himself that you’re alive. Hurt, but alive. That’s what he needs, and if that’s what you need, then he will give in, tenfold. He would immolate himself to keep you warm, if you ever asked. How dangerous a love like this.

“Hey,” Jack says, and his voice is equally hoarse for a different reason. Shifts back for a moment, hands framing your face. Thumbs wiping against your wet cheeks. “Hey. Fuck. You scare the shit out of me sometimes, you know that?”

You open your mouth.

“Don’t say sorry.”

You shut your mouth.

Jack shakes his head, chuckling gruffly. Leans in to kiss you. A thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

You grab one of his hands, pulling it down. As soon as it glides past your chin, his hand attempts to slide out of yours. You hold fast.

“Baby—” he starts.

“Please,” you manage. “Please, I just want to feel you.”

He stares down at you, eyes dark. He doesn’t say anything, but you note the moment his resolve falters. The breath he releases, the way his eyelids flicker as they shut. Jack kisses you again, and his palm rests against the side of your throat. Not pressing. Not firm. Just his touch, present.

You feel yourself melt into him. His other hand on the gurney, like he’s stopping himself from grabbing onto you.

There’s a knock on the door. “It’s Robby.” The door’s opened, but he hasn’t pulled back the curtain yet.

“Yeah?” Jack pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand still on your throat, thumb brushing against your chin.

“Police are here. They need to take a statement.”

You frown. “I’m not pressing charges.”

“It’s hospital policy. NFS,” Jack reminds you.

Non-fatal strangulation. Again, it’s protocol you know from working here for two years. You never expected to be on the receiving end of it.

“Can you stay?” you ask.

“Robby can. He’s chief attending.”

Robby clears his throat. The curtain slides, metal rings clinking against each other as he pulls enough to step into the room. The curtain ruffles behind him.

You feel your heart thud wildly, like you’ve been caught.

Jack doesn’t move away.

Robby’s gaze fixes on Jack’s hand against your neck. Flickers between your deer-in-the-headlights expression, and Jack’s relaxed look angled over his shoulder. “John’s out there,” he says, instead of commenting on anything. “He can take care of things for a little bit. He knows we’re in here.”

Of course. You completely missed that night shift started. That meant Robby was officially off the clock. And Jack was meant to be working, not babysitting you.

You move back, like you’re wanting to detach yourself from his hand. “It’s—it’s okay—”

Jack turns back to you. His hand remains where it is, thumb digging lightly into the line of your jaw. “Robby said I’m good to say.”

“But—”

“I’m staying.”

Your eyes shifting to Jack, then over his shoulder to Robby, still near the curtain. Just one step into the room. “Thank you,” you say.

Robby dips his head in acknowledgement. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Your heart rate’s pretty high.”

All three of you now studying the monitor.

“Uhh,” you manage. That’s embarrassing. You feel like you’re still riding the adrenaline high from when Robby came in and Jack hadn’t moved away from you. He still hasn’t. “I just… wasn’t expecting you to come in.”

Robby snorts. “Not the most compromising situation I’ve seen him in.”

Jack just laughs. Thumb brushing against the angle of your jaw before his lips graze your temple. “Robby has a thing for watching,” he murmurs.

Your mouth drops open, frowning. “You’ve—you’ve done things together?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, casual as ever. Grins down at you before he steps away. Sinking into the stool beside the bed with a muted groan.

You have more questions that they apparently, will leave unanswered.

Robby pulls back the curtain, opening the door. “Ready for you,” he calls out.

Two police officers enter, and the room feels smaller. They introduce themselves to you. Officers Reyes and Boyd.

“This should be fairly straightforward,” Reyes says. Kind eyes, despite the years weathering her face. “A few standard questions and then we’ll be out of your hair. It’s protocol for us to respond to these situations.”

“I appreciate it, officers,” you say. You cross your arms over your chest.

Boyd flips open a notepad.

“Do you remember if you said anything to him that could have been taken as hostile? I know people can get angry about the wait times here,” Reyes begins.

Your brows knit together. “He’s not a patient,” you say. Maybe your brain is sluggish from being starved of oxygen for a few seconds, but you’re slow to realise what’s happening.

Boyd blinks up from the notepad he’s jotting in.

“He’s a visitor. He came in for a patient. In North 3.”

“Right. And what was his relation to the patient?”

“A partner. The patient’s his girlfriend, or something. This wasn’t a random—I knew him.”

And just like that, it’s out in the open. You keep your attention on the two officers, but you can see Robby shifting behind them, lax as he leans against the wall. And Jack—you don’t want to look. Because you know how smart he is. He’ll connect the dots as soon as he even has a fraction of the picture.

Conflict welling inside you. You wanted him to stay, but you also want him out of the room in this moment.

Reyes looks at you. “Are you sure you don’t want to press charges?”

“I’m sure.” A long a messy process, you think.

She sighs. “Okay. What’s your relation to him?”

“An… ex-something. It wasn’t really labelled.”

An honorary scoff from the older woman. “Dating these days.”

“And how long did you know him?” Boyd asks.

“Four months.”

A brief moment from the corner of your eye, you can tell it clicks for Jack. The quiet intake of air. The shift of the stool.

“And the last time you talked to him?” Boyd asks.

“A month or so ago, maybe,” you answer.

“So you coincidentally met him today?”

“Yes. I was helping a doctor with a patient. I wasn’t expecting to see him here.”

“Prior to this attack would you say this kind of violent behaviour is typical or atypical for him?” Reyes asks.

“Um… atypical,” you say.

Boyd flips to another page of the pad. “When you saw him today, did he say anything that could be taken as hostile?”

“No. I didn’t talk to him. He didn’t talk to me either. I figured we were going to ignore our… history because his girlfriend was in the room.”

More notes from Boyd. It kind of unnerves you, but you know it’s part of his job. “So when you finally got to talk to him…”

“I went out into the stairwell to take a break. He followed me out there. He said he wanted to… apologise for how we left things.”

“And how did you leave things?” Reyes, this time.

You give her a wry look. “I slept with him and then he ghosted me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Men,” she says, derisive. She carries herself like an auntie that you would want to gossip with, wine glass in hand.

You smile a little in response to her. “I told him it was water under the bridge and he seemed… angry at that.”

“And then he attacked you?”

“Yes. He pushed me. I stumbled. I hit the back of my head on the wall. And then he…” And your gaze fall to your hands. Absentmindedly wringing your fingers. Running your nail against the pad of your thumb. “He—um—choked me.”

Reyes says your name, soft. “At any point, did you fear for your life?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, and you feel cold and small for admitting it. “I, um, I tried fighting back but I couldn’t—do anything. Against him.”

“Okay,” Reyes says, gentle.

“Did he say anything? While he was choking you. To make you think he was threatening your life?” Boyd asks.

“Um—no.”

“But he said something?” Reyes again.

“He said I should like it,” you tell her. Even though your voice carries to the other occupants of the room, you feel safer directing your words to just her. “Because I… asked him to during sex.”

Reyes is already shaking her head, even before you finish speaking. “That has no bearing on what happened—”

“Did you?” Boyd asks.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you want him to—?”

“Boyd,” Reyes warns.

Your mouth falls opened. “He tried to kill me—”

“You said he wasn’t typically violent but you were also asking him to—”

“Officer Boyd.”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Both Robby and Jack are standing. Robby already has the door opened, the noise of the ED disturbing the room again. Jack stands between you and the officers.

“I think it’s time you leave my hospital,” Robby says, curt. It registers to you that he was the one that spoke up just moments before.

“I am so sorry,” Reyes says, to you. “I will be talking to Officer Boyd after we leave.” Half to you, half as a threat to Boyd.

“Thank you, officers,” Jack says, equally short in addressing them.

Robby walks out with them, the door closing again.

You feel humiliation sear your face, clog your throat, burn your eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“No, none of that.” Jack steps into your space, curling his own fingers around yours. Stopping your blind mission of picking them apart. “Look at me.”

With tears in your eyes, you do. Frustrated and ashamed. Face tilted up at him.

Squeezing your hand. “It’s not your fault. What happened wasn’t on you. Never was, alright? Tell me you understand.”

You want to. But a splintered noise in your throat releases as you crumple. And Jack sighs something ragged; this isn’t a wound to be mended in a day, even if it’s what his hands are known to do. Too intimately familiar with the knowledge that healing isn’t linear.

Twenty minutes after the police had left, Robby pops in to tell Jack that he’s leaving, and that the ED needed their night attending on the floor again.

“You alright?” Robby asks you, after Jack leaves with a kiss to your forehead.

You nod, but you can tell that he doesn’t believe you. “Can you tell Dana that she owes Lena $20?”

Robby’s bemused look is enough to make you laugh. “Do I want to know what it’s for?”

“20 to Dana if I made it through to night shift in one piece.”

Robby shakes his head. “Now that’s just tempting fate.”

You grin.

“Yeah, I’ll tell them.”

“Thanks, Dr Robby.”

His hands are braced on the rails of the bed. “You know it’s not your fault, right?” he asks, quiet.

You don’t verbally answer, but the silence is answer enough. Your lips pressed into a line, nodding too late.

Robby blows out a breath. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” He reaches out, cuffing you under your chin.

You blink at the gesture, and he leaves with a soft smile.

Six hours of observation pass without further complications. You’re sent home after Jack checks on your CT results and vitals one last time.

“I’m sending Robby over to yours,” he says.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you tell him.

“For my peace of mind. Please.”

And you’re not able to say no to him. The way he fights off the smug smile lets you know that he knows that about you.

“Whatever,” you say.

Jack grins. “Thank you.”

Half an hour after you get home, Robby is there. You slide over the guest slippers, letting the door close behind him.

“You really didn’t have to babysit me on your time off.”

“He owes me. I owe him.”

“Right. Because of compromising situations.”

Robby shrugs, gaze firmly on you. “We have… shared interests.”

You shake your head before leading him through to your tiny apartment, heading for the living room. You hear him follow. “I don’t really know what you’re meant to be doing, but feel free to set yourself up in here.” Between the kitchen and the living room, you assume the living room wins that competition, thanks to the couch.

Fluffing out the blanket you have on there. Pivoting, faltering in your turn when Robby is in your space. Not a few steps away like you had assumed, but too close behind.

His arm hooks around your waist so you don’t fall. “Sit. Let me check you.” From his pocket, he fishes out his flashlight.

You swallow, removing your hand from his chest; you had placed it there for balance. “Jack already checked before I left.”

Robby raises his eyebrows at you. He doesn’t even have to speak to argue with you.

You groan, realising your losing battle. Dropping onto the cushions.

Robby lowers into a crouch in front of you. And like personal space is nonexistent, his arm across your knees, stabilising himself as he shines the flashlight into your eyes. Tests your pupils; murmurs to himself about the healing of the blood in your eyes; clicks the flashlight off to perform an eye movement test.

Fingers pushing your chin up and aside, scrutinising the bruises. “Breathing’s okay?”

“Yep. And talking. And swallowing. Probably good to eat.”

“You haven’t eaten?”

“I was hooked up.”

Robby pushes himself up with the arm across your knees. Grunting a little as he does so. He heads into your kitchen.

“We could probably just order something,” you say, frowning as you follow him.

He gives you an unimpressed look. “Jack said to take care of you.”

You’re reminded of Jack coming to yours to take care of you after he found out about the sub drop in the hospital. Different kind of taking care of, you assume.

“You want to call him?” Robby’s phone already sliding out from his pocket, blindly holding it out to you as he digs through your fridge. Like he’s aware of your internal thoughts.

You take it, watch him rifle through your things. Unlocking his phone with a swipe. “You don’t have a password?”

“They’re annoying.”

“Oh my God, you’re so old.” You click onto his contacts. Jack’s is starred as a favourite. You call him, phone to your ear. Heading towards the living room. You’re still within earshot, and Robby’s periphery if he looks over. But it’s gives an illusion of privacy.

“What’s up, brother?” Jack greets.

“No Robby. Just me,” you say.

“Give me—” Rustling, the noise of the ED muffled. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. We’re okay. I’m just—you told him to take care of me.” You don’t phrase it like a question.

But he responds, anyway. “I did.”

“In what way?”

Jack makes a noise, and you know he’s shrugging with the answer, even if you can’t see him. “Whatever way you need.”

“I need you to stop beating around the bush with this. Please.”

“Whatever you would want from me, he can give you as well.”

You’re standing still in the living room. Watching Robby mill around your kitchen. The stove’s on, the flame turned to low. He found your pot from the cupboard. “And you’re okay with it?”

“If it’s Robby, yeah.” Like it’s a simple thing. “We’ve been friends a long time.”

“Just friends don’t do this kind of stuff.”

“Maybe not,” Jack hums. “You okay with it?”

“I’m—trying to wrap my head around it.”

Robby’s hunted down the chopping board and knives. Has dug around your freezer for protein as well.

“You asked me for everything, baby,” Jack says, soft. “That always included Robby.”

You swallow around the cloying thing in your throat. “Yeah.” Something in your chest aches. There’s love there, you think, between them. If not reciprocated by Robby, then at least from Jack’s perspective, it’s present. A hanging thing between them.

“When’s your break?”

“It’s already past 2. I’m definitely not getting one until after 4.”

“Gremlin hours,” you acknowledge distractedly. Still watching Robby. You could do something here. Permission has been granted. Whatever you want from Jack. “Stay on the line.”

“Okay?” Jack says, confused.

You pull the phone away from your ear, press the button to place the volume on speakerphone. Stride into the kitchen. “Robby.”

“Yeah?” He barely has time to look up from the chopping board.

You’re on him. Lips on his.

Robby makes a muffled, surprised noise before the knife clatters on the chopping board. Hands on your waist, stabilising as he kisses you back. Responding. “I take it you had a good talk?” Robby asks.

“He’s still—” You press the phone against his chest. One of his hands grab for it.

Then you sink to the tiled floor. On your knees, looking up at Robby.

“Shit,” Robby huffs, looking down at you wondrously.

“Can I—” You swallow, wetting your lips. “Is this…” Okay? Allowed? Alright with him? With either of them?

Robby seems to sense your hesitance. The other hand stroking your face. “You wanna suck me off while Jack listens to us?”

The phone crackles with Jack’s responding low hiss. Caught up on what’s happening on the other side.

You nod. “Can I?”

“Yeah, honey,” Robby says.

You look at the phone, cradled against his chest. Then back at Robby.

“Jack,” Robby prompts.

“Yeah, that’s okay. More than,” Jack manages.

And somehow, this is you, in your kitchen with Jack on the phone, Robby with his pants pooled around his ankles, leaning against the sink. With you on your knees, lapping at Robby’s balls, digits curled around his hardened cock, pumping him.

Robby’s fingers tightened in the roots of your hair. Groaning aloud. “Fucking hell.”

Then you’re sliding his cock into your mouth. Your jaw feels unhinged with the width of him. He’s big—you feel it in the strain in the corner of your lips.

“That’s it, honey,” Robby grunts. “All the way in.”

You slide further. Gagging around him. Tears in your eyes. Your nose to his pubis. Your ears ringing.

Robby’s mouth moving, saying something. You don’t hear. Talking to Jack, maybe. You hope. His fingers flexing against your hair. Pushing you down.

You stay. Seconds. Then his hand moves and you pull away, sucking in air. Drool all over his cock.

“Look at you,” Robby says. Caressing your face again. “You’re so pretty like this. You want to let Jack see?”

You shiver, nodding, mouthing at his cock again. Take him back into your mouth.

“Look up for me.” Robby takes a picture with his phone. Taps at the screen.

And the moment Jack sees it. “Fuck,” muttered out, hoarse. “Jesus, fuck, you’re killing me.”

You suck in your cheeks, sliding back and forth around Robby’s cock. Despite the crappy apartment, you don’t attempt to hide the sounds emanating from your mouth. Wet. Slurping. All because you want—need Jack to hear it from the phone.

Robby’s fingers are twisted in your hair again. Fucking his hips into your throat. Using your mouth like it’s your cunt. You’re clenching around nothing at the thought of it.

Robby groans. “That’s it, fuck, that’s it. So fucking good like this. Gonna come down your throat. Is that what you needed, you little slut?”

You’re moaning around him. Jack never seemed to want to insult you, and you never asked him to. But this. A hand between your legs just to give yourself some semblance of relief.

And then he’s coming. Spilling dregs of himself down your throat as he groans. And you’re swallowing him down. Everything. His hand keeping you there as he grinds into your face. You let him use you. You want nothing else.

“Fuck. Fuck. Come here.” Robby pulls you up. Still has the phone; Jack’s breathing hard on the other side.

You lean in to kiss him. It’s uncoordinated. Robby walks you backwards into the living room. Deposits you on the couch. Strips you of your bottoms without any ceremony. Tosses the phone next to your head.

You’re bent in half, ankles to your ears. He’s pushing and you’re holding your legs up for him.

And his mouth is on your wet pussy.

You’re gasping, humping into his face.

“He eating you out?” Jack’s voice is rough.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, oh my God.”

Robby eats you out until you’re crying, blubbering for release. And only when Jack says that he needs to return to work in a few minutes does Robby let you come.

Jack’s voice in your ear. “That’s it, baby. I wanna hear how good he’s making you feel. I know. You’re being so good for us, baby.”

Robby cleans the both of you up after he decides when you’re done. You’re whining, holding onto his hand as he tries to move into the kitchen.

“I’m going to put everything away.”

You look up at him. Teary-eyed. Letting go of his hand. “Okay,” you say, despite it being laced with displeasure.

“I’ll be back.” He makes fast work of packing away the ingredients he had prepared. Into containers then the fridge. Turning the stovetop off.

When he’s back in the living room, he dumps himself onto the couch. Pulls you against him. It’s not a big space, but you make it work. He’s laying across the cushions, and you’re tucked against his chest.

You both fall asleep like that.

When you wake up, your head’s pillowed in a lap. Fingers running through your hair. Your awakening dictated by slow movements.

“You feeling okay?” Jack’s soft murmurs. He places the book he was entertaining himself with down, helping you sit up.

You hum, reaching to rub at your eyes.

Jack stops before you can make contact, tutting at your forgetfulness. “Let me see.” A palm slotted to your face, tilting your head. Checking your eyes, then the bruising around your neck.

“What time is it?” You twist his wrist, peering at his watch. 8:37 AM. Already after shift change—Robby must have left; Jack came over to yours instead of going home. You’re not sure on the timeline of it.

“Robby made matzo ball soup. He said you fell asleep before you could eat.”

“Hm, got distracted.”

“Alright. Up. We’re both eating.”

You hum, following him along. Still feeling bleary with sleep. You’re sat on the dining chair. Jack drapes a jacket on top of you. You pull it tighter around your shoulders, studying the fabric. Taking in the scent of it. Unfamiliar to you. “It’s not yours.”

“Hm?” Jack takes out the container from the fridge, two bowls, two spoons.

“The jacket. It’s not yours.”

Jack blinks at you. Then shrugs, bustling around. “Must be Robby’s. He probably forgot it.”

“Isn’t it cold?”

“He’ll live. He’s probably got another one at work.” Two bowls of soup placed on the table. Jack shifts his chair so he’s sitting to the side, diagonal from you, not across. “You feeling okay?”

You hum your confirmation, tucking your spoon into the soup.

He watches you skim the top of it, then again. Not eating. Yeah, you’re definitely overthinking something but being cagey about it. He leans forward, catching your gaze. “Out with it.”

You try not to look away from the intensity of his eyes. You know that if you do, he’ll just chase it again. In a more obvious way. “Was it—was what we did okay?”

Jack tilts his head. “I said it was, didn’t I?”

You’re nodding. “You did.”

“Was it okay for you?”

“Yes.”

“And after?”

“We fell asleep on the couch.”

Jack inclines his head like it just affirms whatever knowledge he already had. Probably insight gained from check-ins with Robby. “Okay.” Attention flickering between your eyes. “You want to see him again?”

“Is… is that okay?”

“More than okay.”

“But we…” You swallow the words down, like you can’t verbalise your thoughts.

“Hey,” Jack says. Pushes both the bowls further into the table, pulls your chair closer to him. It screeches against the floor, but you both pay the noise no heed. “Whatever you want with him isn’t going to take away from us. It’s just more. And that’s okay.”

“For you too?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you lo—”

“I love you.”

And his words sit. Lingers in the space between you. You make a noise, caught between hopeful and wounded.

“I know you have your hang ups about me saying it,” Jack continues. “But I do. Okay?”

You nod, sniffling. “Okay. I love you too.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He watches you, for a second. “Come here.”

You climb into his lap. It’s not comfortable—the chairs are crappy and wooden but he doesn’t make a complaint with you straddling his thighs. Tucking your face into his neck.

Jack rubs his hands up and down your back, your arms. Fingers cradling the nape of your neck. Lifting you out to kiss you. Gentle. “Okay, crybaby?” A murmuring tone, ridiculously fond.

You let out a wet chuckle and kiss him again. And somewhere along the way, you’re grinding into his lap, and Jack makes an amused sound.

“Really?” Fiery eyes turned up to you, voice hoarse. “Robby ate you out and you still need more?”

“Jack,” you say. Beg him.

He kisses your cheek. “Eat first.” He grabs your thighs, spreads out his legs. Slowly thrusts his hips up to your core.

You whimper. “Jack.”

“I know. Eat first, okay?”

“You’re mean.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen mean, baby.”

You’re back in your seat, swamped in Robby’s jacket. Feasting on the soup that he made for you—the both of you.

The healing is straightforward. Your eye returns to normal. The bruises fade. Jack stops acting like you’ll evaporate if he dares to look away.

You don’t know if Jack and Robby talk about you, or their status. But Robby looks at you more during handoffs. Talks to Jack, low tones between them. You have no way of deciphering their conversations.

You pick up a few shifts during the day, not 24 hours, but exchanging them for your regular nights. Covering absences for other nurses; Kim is sick; Jesse’s on a much needed weekend away.

You get to see Robby more. Other than more eye contact and seemingly innocent touches, nothing changes.

And then a coincidental night off for you. Jack’s shift is scheduled to finish earlier than usual. Robby doesn’t work the next day. Maybe not from the hands of fate, but purposefully moulded by them. They are attendings, after all.

A text from Jack, then a call, checking in about plans. Dinner and after.

All of you, in Jack’s place. A slow meal. Jack talks to Robby like they haven’t had a chance to catch up in years. You’re content to listen to them, not quite taking in what they’re saying, but listening to the timbre of their voices.

You don’t realise how much you’re staring until Robby pauses, looking over to you.

“Anything you want to say?” he asks.

“No,” you answer, honest.

“Okay.”

Your leg’s balanced on your knee under the table. Jack cups a hand over your ankle, thumb massaging your Achilles’ tendon.

It’s an otherworldly kind of domestic. Until you end up in Jack’s bed. Naked. Spread out under Robby. His knee between your legs, and you’re rutting against him, tugging him in for a kiss.

Jack digs through the nightstand. Blindfold, ribbon restraints, suction vibrator. Deposits them on the bed. Distracts you with kisses while Robby busies himself with tying you to the bed frame at the head of the bed.

“Not too tight?” he asks.

You swallow, feeling your heart race. Tug at them experimentally. “No. It’s fine.”

Jack kisses down your neck, lips over your pulse. Hums at the rapid thudding beneath. “You’re okay, sweetheart. We’ll take care of you.” He kisses you again, once. “Ready for the blindfold?”

You confirm, and then the fabric over your eyes. Around to the back of your head. Tightening, but not damaging.

“Okay?” Robby asks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“You can stop at any time,” Jack reminds.

“I know.”

“Okay. I’m going to let Robby have his fun first, okay?”

You nod. “Kiss first?”

Jack swipes a thumb across your bottom lip before he leaves you with another one. Lingering. Heated. Has you instinctively wanting to reach for him, to feel him beneath you fingertips. But the restraints stop you.

“I love you,” he whispers, like a shared secret.

And you’re bucking your hips into air. Wanting to say it back but he moves away. The bed shifts, weight moving. Robby’s hands spreading your thighs open. Situating himself there. He eats you out first. Doesn’t let you come. Just tastes you.

Until you’re begging for more. Until you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. Whining every time he takes you to the edge, then draws back.

“Robby, please,” you cry. “Please, I just—once. Please, let me come, please.” You have no idea how long this has been going on for. Your thighs are messy, sticky with Robby’s saliva and your slick.

Robby hums. “What do you think, Jack? Good enough for you?”

You hear Jack breathe, somewhere to the side. Not knowing where he is, but knowing he’s watching—you didn’t think you would enjoy it, but something is lit within you. “Yeah. Good enough for me.”

Robby licks a stripe up your slit. Takes the vibrator, turns on the suction. Nudges it against your clit.

You almost weep with relief. “Unghh, thank you, thank you, Robby, thank you.” It’s a quick thing, your release. From the edging. From the direct suction. You come. Fall apart. And Robby refuses to move the toy from your clit.

Grips your thighs. Licking, sucking at your entrance.

“You wanted to come, honey,” Robby tuts, when you’re bowling past your second one, and he’s still not letting up. When you’re struggling in his hold.

You haven’t seen mean, yet, Jack had said. This is what he meant, you realise. Robby. Giving into you, but on his conditions.

And you’re crying. Full, heaving sobs, absolutely ruined. The circulation to your hands probably cut off by now, with how tightly you’ve twisted your fingers into the fabric. You’re not sure. Your arms were tingly. Now numb past your elbows to your digits. You don’t pay it too much heed. You could lose your phalanges, and you wouldn’t care.

“Please,” you cry. “Please, Robby. Please.”

You hear him laugh. A mean thing. Tongue delving inside you, the toy buzzing incessantly on your clit. The toy’s the issue. You’re on your fifth, you’re pretty sure. Because of that damn toy. Suction, forcing out orgasm after orgasm.

“Please, Jack—”

“Oh ho ho, no, honey,” Robby says, thick with condescension. And he presses the toy firmly against your clit in response to you daring to reach out to Jack, to disobey the established chain of command. “He’s not going to help you.”

“I can’t. I can’t, please, I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can.” Robby’s slides a finger in, crooked. Dragging out your slick for him to continue to lap up. His beard rubbing against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

“Please.” Halfway fractured. Begging for more and for less. Your legs over his shoulders, heels digging into the expanse of his back.

“Give me your colour.”

You whine. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

You feel him move away. You try to grab a hold of him, but your hands are tied, trapped above you. You sob, legs attempting to tighten around him. “No, please, don’t go. Just—Robby.”

“I need a colour, honey.” And his voice. Softened. Gentle. A far cry from the man that degraded you for needing him.

“Green,” you choke out. “Please, one more.”

“One more and then we pause?”

You’re nodding, tears wetting the blindfold. “Please.”

“You’re okay, baby.” The brief reprieve as his lips ghost over your inner thigh. A barely there kiss. Then the toy back on your clit, his tongue slipping inside you again. Tasting.

You moan through the oversensitivity. The suction well past too much. But you can do this. Can be good for him. For Jack, too, even if you can’t see or touch him. Your fingers flexing against the fabric.

“There you go. You need this, don’t you? Need to come six times like a fucking slut. Being so good for Jack and me.”

A gasp of air. The vice-like clenching around his finger. So hard that he can feel it. You’re trembling into your sixth orgasm. Breathing raggedly, almost like you’re hyperventilating. Pulling on the restraints above you. Outright sobbing.

Hips moving into the toy, and away. Chasing and running. Too much and wanting more.

His tongue slathering, licking into you. You can hear the squelching. Your face feels hot. Embarrassed by the sounds your body makes.

“Robby,” you whimper, shaking. “Pause, you said pause. Please, Robby.”

“Alright. I got you. I got you, honey.” The toy turned off and discarded. Robby moving up your body. Undoing the knot that ties your wrists to the bar of the bed frame. Fingers at the strings of the blindfold.

You whine, shaking your head.

“You want to keep it on?”

“Yes, please.” You think you need the comfort of the darkness, right now.

“Okay, honey.”

You’re being shifted, the both of you lying on your sides, facing each other. Your face tucked against his chest. But you still feel like you’re shaking apart, unable to ground yourself, despite Robby holding you.

You don’t realise you’re crying until you feel Robby speak, more so than hear what he says. His thumbs brushing away tears that leak under the blindfold.

And then the weight behind you. The arms around you. Familiar. Lips against the curve of your shoulders, up the side of your neck.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.” Grazing your jawline.

“Jack.” You hadn’t realised you were uttering his name, over and over again.

“Right here.”

You shift, angling your head. Catching his lips with yours. Fingers gripping the hand that Robby has on the side of your leg. You feel Robby’s knee nudging between yours, thigh aligned with your sticky core. A stuttering breath as you grind yourself onto it. It borders on painful, but riding out the aftershocks helps soothe you. And he knew that, somehow.

“You’re perfect, baby,” Jack whispers. “Taking what Robby gave you? You did so good for us.”

You want so badly to ask Robby if he shares the same thoughts. But he doesn’t volunteer, and asking feels too much like digging a scalpel into your chest, beating muscle on display, for him to discern your worthiness, to leave or to cherish. You’ve always harboured a greed that knows no bounds.

You hate yourself for needing that reassurance from him, too.

Your fingers shifting, interlacing with Robby’s. His digits folding over yours. It should be a moment of tenderness but feels clinical from him. Responding, but not given. The way he touches you feels methodical.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you answer. Maybe you’re not being good enough. Maybe Robby doesn’t like you as much yet. If you’re better, maybe he will.

“Yeah? You good to start again?”

You’re nodding.

Jack gives you another kiss, one that has you melting into it. Lost in him. Jack shifts back to breathe, and every millimetre he pulls away feels like something defined with regret. “Go give Robby some love, sweetheart.”

You’re hiccuping, the blindfold damp against your skin. Unseeing as you shuffle along Robby’s thigh, until you’re pressed against his chest. You feel Jack follow your movements, his lips grazing the back of your shoulder. You shiver.

“Hey, honey,” Robby murmurs.

You reach out, feel the coarse hair of his beard beneath your finger pads. Your thumb outlining the corners of his lips. Dragging to the curve of his bottom lip. Inching in until your lips are on his. Once again, he responds. Answering when you kiss. Starting off gentle until you’re rutting yourself against his thigh, and his fingers are digging into the meat of your side.

Until you’re whimpering with the need for more, despite the overstimulation. You need him inside you. Any one of them.

“Alright, up you get,” Robby says.

You’re unsteady on your knees, Jack in front of you. You’ve long lost the orientation of the room, of the bed you’re on.

Jack kisses you again, tongue sliding into your mouth. Soft and reassuring. Hands roaming, touching. Any time your fingers move pass his bare pelvis, he snags your wrist. Correcting wordlessly.

You hear Robby shuffle behind you.

“Down on the bed, baby,” Jack whispers. “On your front for Robby.”

You move, lying down. Your hands brushing against Jack’s knees, you think. Your hands shifting up, grabbing his thighs for the contact. To feel grounded. His hand covers yours, thumbs circling over the back of them.

Bunched up sheets between your legs. Rolling your hips into it, just for some semblance of friction. You let out a moan.

Robby inhales sharply, watching the tattoos across your back ripple with your movements. “That’s real pretty, honey.” Soft. “But we didn’t ask you to do that.” Fingers catching your hips, seizing your movements. You try not to cry. “Bring your knees up for me.”

With his guidance, you do. Legs drawn up under you, presenting yourself to him. It’s not a position that you’ve done a lot with Jack. You’re too clingy, you think. Would prefer to see him. This feels almost impersonal.

“You want Jack in your mouth?”

“Fuck,” Jack hisses, quiet.

Your brain stutters. Somehow, it hadn’t crossed your mind. “Yes.” Can feel yourself salivating at the thought of it.

“Yeah, course you do,” Robby chuckles, low and dark. He draws himself up. He must be on his knees too, thighs bracketing yours.

You feel the head of his cock slide between the swollen lips of your cunt. Resting there. Teasing. You try to grind back onto it, to take it—take him—into you. You’re keening, a pathetic sound that’s brimming with your desperation to be full.

Robby laughs. The heavy paw of his hand swats the swell of your ass.

You jerk at the sting. Feel yourself clench around nothing. “Robby. Please. I need you.”

“Oh, I know.” Once more, the head of his cock swiping the wetness at your entrance. “I can see you. You’re dripping.”

“Please.”

It’s a slow process. Robby draws it out. A tortuous slide into you. Has you scrabbling against Jack’s thighs, his hands caressing yours. Your face turned, cheek against the mattress in the space between his legs.

Robby’s cock pushing into you, the stretch of your walls. Aching. You moan around it. Through it. The stuttering inhales, the hitching of your breath.

“Jesus, honey,” Robby manages, hoarse. Rolling his hips into you with unhurried movements. Experiments of motions to test how your body responds.

You’re sure you have a bruising grip on Jack’s thighs. You’ve lost yourself in recitations of wordless sounds. Feeling yourself ripple around Robby.

“Alright,” Robby bites out. “Your turn, Jack.”

You hear Jack move in front of you. Hear him groan.

Then.

Robby fucks into you, once. Hard. Pushing you further up the bed. A cry punched out of you.

Closer to Jack. His hands on yours, guiding. “Keep your hands on my thighs. Tap three times if you need to stop.”

You nod.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Okay. Three times to stop.”

“There we go. You’re doing so good, baby.”

You shudder at his words. Feel Robby jerk into you as you tighten in response. Robby lets out a breath, a quiet chuckle.

You already feel saliva pooling under your tongue. You swallow. Mouth opening, lips over your teeth. Jack rests a hand on the back of your head. Pushes you down over his cock. The stinging of the corners of your lips. The weight of him on your tongue. Sliding further in. You bob your head, up and down. Tongue flexing up against his length, hollowing out your cheeks.

“Fuck,” Jack grunts.

Robby waits. Has been waiting. Only when Jack meets his eyes, and nods, does he starts to move. Fucking into you.

Your muffled noises, trapped. Your mouth and cunt full. A fucking vision to them.

“Fucking knew you’d be good at this,” Robby murmurs.

You feel dangerously warm. Delirious. Like this is occurring in a dream. Hazy, like a smoky fire on a distant hill. You shift, moaning around the slide of Jack’s cock in your mouth. Dipping your head in repetitive motions. Can hear him come apart as you do.

“That’s it,” Robby says. His thrusts are slow, measured. Giving you reprieve, seemingly content to watch you please Jack. “Show me how good you are for him.”

Oh. Robby has a thing for watching, Jack had said. The break room, probably. When you thought it was just the two of you, and somehow Robby knew that Jack told you to take care of him. How much did he watch through the curtain, before he came in to tell you the police wanted to collect your statement?

Lifting off of Jack’s cock, saliva dripping onto him. He groans, a hand cupping your face. Soft in his touch.

You rub your cheek against his palm, kitten licks to the tip of his dick. Then you’re sliding down again. Feel him all the way, the tip of his cock head up against the back of your throat. You stay like that, your head fuzzy. Hear his muted moans, like you’re underwater.

You swallow around him. He fucks his hips up into your face. Fingers buried into the roots of your hair, clenching.

Robby draws out, almost all the way, then fucks into you. Once.

You choke, throat spasming around Jack. Your fingers digging into the muscles of Jack’s thighs. But not tapping out. You tighten around Robby, roll your hips against him.

Robby grabs the flesh of your sides, then does it again. Pulls out, almost unsheathed. Then thrusts back inside.

You whine around Jack’s cock. Coming up for air again, mouthing at the length of him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect, baby,” Jack says, ruined. His thumb brushing against your cheek. Tugging lightly at the corner of your lips. “So good for us.”

You keen. Robby rocks into you, intermittent motions like he’s taking the edge off for himself. Not after your pleasure. Just his own. Different from Jack, but somehow, you find inextricably hot.

He’s using you.

“Come on,” Robby rasps. “Make him come. Then I’ll fuck you after. That’s what you want, right? Don’t even have to say anything. I can feel you clenching around me. Just begging to be fucked. Just like—that.”

Your head bowed, pressed against one side of Jack’s pelvis. Panting. Fuck, you’re burning. All Robby is doing is talking to you, and you feel like you can’t breathe. Something fluttering in your stomach.

“Jesus, Robby,” Jack breathes out. You can feel the twitching of his thighs. Minute reactions to Robby. He’s not unaffected either.

“Fuck,” Robby bites out. Slowly thrusting into you. Once again, the movements are aimless. Not for you. Just to sate himself. “So turned on you it’s making you dumb, huh?” Robby drapes his weight on your back. Pressing his cock in further.

You whine. You’re so sure the tip of his dick is at your cervix. Hips flexing against him again.

A hand in your hair, guiding, pushing. “I said, make him come.”

You try to nod, mewling at the sting of your scalp when you can’t. “Yes, yes sir, please.” Sliding back onto Jack’s cock. Still blindfolded, completely missing the look Robby and Jack share. Something undecipherable, even with the years they’ve known each other. The way Jack jerks into your mouth. The sharp inhale from Robby.

“Fuck,” Jack grunts.

You hollow out your cheeks, heading bobbing up and down like you’re on a mission. Saliva guiding the way. Wet and noisy. The obscene sounds coming from you, from your mouth stuffed full. But you don’t care. No, what you care about is making Jack come. Like Robby told you to.

You can feel Jack’s cock jerking in your mouth. He’s close. You can hear him. You bury his cock all the way down your throat. Move one of your hands to fondle with his balls. Listen to him groan.

Then he comes.

And you swallow around him. His hand, or Robby’s hand, you’re not sure anymore, in your hair. Forcing you down.

You stay. Swallowing. Drinking his release. Then you move again. The hand on your head falling away. You’re lifting your head, up and down. Hear Jack swear as you continue to suck on his softening cock. Slide up his dick, tongue on the slit. Suckling the tip.

“Fuck, fuck.” Jack tries to grab your head.

But you grasp his hand. Interlocking your fingers. Continue. Sliding back down.

You hear Robby chuckle, sinful and deep, by your ear. Spread across your back. “That’s it, honey. That’s a good cockslut. I can see why he keeps you around.”

“Fucking Christ—baby, that’s—” Jack fucks into your mouth with his spent dick. Fingers digging into your hand from where you’re holding his.

And you’re still going.

“Okay, that’s enough, baby. Fuck, that’s enough.”

You pop off of him. Heaving. Mouthing and kissing above his thighs, along the pubic bone and pelvis.

“Did Jack teach you that?” Robby asks, lips grazing the back of your neck.

You shiver at the sensation. “No.”

Jack huffs out a breathless laugh. “I’m pretty sure I saw heaven the first time that happened.”

Robby smiles against the soft skin of your nape. “So you just came along, all perfect for him, hm?”

“Pretty much,” Jack whispers, tone unbearably soft.

“Robby,” you whine. You try to fuck yourself onto his cock. Still inside you. Still hard. “Please, you said.”

“Oh, I remember what I said, honey.” He lifts himself off your back. Kneeling upright again.

“Please.”

“What do you think, Jack?” Robby asks. His fingers trace the black artwork on your back, making you tremble under his touch. “Is it time for me to fuck your slut? Been good enough for you?”

Jack releases a noise. Eyes scorching when he meets Robby’s gaze.

“Please,” you cry. Pushing yourself backwards into Robby. “Please, Robby. You said you would if I made him come. I did, I did. Please.”

Robby laughs, momentarily watching you struggle. “Not me, honey.” Attention back on the other man. “Ask Jack.”

“Jack,” you sob. Lifting your head.

Even though Jack can’t see your eyes, he knows. The way you’d look. Dilated pupils, how shiny and wet they’d be from your tears. How he can’t say no to you when you look at him.

“Jack, please, I want to feel him. Please, Jack, I was good, I promise, please.”

Robby swears, hips grinding into you. You moan.

“You were so good for me, baby,” Jack says, a hand caressing your face.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Jack answers, just as quiet, completely lost to you. “Robby.”

“You wanna lie down?” Robby asks him.

Both Jack and Robby move. With their guidance, you’re kneeling up long enough for Jack to settle comfortably on the bed. Then Robby situates you on top of Jack. You let out a noise, half moan, half sigh. Completely content to feel Jack against you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You hum, chin tilted. And wordlessly, his lips find yours. A messy exchange of saliva. Jack’s tongue in your mouth. Against yours. A hint of teeth nibbling your lower lip. Carried away by kissing him. Until you’re rutting against him. Hissing when your clit rubs against him.

Then Robby fucks into you. Hard. Punching the air out of you. You keen. Trying to catch your breath but he keeps up the pace. Relentless as he fucks into you. Just as you had been begging him to. He doesn’t think there was ever a world where he could withhold this from you, from himself.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Jack rasps. His hands roam, squeezing. Touch scorching. “Robby making you feel good?”

“Yes, yes, he’s, mhm, yes. Oh—”

“Fuck,” Robby grunts. “Taking me so well, honey.”

You arch your back just a little, feel him slip in further against that spot inside you. You’re both moaning around the deeper slide of him. Feel Robby’s grip on your waist as he fucks into you, again and again. You hope his fingers dig in hard enough to leave bruises. A souvenir to remember this and him by.

Jack’s fingers delving between your bodies, the space made when you curved your spine.

You whimper, reaching to grab Jack’s wrist, to stop him from rubbing circles against your clit. Based on the previous six orgasms that Robby gave you with the toy, you’re still too sensitive.

“Too much for you?” he asks.

You hum in affirmation. “It’s—mm, this is—ah.”

Robby releases a breathless laugh. He fucks into you like it’s his mission, like it was what he was put onto this Earth to do. Hitting that spot, on target with each thrust.

Jack takes your hands in his, fingers interlacing. Lies them on the bed above his head. Until your arms are stretching up. You feel the scorch of it, rekindling the burn of when they had been tied to the bed frame.

You cry out.

“There we go, honey.” Robby leans down, until you start to feel the press of his weight on top of you. Not entirely to suffocate you, but enough of his body aligning against yours.

Your breath hitches in your throat. That fire building in your stomach. Fucking yourself back against him. “Ah, ah, mm. Oh my God, Robby.”

And Jack recognises it. The stuttering of your gasps. The way your mouth drops open in broken off moans. The whimpers in the higher register of your voice. “Holy shit,” he utters, reverent. “You’re going to come, baby? Just from Robby fucking you like this?”

Your forehead against the curve of Jack’s chest. Crying out. “Yes. Yes, he’s—so good, he’s—I’m—” Half formed sentences, lost to wordless noises of pleasure. You’ve never been able to come from penetration alone. You’ve accepted it as a truth about yourself. Even told Jack about it.

And then comes Robby, an act of defiance.

“Yeah?” Robby grunts. His movements are more urgent. Like he needs to see you fall apart under him. To take something from you that hasn’t already been claimed by someone else. “Never been fucked like this before? No one’s been treating this little slut right, is that it? Just needed my cock inside you to—fucking—come like this?”

You’re keening, feeling yourself tighten around him, impossibly. Lava, all encompassing. All around you. On your flesh, consuming.

“Fucking hell, Robby,” you hear Jack groan. His hold on your hands start to bite.

“That’s it. Fucking come for me.” Robby’s reaches, fingers curling around your throat. Lifting your chin up. Squeezing the sides, above your pulse.

You gasp.

“Robby,” Jacks voice.

“You like this, don’t you? Can feel you tightening around me. Need to be fucked like a goddamn whore.”

Robby thrusts, once, twice.

And then you’re coming around him, a forceful avalanche. Imploding supernova. Heaving when Robby lets go of your neck. Riding out your orgasm as Robby buries himself deep, rolling his hips.

“Fuck, baby, look at you,” Jack says.

You’re crying. Sobbing, grinding yourself against Robby. Robby hooks an arm around your stomach, face buried against the notches of your bared spine. Grunting as he comes, hot breath fanning your upper back. You feel his dick twitching with it. He thrusts into you, milking out his own orgasm. And you take what he gives, whimpering with the overstimulation.

“Fuck me,” Robby huffs.

“Come on, I got you.” Jack releases your hands, rubbing up and down your arms.

You’re absolutely gone. Floating. Moving through molasses.

“Robby.”

“Yeah?”

“On your side.”

Robby tucking your back against his heaving chest, still inside of you, softened. Jack shuffles close. You’re nestled between them. Robby has a hand splayed on your stomach. Jack’s hand rests against your chest.

Jack kisses you. His other hand against your cheek. Fingers nudging the strings of the blindfold. “Can I take this off?”

You hum. An affirmative sound, you think, given that Jack gingerly removes it off of you.

You keep your eyes closed. And even if they were opened, the room would be dark. Blacked out curtains framing the windows, no lights on.

Wiping at your wet cheeks. “So beautiful, sweetheart. You did so good.”

You’re shuddering, nosing against his jaw. And yet, something not quite clicking the way it should. That greed within you, again. A gaping hole that swallows.

You’re sobbing, still. Too fractured. Too tremulous.

“Hey, I’m right here,” Jack murmurs, picking up on your erratic breathing. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?” Fingers through your hair, against your cheek. “Baby, hey.”

Robby’s hand soothing up and down your thigh.

“Not good,” you manage, hoarse.

“What? What wasn’t good?” Jack asks.

“Robby.”

And Robby goes still behind you. Deathly so. “Honey—” He tries to move. Back and away. Out of you.

You’re shaking your head, crying. “No.” You clench around his already flaccid dick. You don’t want him to go.

Robby hisses. “Jack.”

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What happened?” Jack asks.

“Not good for Robby,” you utter.

“What wasn’t good for him?” Jack asks. Clarifying.

Robby still feels his heart in his throat.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper.

Robby swallows. Makes an incredulous noise. “Yes, you were. You were so good for me. For us.”

“You haven’t kissed me,” you hiccup.

Robby mouth opens, prepared to argue. He has. Remembers your lips against his. But really, if he’s cataloguing those moments, they’ve not been initiated by him. Too unsure to know where and how he fits in this. What he’s allowed to do and take.

Robby’s fingers gripping either side of your chin, angling your face to him. Kissing you. The scrape of his beard. The push of his tongue against yours. His hand smoothing down, resting over the front of your neck.

You keen, jerking your hips.

Robby parts, swearing at the sensation of velvet walls rippling around him. He can’t go again.

You make a noise. Jack shushes you. Kissing you again. Robby takes the moment to detangle himself from you. Sliding out, throwing the condom away in the bathroom. Cleaning himself up. Then runs hand towels under warm water from the sink.

Bringing himself back to the bed, passing a towel over to Jack. You’re on your back, and Robby’s cleaning you up, towel against your skin. And even though Robby’s sure you’re exhausted from seven orgasms, you buck up lightly at his ministrations.

“How the hell are you keeping up with this, man?” Robby asks, glancing at Jack.

Jack snorts. “I’m not. What do you think you’re here for?” Kisses the curve of your shoulder, gentle.

Robby chuckles. “You’re insatiable, you know that?” Aimed towards you, now.

You’re whining.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. Robby will make you feel better,” Jack murmurs from beside you.

“You think you can do one more?” Robby asks, something raw and hungry in his voice.

He barely waits for your answer, already moving south of the bed, between your legs. A greedy thing, inside of him. An abyss that answers yours, buried in the cavern of his chest. How completely fitting that Jack found the both of you to call his.

You’re whimpering, digits twisting in Robby’s hair. And his fingers are sliding into your sopping cunt and he’s groaning as your hips thrust up when he mouths at your clit. Jack is a solid thing next to you, alternating between gentle kisses and talking you through the oversensitivity.

You’re trembling when you come, and Robby’s rutting his half-hard dick against the sheets beneath him.

Robby cleans you up again. Takes the towels to bathroom. Then he’s back on the bed. Tucking himself on your other side.

When you feel him, you bodily turn, facing him. Your eyes blinking, getting used to the darkness of the room.

Robby thumbs your cheek. “You’re so perfect, baby,” he rasps out, faint words ghosting over your lips before he kisses you again.

You sigh, a quiet sound, sinking against his chest, eyes closing. Robby’s hand rubbing your upper arm. Your breathing gradually evens out, falling asleep.

“You okay?” Jack asks, eventually. His chin hooked over your shoulder.

And when Robby looks at him, Jack’s eyes are already on him. “Yeah.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Just thinking.”

“Quit thinking. We just had mind-blowing sex.”

Robby huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah, we did.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Jack kisses the back of your shoulder; you shuffle closer into Robby’s chest.

“Yeah?” Sternum cracked open in the quiet room. Gaze moving between Jack and you. Silently daring to wish.

“Whatever you want. ’S always been yours, Robby.” And Jack sounds so sure of himself, so certain, that Robby believes in that quiet hope. Of the three of you crowded in a too small bed, for more than just tonight.

Part 1 | Blurb 1 | Part 2 | Blurb 2 | Series tag.

[skymouth]

lowkey i fear i peaked with this series. thank you for reading 💚

[skymouth]

notes i leave because i no longer trust myself when i say “i’ll remember the idea when i wake up”

[skymouth]

tipping point — michael robinavitch x reader | part 1

You were brought onboard six months ago as senior resident, filling in the gap that Frank Langdon’s absence left. You think your attending, Dr Robby, doesn’t like you because of it.

Robby reaches a tipping point.

You get hurt while treating a patient.

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader Word count: 5k+ Tags: Stalking; Workplace Violence; Jealousy; POV Changes; Reader is a Senior Resident; Implied Self-Harm (a patient); Implied Suicidal Ideation (a patient); Jealous Robby. Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou. Notes: if i had a nickle for every time my fics included the reader lowkey being stalked by someone, i would have two nickles. ehich isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice.

Cross posted to AO3.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Series tag. [COMPLETED]

As soon as you had woken up, you knew today wasn’t going to be a great day.

Despite the zero empirical evidence to suggest otherwise, it felt ingrained into you. Going through the motions, you end up outside the doors to the PTMC. You’re delaying going inside, having arrived at least 25 minutes earlier than your shift start.

Jesse sidles up next to you against the railing, both of you silent.

You send off a quick text to Garcia.

“You know you’re still considered new, right?” Jesse asks.

You look up from your phone, face twisting. It seems like you’re still considered an outsider. “Sure,” you hedge.

“So you know you need to be early?”

You check the time on your phone. “We’ve got 22 minutes.”

“Good impressions. Especially when you’re Langdon’s replacement.”

Langdon, again. You’ve never met the guy, but you decide you hate him. Giant shoes that no one will let you fill, regardless of how much you try. Especially when it comes to your attending. “I’ve been here for six months already. We’re way past good impressions,” you sigh.

“Can’t be caught slacking.” Jesse elbows you when he notices Dr Robby roar past on his motorbike, sans helmet. Probably finding parking.

“Where the fuck’s his helmet?” Jesse mutters.

You snort. He’s got a death wish, you think. You’re not one to encourage such behaviour, but it looks good on him.

Despite the six months that you’ve been part of the condescendingly dubbed Pitt, you can’t seem to crack the tough exterior from your attending. He carries himself like he’s a rope on the verge of fraying, inviting confrontation for an excuse to snap. Rather than be on the receiving end of that, you want to avoid it—him, altogether.

That’s not to say you’ve never tried. Of course you tried. Good impressions count, especially with your attending. But. More often than not, you’re unable to meet his eyes. You try and make yourself scarce when he’s around. It’s not that you’re scared of him. He has a presence that carries something that intimidates and calms you. It’s conflicting.

Most days, you can barely look at him, but you also can’t keep your eyes off of him. Some gravitational pull and push.

“Doctor,” Jesse greets, nodding towards Robby.

Robby takes his sunglasses off to frown at you. “You heading in?”

“Ah—yes, sir,” you stutter out, your face warm. Your gaze falls away from his brown ones. “After you.”

Silently and subtly chastised by your attending at least 20 minutes before your official clock-in time? Another tally in your predetermined ‘not a good day’ column.

You follow Robby into the PTMC, walking through the growing throng of people in the waiting area. You get buzzed in by reception. More than 15 minutes left for the night shift, seeing as they’re still milling around the hospital.

Robby and Dr Abbot are already discussing their handoffs.

You walk towards the central desk, exchanging peace signs with Dr Shen, who looks up from the computer, fingers returning to fly across the keyboard.

“Working hard or hardly working?” You cross your arms on the desk, grinning as Shen rolls his eyes.

“You’re so funny,” he says, drily, groaning as he stretches his neck. He raises his mostly melted, practically empty cup of iced coffee towards you.

You lean forward to take a sip. You make a face. “Ew. That—that’s just water.” It’s definitely more melted ice than whatever concoction that passes for whatever coffee that Shen likes.

“It’s all I have,” Shen sniffles. Oh, woe is him.

You slide your bag from your shoulder. You dig in, taking out the matcha milk tea with pearls. A plastic wrapped straw taped to the side. You hand it over.

Shen looks at the drink with stars in his eyes. “If this is you proposing, I’m saying yes.”

You snort.

“If you’re done distracting my staff.” Dr Abbot’s voice as he slides into the space next to you. A pointed look—a disapproving groove between his brows.

You can’t help the way your attention drifts over Abbot’s shoulder, onto Robby. Robby’s gaze is already affixed onto you. He looks pissed off. Probably because you haven’t clocked-in.

“Sorry, sir.” You scamper away, hearing Shen call out a ‘Thank you!’ after you. In the break room, you dump your tupperware containers of lunch, dinner, and snacks in the fridge.

The door to the break room opens. Dr Ellis enters, yawning. She beelines to the coffee. “So, Shen gets milk tea and I get nothing?” There’s no doubt that Shen had immediately bragged as soon as he saw Ellis.

You grin, wordlessly poking into your tote bag for an insulated food jar to hand over to her.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Open it.”

She does, steam hitting her face. She sniffs. “Oh my God, you made me fried rice?”

“You said you liked the smell of it last week.”

“Holy shit. You’re my favourite person.” Ellis screws the lid back on, pulling you into a hug. “You’re literally the best.”

You snort. “You said that to Santos on Friday.”

“You weren’t even here.”

“I talk to her.” The students and residents were quick to warm up to you. Within the emergency department’s staff, it seemed like Santos and Whitaker were the only ones that seemed to vehemently dislike Langdon enough to showcase they were glad you were his replacement.

Everyone else is amicable, but prepared to sing Langdon’s praises when it comes to differences in yours and his practices. Hence why you’re not above bribing a few people with food and drinks to become more liked.

Ellis tuts, poking your nose. “Stop that. Quit fraternising with the enemy.”

“Santos and I are day shifts. You’re the enemy, here, night shifter.”

With seven minutes left until your shift starts, you head towards the lockers. Bag away, stethoscope looped around your neck, jacket shoved into your locker. Then out to central where the other day shifters have congregated around Robby.

And thus, the shift starts. Shen squeezes your shoulder as he passes by. Ellis shouts a general ‘bye’ to everyone.

Maybe the day won’t be so bad.

The thing was, Robby never meant to make your life in the Pitt difficult. Except, he couldn’t seem to help it.

You were brought onboard six months ago after Frank was put on leave and went to rehab. He would have loved to chalk it up to distrust of you as a new senior resident. Administration didn’t investigate why you had to transfer from your previous hospital to the PTMC, even though you were partway through your residency. They were glad to fill in that hole that Langdon’s absence left behind. Robby could have easily written it off as suspicion against you. Except.

It wasn’t that.

Everyone else loved you. You were deemed the Pitt’s sweetheart. It barely took you the first month to warm up to everyone—nurses, residents, other seniors, the interns, and students. Hell, even the other departments liked you when you had the chance to interact with them.

You were exceptionally nice to everyone except the attendings. Which would have been fine for Robby. Except. After your initial few weeks, the professional work colleague facade melted away, and you and Shen got along like a house on fire. And maybe Shen’s buffer is that he’s younger than Robby. Shen’s—chill. Relaxed. Calm, collected, no matter the situation, even as his status as an attending.

But he’s on night shift, barely sees you compared to Robby, and somehow, you and Shen are closer.

He’s not jealous, he affirms.

“You’re jealous, brother,” Jack had said, three months after you’ve started in the Pitt. He’s had a chance to meet you a few times. He doesn’t see you as much as Robby does, but he knows enough.

Robby scowled.

“It’s probably because we’ve got seniority on everyone. Lotta years,” Jack had said, one time. “Mohan says it makes us intimidating.”

“You’re right,” Robby agreed, even though he doesn’t believe it. He knows you get along with Dana and Jesse. Age isn’t the barrier. Attending status isn’t one either.

Robby—tried. Kind of. Every time he said anything to you, you responded with a quick “Sorry, sir” and made the fastest possible escape. You barely look him in the eye when you speak to him. And he gets it—Mel hardly maintains eye contact when she speaks to others. Sometimes, Robby struggles too.

Except.

It doesn’t happen to anyone else.

Robby watches you drink from Shen’s iced coffee. The same one that he assumes that Shen has been nursing throughout the night shift.

Then, you get some green drink for him from your bag. What the Hell?

Jack sighs, knowing exactly what is distracting the other attending. He strides over, dismissing you. Turns to Shen, who yells out his thanks to you. “C’mon, brother.”

Shen cackles, pointing the straw of his newly obtained boba towards Robby. “You better make your move before you lose it, old man.”

“Don’t start,” Jack groans. Despite his knowledge that Shen is joking, it’s not a fact that seems to translate for Robby. Hell, the whole emergency department can tell that there’s something there. Some kind of tension that almost everyone will say comes in the wake of Frank, but isn’t.

Hell, despite everything that happened between Robby and Heather, Robby’s fine with her sticking around. He’s less awkward around her, less tense—less likely to get into her business.

Robby’s jaw clenches.

It’s fine. He can work through this—has been, for the past six months since you’ve started.

Sure, he’s perpetually aware of your whereabouts and how close you are to him when you work together. Hell, he’s even hyper-aware of when you’re not near him, and when you’re brushing up against his fucking colleagues. Or even when patients are a little too eager when you have to enter their space to work on them. It’s whatever.

He’s supposed to bite his tongue and work through it.

Except he can’t, apparently.

It’s a stupid thing that Robby snaps at you for. A question—a case that requires consultation. It’s his job as an attending. But.

“Jesus!” Robby barks, fingers raking through his hair. You’re standing close—too close, because all he can think about is getting his hands on you; arms, thighs, back, chest. Wherever. “You can’t figure it out yourself? You need me to fucking feed you too?”

The ED’s quiet, sans the monitors and machinery.

“Sorry, sir,” you utter out. Your face feels like its on fire. Your gaze is already trained somewhere at his right shoulder instead of his face.

“Robby.” Dana’s voice, uncharacteristically harsh. Stern.

You dip your head and essentially flee the central desks where you had cornered the attending.

“What the Hell was that?” Dana demands.

Robby sighs. “I don’t know—”

“Don’t give me that. You chewed out Frank for berating Santos. I’m going to give you shit for this.” If she notices that Robby tenses at Frank’s name, she doesn’t grant him any leniency. “This is a teaching hospital, remember?”

“Fuck,” he huffs out. In his avoidance of Dana’s disapproval, Robby’s wandering eyes find Heather. Her lips are pursed, frowning—disappointed. Yeah, he thinks, welcome to the club. He watches Heather follow you. He belated remembers that you still needed that consultation.

“I’ll—I’ll apologise.”

“Give it a few. I’m sure you both need space from each other right now.”

“I doubt the Pitt’s sweetheart can be mad at anyone.” It’s a jab at you, he knows. A weak one. He doesn’t get to experience that side of you. Only observe it as you work with everyone else, while he gets some timid, uncomfortable shell.

“Robby.” Dana still sounds displeased.

“Alright.” He doesn’t know why today is the end of his tether; the end of the short rope that he has when dealing with you. Maybe it’s because the first thing he saw this morning was you and Jesse chilling at the front of the hospital. Something ugly had reared its head at that. Or whatever the fuck that was with Shen at central desk and the boba.

Fuck. Maybe he is jealous.

You and Javadi are assigned to the case in Central 9. That itself isn’t a problem. Javadi is more than capable of handling it, and you’ve decided to let her take over.

The patient is one Matthew Williams, a white male, mid to late 30s, a vertical laceration to the inside of his forearm. Healed over scars line his arm—he’s never been to the PTMC before, but you’re certain this isn’t the first time he’s walked into a hospital with a cut like this.

Differentials include an actively self-harming patient, or someone that’s incredibly accident prone.

You have psych and Kiara on standby.

Matthew laughs at something Javadi says, eyes darting between you and the student. It settles on you, a smile on his face. He’s charismatic, engaging in conversation. Nothing about him seems nervous, or ashamed. He’s an anomaly, but you don’t let your guard down.

“How did this happen?” Javadi asks.

“Kitchen accident,” he says, dismissive. “Let me tell you—definitely going to be the last time I’m helping out in the kitchen.”

“You making food for someone at home?” you ask.

“No. Was just helping my sister. I’m staying with her and her partner. I’m visiting at the moment.”

“Where are you from?” Javadi asks. She settles on the stool, pulling over the tray of tools.

“LA. But I’ve been travelling. Went to Austin, St. Louis, Chicago, New York. Now I’m here.”

“Yeah? Doing a big trip or something?” you ask.

His gaze is steady on yours. “Or something.”

It makes something churn in your stomach. It feels more than worry about a patient. Sure, a big trip could mean he’s finalising travel plans before ending his own life, but there’s something about him that makes you falter in maintaining eye contact. Too intense.

You think about getting additional opinions on Matthew, but remember Robby snarling at you when you wanted to consult with him for a previous case. Yes, you don’t go out of your way to be friendly to Robby, but you didn’t think that he hated you. It stings, a little. You… admire the Hell out of Robby. Respect him, even.

You swallow down the weird feeling. You’ve been told to trust your instincts. It’s the only reason why you don’t want to leave Javadi alone as she stitches him up, despite everything telling you to leave the room.

You pick up the clipboard, reviewing his profile. Matthew Williams. Something about the name niggles in your brain. Something about his face, maybe.

“Are you guys new here?” the man asks.

“I’ve been here almost seven months, now,” Javadi says. “I’m a third year student.”

“You’re in great hands. She’s one of the best,” you assure. You know some patients don’t like students.

He smiles, attention not once wavering from yours. “And you? You’re from LA, right?”

He said it so casually, so factually, that it takes you a second to realise. You swallow. Your ears feel hollowed out. “I never said that.”

Javadi stills.

“What?” Matthew chuckles.

“I never said I was from LA.”

“No? You must have mentioned it before when we were talking.”

“I never mentioned LA.”

“No, I said I was from LA, and then—”

“I didn’t—”

Javadi pushes away from the patient, leaving her stitches incomplete. She knows you’re right—you hadn’t mentioned anything about LA in this conversation. You moving here is a fact she knows about you, but it’s not information that he should know.

“Don’t do that,” Matthew scowls, his attention finally on the student. “You haven’t finished my arm.”

“We’ll get someone else to finish up here—” Javadi reassures, standing from the stool.

“No!”

“Sir—” you say, stepping in when Javadi shrinks at his raised tone.

“I want you to do it,” he says firmly, gaze returning to yours. Fierce. Trapping.

Your eyes flickers to Javadi, then to the door behind her. Central 9 is part of the five central rooms that have two doors. One towards central, one towards north. She can get help while you keep his attention on you. It should be easy.

“I’ve been looking for you since you left LA General. I’ve been doing this to myself, trying to find you in every fucking hospital I can get to,” he says, voice clipped. Tone harsh. “I want you to finish up my arm.”

You left LA six months ago after receiving weird notes and texts during and after your shifts. You transferred because admin couldn’t figure out who was behind it, and obviously, the police weren’t going to do anything about it. You changed your number. Moved states away, hoping to leave it behind. You thought you had.

“Security!” Javadi yells past the opened door.

Matthew swears. “Dammit—”

“We need help in here—!”

He lunges for the trolley that Javadi had set up.

It happens fast, all within seconds.

You try to intercept him, the trolley crashing onto the ground. Tools scatter.

You don’t notice the scalpel clasped between his fingers.

He charges at you.

It’s not some world-shattering revelation.

Robby’s jealous. Jealous because he likes you, somehow. Jack must be laughing at him about how long it takes for him to figure it out.

He’s in the middle of walking Whitaker through a procedure when he hears Javadi yell for security.

His initial reaction makes him look up, meeting Whitaker’s concerned eyes. The ED’s used to alerts for help. It’s another thing when it’s for security.

There’s a scream.

High. Shrill. Panicked.

“Robby!” Dana’s voice, this time. Urgent.

“Go!” Whitaker assures.

“Central 9!” Perlah directs.

Robby rushes into the room.

It takes him some time to realise what he’s seeing.

Javadi and Dana at varying stages of kneeling on the ground.

Ahmad and Donnie are hauling out a patient, blood leaking from the patient’s unfinished stitches. He’s yelling something. It’s incoherent—Robby’s not paying attention.

He gets further into the room.

And there you are.

Sprawled on the floor.

Javadi is trying to press gauze against the side of your neck.

Your hands are against the wound, applying pressure.

“Move your hands, sweetie,” Dana says to you. “C’mon, move your hands. We’ve got you.”

You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. Panicked, unseeing.

Blood seeps between your fingers, warm. Flowing.

Neck wounds are known to bleed. This is something you know. You also know the chances of surviving them are low.

Your breath hitches. You gurgle.

Robby feels his heart thudding, fast and painful in his chest.

He grabs a stray gurney from the hallway. “On the gurney! Jesse, Collins—with me!”

Between him, Jesse, Collins, Dana, and Javadi, they get you onto the gurney.

“You’re okay,” Collins hushes. “It’s okay, we’ve got you.”

Blood bubbles on your lips.

“Don’t talk,” Dana says.

“Javadi, the gauze,” Robby says.

“I’m trying—” Javadi starts. Her voice is trembling. She’s never had to work on someone she’s known before.

Robby thumbs your cheek until your unfocused eyes land on him.

Somehow, it registers in your mind—Robby’s reliable. He may be waspish, but he’s a steady presence in the ED. He can fix this, you think.

“Look at me,” he says. “Hey, look at me. Move your hands.”

A minuscule nod. Your hands move away and Javadi packs in the gauze, applying pressure.

“Get Garcia!” Robby yells. Whether she’s upstairs, or working on someone else, he’s determined that you’re the priority, here.

“Trauma 2’s opened!” Dana yells, stepping away from the gurney.

Your hand reaches; closing over the back of Robby’s hand that rests on the railing of the gurney. A burbling of noise and blood from your lips.

He looks down at you, face creased. “Don’t talk. We’re going to fix you up.”

You want to agree, want to tell him that you trust him. But your hand relaxes from where it was holding onto his, dropping onto the gurney. Your eyes roll back.

Collins performs a sternum rub, yelling your name, but you remain unresponsive.

Javadi sobs. Your blood, warm and red keeps pooling into the gauze. It’s not stopping, no matter how much gauze she packs on. No matter how much pressure she applies, it’s not stopping.

“Mateo! Get Javadi out of here!” Robby orders.

Mateo’s hands land on Javadi’s shoulders. “C’mon, let me take over.”

“No! I need to—”

“I got it. Victoria.” He waits until she looks at him; her eyes are wide—frantic. “I got it,” he promises. Infuses as much certainty as he can into his words.

Javadi’s face scrunches up, then she nods.

Mateo’s hands replaces hers and the gurney is pushed into Trauma 2.

Garcia enters in scrubs. “What do we—” She startles at the sight of you— “have?”

“Deep laceration to the anterior neck. At least three inches in width. Possible damage to the carotid artery. Unresponsive for two minutes,” Robby relays, as impersonal as possible. He has to divorce the idea of you as the patient so his voice doesn’t shake. Compartmentalisation. Disassociation. Whatever he needs to remain functional.

“We need more blood in here!” Collins yells.

20 minutes.

It passes in what feels like seconds and hours. It’s not an easy process. Your carotid was nicked. You bled like a stuck pig. They lost you once, due to the blood loss. And for those heart-rending three minutes and 17 seconds, Robby was the one doing chest compressions.

No one tried to tap in.

But they’re done. You’re stable enough for transport. Garcia takes you up to the OR.

“Robby.” Dana’s hand grasps his shoulder.

Robby hadn’t noticed when she came back in, but he shrugs her away. “Fuck,” he huffs out. He scans the glass panes that make up the trauma room, looking out into the ED.

“Good job in here, everyone,” Dana says, when it comes obvious that Robby isn’t going to lead the debrief. “I know it’s hard when it’s one of our own. If you need to talk to anyone about today—”

He storms out.

“Robby!”

“Where is he?” Robby barks out. “Ahmad! Where’s—?”

“Robby!” Princess trying to intercept.

“What are you going to do?” Dana chases after him. She and Princess block his path. “What’s your plan? Punch him? Slash his throat? C’mon, Robby.”

His nose flares, but he knows that there’s not much he can do. Restless energy, adrenaline. Residuals of fear in the back of his mouth. “Where’s the patient?” he grits out.

Dana and Princess share a look. Dana nods.

“Behavioural 2,” Princess says. “He’s in restraints. We’ve already called the cops.”

“Fuck,” Robby swears again.

“Take a breather,” Dana says, a firm hand on his chest. Though her voice is soft, her suggestion isn’t any less of a command.

Robby nods—once, sharp. He heads to the elevator. Digits linger above the button for the 12th floor; he could ride the elevator to the top most floor, then he can take the staircase to the roof. His usual sanctuary for solace.

But he presses the button for the fourth floor—the surgical centre.

Shen and Abbot get in at the same time.

“What the Hell happened?” Abbot demands, breezing past the double doors. Shen matches his pace.

“How did you—?” Dana starts.

“Police scanner. Who got hurt?” His eyes roam the emergency department’s floor. Face drawn, eyes steel. Then, as if preparing himself for bad news, “Where’s Robby?”

“It’s not him,” Dana reassures. She looks between Shen and Abbot, and tells them that it’s you. Throat slashed, touch and go for a little bit, but you’re in surgery now.

“Fuck,” Abbot says.

“I told Robby to take a break.”

“He took lead?” Shen asks.

“Wouldn’t have let anyone else take over.” Dana’s eyes slide over to Abbot. Except for Jack, goes unsaid.

“Go home, brother,” Shen says, gently nudging Abbot’s shoulder.

Abbot shakes his head. “C’mon. We know Robby’s not going to be useful right now.”

Dana relents, sighing. “Alright.”

“Where do you need me?” Shen asks.

“Down here. We need you to play senior resident with Heather. We tried Parker but we couldn’t get through to her.”

“Probably sleeping,” Abbot murmurs.

“Great. Now I’m Langdon’s replacement. Got it.” Shen goes to move, but is stopped by Abbot grabbing his arm.

“Let me find Robby, first. You can be senior attending until I come back.”

Shen nods. “Alright. Bring that sad boy back.”

Dana lets out a tired snort.

Abbot takes the elevator to the roof. When he doesn’t find Robby up there, he doesn’t want to admit the first thing he does is peer down the railing, surveying the perimeter of the building. But no. No splattered bodies on the concrete below.

He huffs a sigh and takes himself down to the fourth floor. Wordlessly, he inserts himself next to Robby when he enters the OR’s observation room.

“What are you doing here?” Robby asks. His voice is hoarse; tired.

“Covering for you.”

“I don’t need a cover.”

“You’re not attending the ED from up here, brother.”

“Neither are you.”

“Shen’s down there right now. Covering for…” Abbot swallows, nodding towards the window where the surgical team bustle around you. A seamless, choreographed dance.

They’re silent again, watching.

“You alright?” Abbot asks.

“I’m fine. I’m not to the one that—died on the fucking table.”

“You did everything right, man. Surgery’s going well.”

Robby doesn’t respond. He removes his hands from his jacket pockets, noticing the dried smear of your blood on the back of his right one. You were holding onto his hand. He saw it in your eyes that you had been scared. But you were aware enough to trust him, to want to hold his hand.

“Go home, Robby.”

“No—”

“Go home, clean up, then come back as a visitor. You’re not helping anyone like this.”

Robby sighs. “Fine,” he relents. He’s already done more than half of the shift.

“Yeah?” Abbot starts towards the door. “Let us know when we can visit, alright?”

“Yeah. ’Course.”

A hand on Robby’s shoulder, squeezing.

You were completely right about today being a shit day.

Regaining consciousness feels like waking up dehydrated and exhausted, regardless of how many hours of sleep you’ve gotten.

You notice movement to the side before you fully register it. Shadows and dark fabric—you flinch.

“Whoa, it’s okay, it’s just me. It’s okay.” Robby.

You swallow thickly, blinking.

“Do you remember what happened?”

You nod, slow. “Patient. Matthew.” Your voice comes out hoarse.

Robby holds out a little paper cup, angling the straw to you.

You take sips from it.

“You know him?” Robby asks.

“He said… he followed me. From LA.”

“Shit. Did you recognise him?”

You shake your head. You see so many people everyday, as part of the hospital. When you save someone’s life, they’re more likely to remember you, than you do them. Especially when they’re lucky enough to walk out of the hospital.

“Javadi,” you whisper. “Is she—?”

“Yeah, she’s okay. She didn’t get hurt.”

You nod. It’s a stupid thing, but you feel tears spring into your eyes. Relief. Adrenaline. Fear. “I’m sorry,” you warble, leaning into the pillows behind you.

“Hey.” Robby draws closer. His hand hovers awkwardly, like he wants to touch, but doesn’t. Unsure if it’s welcomed or not. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But he…” Came into the hospital. Made a mess. There’s probably a shit ton of paperwork that you and Robby have to fill out following this incident of workplace violence.

“That’s not on you.”

“He was hurting himself.”

“That’s still not your fault. He chose to do that.”

You sniffle, adjusting on the bed. “What time is it?”

“After 8. Shift’s over.”

“You didn’t go home?”

Robby shakes his head. “Would’ve ended up back here, anyway.”

“Why?”

A wry smile on his face. “I’m worried about you.”

Oh. “Sorry.” You weren’t aware that he cared, but it makes sense—he’s an attending. Workplace violence; the well-being of a resident. Some kind of righteous anger that he can use to fuel the next talk with Gloria about security in the hospital.

“What are you sorry for?”

You lick your lips. Whisper out, “I don’t know. For… bothering you, I guess.”

Robby’s gaze falters, shamefaced. “That’s not—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you for needing the consult. That’s part of my job as your attending. Belittling someone isn’t an effective teaching method.”

When he’s not looking at you, it’s easier to look at him. Your eyes studying his face. Taking in heavy guilt and weighted lines.

His hand rests on the railing of the bed again. He shifts, like he’s moving to stand.

You reach out, cold fingers enclosing over his hand. It’s warm.

Robby’s gaze lurches towards you. For the first time since the brief introduction on your first day, you don’t look away.

“Thank you,” you say. “For—helping. I was… scared.” You don’t remember everything that happened after Matthew came at you, but you remember Robby’s presence. A gravitas that you trusted enough to move your hands away from your neck.

Robby’s mouth feels dry. “Of course,” he barely manages to utter out. It’s his job—you both know it, but it feels so inconsequential to admit that. He would have jumped in, regardless. He didn’t resuscitate you out of obligation. No, that was born of something selfish that thrummed inside him.

“You up for visitors?” he asks, shifting the tone. “You’ve got a few people that’ll want to see you.”

You nod, taking the olive branch. “Yeah.”

He stares at your joined hands, thumb brushing across your knuckles before he heads for the door. When he opens it, Javadi rushes in.

“You’re awake!” she squeaks. Her eyes are rimmed with red. She crashes into you, arms tight around your middle. “I was so worried.”

You rub her back. “I’m okay,” you say. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” Reassurances for both of you, you think. You watch Robby give you a soft smile before he sneaks out, the other day shifters filing in.

“Holy shit, dude—”

“That was insane—”

“I’m so glad you’re alive—”

You’re going to be okay.

Part 2 | Part 3.

[skymouth]

a little gift — the pitt (men) x reader

You hand him your panties while on a date with him.

Featuring: Frank Langdon; Jack Abbot; John Shen; Michael “Robby” Robinavitch. Tags: 18+ MDNI; AFAB Reader; Reader wears a dress; Suggestive content; Teasing; Brat Taming. Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Banner template inspired by louestat. Notes: inspired by this f1 version. lowkey this takes me back to when i was 13 and running sfw scenarios blogs for my favourite anime blorbos and would do short imagines that featured multiple characters. lowkey miss when life was simpler.

It’s a fancy restaurant. You know it’s supposed to be a special date night, but it doesn’t stave off the not-so-harmless curiosity that makes you want to act out.

While he’s distracted, you cast a glance to your surroundings to ensure no one’s around, before inching a little to the side.

Your fingers hook into the sides of your panties. Shimmying it down your legs. You bunch them into your palm.

Waiting.

Frank Langdon

Under the table, you tap the tip of your shoe against his. Persistently, until he turns his attention onto you. He had been considering dessert, even though you told him you wanted to be done with tonight already.

“Yeah?” he asks. Completely unsuspecting.

You wordlessly hold out your fisted hand, upside down.

Frank frowns. “What?”

You shake your hand.

More of your antics, he exasperatedly assumes, as he opens his hand under your impatient fist.

You drop your panties into his waiting palm.

With his brows still pinched in slight confusion, Frank uses his thumb to disturb the bunched up fabric. Until he realises what it is he’s seeing. What he’s touching—what he’s holding.

“You—what the fuck?” His fingers snap shut, arm dropping under the table. Tucking your panties into his pocket.

You watch him, a grin stretching your lips.

“Tell me that’s a spare one you brought along,” Frank says, tight.

You shake your head, crossing your arms atop the table. “Nope,” you say.

He breathes out, patience wearing thin. “Are you serious?” Bright blue eyes travel to where you’ve propped up your chest, then further down. Like he can see through the table and the dress to where you’re bare.

“Wanna get out of here?” you ask, impish and completely pleased with yourself.

“You’re impossible,” Frank says, even as he asks the passing waiter for the check. Jaw fluttering as you both remain on opposite sides of the semicircle seat.

He doesn’t break eye contact, save for when he actually has to pay, tip, and sign. When the table is cleared to leave, Frank helps you up, even if you don’t need it.

Has a hand on your waist, even when he doesn’t need to be touching you.

You both make it to his car before he crowds you against it. He had found side street parking, barely illuminated by the moon.

“You drive me insane,” he huffs.

“You do too.” You tug on his tie, dragging him in to kiss.

His hands are already roaming, bunching up your dress. You’re half-perched on the hood of his car.

“Frank,” you breathe out. It could be admonishing if you weren’t pulling him in closer.

His fingers between the apex of your thighs. To your slit, where you’re already wet. “This is what you wanted, right?”

Frank’s fingers slide in, silencing your moans by kissing you again.

It’s so like you to tease him, then chastise when he gives in. You would never let him find peace, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jack Abbot

“Hand?” you request.

Jack’s used to the way you find entertainment in your boredom. The way you restlessly trace the lines of his palm, of his fingers, his knuckles.

He thinks that’s your intention as he lifts his hand to give to you.

But you transfer your panties there. His digits close around them without a second thought.

The fabric makes him frown, attention moving away from the menu, to you, then down to his hand.

Thick fingers unfurl. Then, he stills, as if needing precious seconds to interpret what he’s seeing.

Jack clears his throat, shoving your panties into his pocket as he looks back at you. “Really?”

“What?” you ask. It could’ve passed for innocence.

But he studies you, waiting for that guileless facade to crack as the tip of your tongue wets your bottom lip.

You try to smother a grin but fail at that, too.

“I went through the trouble to plan a nice dinner for us. Had to get a reservation, and everything,” Jack says.

“I’m—showing you my appreciation.” You’re being a brat. You know it. He knows it.

Jack leans in, his arm around your waist. Sliding you right into his space. The curved banquette seats allow you both to sit next to each other.

His arm glued around you, fingers trailing down to where the line of your underwear should have been if you hadn’t given it to him.

You suck in a breath. Refraining from bodily shivering.

Lowering his lips to your ear, he asks, “What’s your plan, sweetheart?”

“We could leave?” Your suggestion comes out more like a question.

He rumbles out a laugh. Pinches the side of your hip. “No,” he tuts. “Like I said, I went through the trouble of planning our date. We’re going to stay and finish dinner.”

“But we could have fun at home.” You’re not above batting your eyelashes, peering at him with that expression that makes him fold every single time.

It’s a close thing. Jack draws in a breath, lips twitching skyward with something dangerous. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll have fun.” His hand moves to your thigh, hidden by the table. Squeezes the inner flesh, skin softer and more sensitive.

You—squirm. Clear your throat to disguise an undignified sound that escapes.

Jack smirks. “Let’s enjoy the food,” he says. His hand travels higher up your thigh. Slow, inching.

It becomes abundantly clear you started a game you were not prepared for.

John Shen

You stand, smoothing down your dress. Sidestep away from the table.

“Bathroom,” you say, when John shoots you an inquisitive look.

He nods in response. “Okay. I’ll try not to eat it all without you.” 

You grin. Coordinate your walk past him to drop your panties in his lap.

He gives you another questioning glance, but you continue to walk away. 

Towards the bathroom.

It doesn’t take long before he follows you. He locks the door behind him. Meets your gaze with something playful and dark. “Hi,” John says.

“Hi,” you giggle.

“I think you forgot something.” He raises your sheer underwear between his fingers. For someone that prided himself for being the reliable, calm and collected one, he’s pretty sure this act of yours short circuited his brain for a second.

“I left it for you,” you say. “Did you like it?”

“Did I—?” John breaks off with a huffed out chuckle. “Yeah. I did like it. Didn’t think we were giving gifts today.” He makes short strides towards you, and you back away until you hit the vanity.

“Surprise,” you say.

John hums. When he’s stationed right before you, his head lowers to your shoulder, nosing against exposed skin. Down to your neck.

You tip your head back.

He raises to kiss you.

His knee finds its way between your thighs, and you bite down on a groan at the pressure.

“You’re so beautiful,” John murmurs into the infinitesimal space between you.

You’re both shifting, dress gathering at your hips. Your leg hooked around his waist, his hand supporting the weight of your limb.

His other hand between your thighs, fingers swiping into wet folds. Onto your clit. You gasp into his mouth. He kisses you, again and again.

And he brings you so close to the edge, with expert fingers that have internalised how to find pleasure in your body as much as he learned how deep an incision is needed for a tracheotomy.

You grab his shoulder, breaths shuddering as that flutter in your stomach begins to curl. Just a little more.

Of course he knows when to stop.

“John,” you whine as he removes his fingers.

“The food’s getting cold,” he says, nonchalant as ever, as he washes his hands. Like he didn’t just have two fingers buried in your cunt two seconds ago.

“John,” you say.

“I’ll see you out there.” A kiss to your forehead before he leaves.

Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

Robby’s unsuspecting when you wordlessly transfer your panties from your hand to his.

He says something to the sommelier, grinning as they walk away.

“What’s this?” Robby asks, before he registers the balled up thing in his hand as fabric and not a scrunched up piece of paper.

You don’t respond, merely watching as he opens his hand, your lace panties blossoming in his palm.

He recognises it as part of a lingerie set he bought for you last week. To wear today.

Robby shakes his head, letting out a disbelieving chuckle. He thumbs the base of your underwear, feeling the dampness there.

Nose flaring, he scrunches your panties up, stuffing it into his blazer pocket.

Levels you with a look.

Your fingers tapping on the table, waiting.

“You’re wet,” Robby says. He knows the answer.

“Yeah,” you whisper a response anyway.

“Good.”

You swallow, thick. Shuffle. Cross your legs. Uncross them.

He watches you, smirking. With a hand, he beckons you close, fingers curling in the air.

You slide across the curved seat, until you’re next to him.

“You’re going to ruin your dress,” he tuts, voice low now that you’re closer.

You open your mouth, prepared to plead your case. “I—”

“I’m not done,” he chides. Robby’s hand rests on your shoulder, roughened fingers smoothing over your skin. “I just got that for you, remember? You asked for it, and I buy it with my money. Is this how you treat the things I get you?”

“No,” you say.

You feel your stomach flip—the dynamic had changed in a blink of an eye. You thought you had that upper hand when you gave him your underwear. Now it feels like you had served that power to him on a silver platter.

 The air feels charged.

He slants his head, looking down at you.

“No, sir,” you correct, meek.

“This dinner’s my money too,” he says slowly, like you don’t understand the concept of fine dining. “So we’re going to sit here and eat, and you’re going to behave. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” you say. Your thighs chafe as you rub them together.

Robby grants you enough grace to not tell you off for it. But he does lower his hand, palm splayed across the top of one of your thighs.

You still, immediate.

“Eat,” he says.

You obey, because you know what awaits you if you don’t is far worse than what he already has in mind for you.

[skymouth]

a little gift — the pitt (men) x reader

You hand him your panties while on a date with him.

Featuring: Frank Langdon; Jack Abbot; John Shen; Michael “Robby” Robinavitch. Tags: 18+ MDNI; AFAB Reader; Reader wears a dress; Suggestive content; Teasing; Brat Taming. Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Banner template inspired by louestat. Notes: inspired by this f1 version. lowkey this takes me back to when i was 13 and running sfw scenarios blogs for my favourite anime blorbos and would do short imagines that featured multiple characters. lowkey miss when life was simpler.

It’s a fancy restaurant. You know it’s supposed to be a special date night, but it doesn’t stave off the not-so-harmless curiosity that makes you want to act out.

While he’s distracted, you cast a glance to your surroundings to ensure no one’s around, before inching a little to the side.

Your fingers hook into the sides of your panties. Shimmying it down your legs. You bunch them into your palm.

Waiting.

Frank Langdon

Under the table, you tap the tip of your shoe against his. Persistently, until he turns his attention onto you. He had been considering dessert, even though you told him you wanted to be done with tonight already.

“Yeah?” he asks. Completely unsuspecting.

You wordlessly hold out your fisted hand, upside down.

Frank frowns. “What?”

You shake your hand.

More of your antics, he exasperatedly assumes, as he opens his hand under your impatient fist.

You drop your panties into his waiting palm.

With his brows still pinched in slight confusion, Frank uses his thumb to disturb the bunched up fabric. Until he realises what it is he’s seeing. What he’s touching—what he’s holding.

“You—what the fuck?” His fingers snap shut, arm dropping under the table. Tucking your panties into his pocket.

You watch him, a grin stretching your lips.

“Tell me that’s a spare one you brought along,” Frank says, tight.

You shake your head, crossing your arms atop the table. “Nope,” you say.

He breathes out, patience wearing thin. “Are you serious?” Bright blue eyes travel to where you’ve propped up your chest, then further down. Like he can see through the table and the dress to where you’re bare.

“Wanna get out of here?” you ask, impish and completely pleased with yourself.

“You’re impossible,” Frank says, even as he asks the passing waiter for the check. Jaw fluttering as you both remain on opposite sides of the semicircle seat.

He doesn’t break eye contact, save for when he actually has to pay, tip, and sign. When the table is cleared to leave, Frank helps you up, even if you don’t need it.

Has a hand on your waist, even when he doesn’t need to be touching you.

You both make it to his car before he crowds you against it. He had found side street parking, barely illuminated by the moon.

“You drive me insane,” he huffs.

“You do too.” You tug on his tie, dragging him in to kiss.

His hands are already roaming, bunching up your dress. You’re half-perched on the hood of his car.

“Frank,” you breathe out. It could be admonishing if you weren’t pulling him in closer.

His fingers between the apex of your thighs. To your slit, where you’re already wet. “This is what you wanted, right?”

Frank’s fingers slide in, silencing your moans by kissing you again.

It’s so like you to tease him, then chastise when he gives in. You would never let him find peace, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jack Abbot

“Hand?” you request.

Jack’s used to the way you find entertainment in your boredom. The way you restlessly trace the lines of his palm, of his fingers, his knuckles.

He thinks that’s your intention as he lifts his hand to give to you.

But you transfer your panties there. His digits close around them without a second thought.

The fabric makes him frown, attention moving away from the menu, to you, then down to his hand.

Thick fingers unfurl. Then, he stills, as if needing precious seconds to interpret what he’s seeing.

Jack clears his throat, shoving your panties into his pocket as he looks back at you. “Really?”

“What?” you ask. It could’ve passed for innocence.

But he studies you, waiting for that guileless facade to crack as the tip of your tongue wets your bottom lip.

You try to smother a grin but fail at that, too.

“I went through the trouble to plan a nice dinner for us. Had to get a reservation, and everything,” Jack says.

“I’m—showing you my appreciation.” You’re being a brat. You know it. He knows it.

Jack leans in, his arm around your waist. Sliding you right into his space. The curved banquette seats allow you both to sit next to each other.

His arm glued around you, fingers trailing down to where the line of your underwear should have been if you hadn’t given it to him.

You suck in a breath. Refraining from bodily shivering.

Lowering his lips to your ear, he asks, “What’s your plan, sweetheart?”

“We could leave?” Your suggestion comes out more like a question.

He rumbles out a laugh. Pinches the side of your hip. “No,” he tuts. “Like I said, I went through the trouble of planning our date. We’re going to stay and finish dinner.”

“But we could have fun at home.” You’re not above batting your eyelashes, peering at him with that expression that makes him fold every single time.

It’s a close thing. Jack draws in a breath, lips twitching skyward with something dangerous. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll have fun.” His hand moves to your thigh, hidden by the table. Squeezes the inner flesh, skin softer and more sensitive.

You—squirm. Clear your throat to disguise an undignified sound that escapes.

Jack smirks. “Let’s enjoy the food,” he says. His hand travels higher up your thigh. Slow, inching.

It becomes abundantly clear you started a game you were not prepared for.

John Shen

You stand, smoothing down your dress. Sidestep away from the table.

“Bathroom,” you say, when John shoots you an inquisitive look.

He nods in response. “Okay. I’ll try not to eat it all without you.” 

You grin. Coordinate your walk past him to drop your panties in his lap.

He gives you another questioning glance, but you continue to walk away. 

Towards the bathroom.

It doesn’t take long before he follows you. He locks the door behind him. Meets your gaze with something playful and dark. “Hi,” John says.

“Hi,” you giggle.

“I think you forgot something.” He raises your sheer underwear between his fingers. For someone that prided himself for being the reliable, calm and collected one, he’s pretty sure this act of yours short circuited his brain for a second.

“I left it for you,” you say. “Did you like it?”

“Did I—?” John breaks off with a huffed out chuckle. “Yeah. I did like it. Didn’t think we were giving gifts today.” He makes short strides towards you, and you back away until you hit the vanity.

“Surprise,” you say.

John hums. When he’s stationed right before you, his head lowers to your shoulder, nosing against exposed skin. Down to your neck.

You tip your head back.

He raises to kiss you.

His knee finds its way between your thighs, and you bite down on a groan at the pressure.

“You’re so beautiful,” John murmurs into the infinitesimal space between you.

You’re both shifting, dress gathering at your hips. Your leg hooked around his waist, his hand supporting the weight of your limb.

His other hand between your thighs, fingers swiping into wet folds. Onto your clit. You gasp into his mouth. He kisses you, again and again.

And he brings you so close to the edge, with expert fingers that have internalised how to find pleasure in your body as much as he learned how deep an incision is needed for a tracheotomy.

You grab his shoulder, breaths shuddering as that flutter in your stomach begins to curl. Just a little more.

Of course he knows when to stop.

“John,” you whine as he removes his fingers.

“The food’s getting cold,” he says, nonchalant as ever, as he washes his hands. Like he didn’t just have two fingers buried in your cunt two seconds ago.

“John,” you say.

“I’ll see you out there.” A kiss to your forehead before he leaves.

Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

Robby’s unsuspecting when you wordlessly transfer your panties from your hand to his.

He says something to the sommelier, grinning as they walk away.

“What’s this?” Robby asks, before he registers the balled up thing in his hand as fabric and not a scrunched up piece of paper.

You don’t respond, merely watching as he opens his hand, your lace panties blossoming in his palm.

He recognises it as part of a lingerie set he bought for you last week. To wear today.

Robby shakes his head, letting out a disbelieving chuckle. He thumbs the base of your underwear, feeling the dampness there.

Nose flaring, he scrunches your panties up, stuffing it into his blazer pocket.

Levels you with a look.

Your fingers tapping on the table, waiting.

“You’re wet,” Robby says. He knows the answer.

“Yeah,” you whisper a response anyway.

“Good.”

You swallow, thick. Shuffle. Cross your legs. Uncross them.

He watches you, smirking. With a hand, he beckons you close, fingers curling in the air.

You slide across the curved seat, until you’re next to him.

“You’re going to ruin your dress,” he tuts, voice low now that you’re closer.

You open your mouth, prepared to plead your case. “I—”

“I’m not done,” he chides. Robby’s hand rests on your shoulder, roughened fingers smoothing over your skin. “I just got that for you, remember? You asked for it, and I buy it with my money. Is this how you treat the things I get you?”

“No,” you say.

You feel your stomach flip—the dynamic had changed in a blink of an eye. You thought you had that upper hand when you gave him your underwear. Now it feels like you had served that power to him on a silver platter.

 The air feels charged.

He slants his head, looking down at you.

“No, sir,” you correct, meek.

“This dinner’s my money too,” he says slowly, like you don’t understand the concept of fine dining. “So we’re going to sit here and eat, and you’re going to behave. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” you say. Your thighs chafe as you rub them together.

Robby grants you enough grace to not tell you off for it. But he does lower his hand, palm splayed across the top of one of your thighs.

You still, immediate.

“Eat,” he says.

You obey, because you know what awaits you if you don’t is far worse than what he already has in mind for you.

[skymouth]

i want to write more short fics 😭 pls send in any ideas you have