you're sent on a data extraction mission that should be an easy, no complications mission...until the newbie with you--Cerys--decides to let her naive determination fuck everything up in a matter of seconds. it leaves you subjected to a crazy scientist more robot than woman, and the drug she's eager to test to its very limits.
warnings: 3.5k words // fem!reader, fem!newbie, fem!robot/human!scientist // nsfw - non-con/dub-con, drugging, very powerful aphrodisiac forced on them, hentai logic, bondage, woman has robotic arms doc ock style but has like twice the amount, explicit mindbreaking, mad scientist stuff, reader watches it unfold on Cerys first, toys/fucking machine, vaginal and anal penetration, double penetration, rough sex (with toys), overstimulation, clit stim, various nipple stims, nipple suction cups, multiple & constant orgasms, forced orgasms, med/scientific fetish, squirting (Cerys--repeatedly), trying to hold on but giving in, crying, begging (for more despite fighting it), and obviously...succumbing // (no aftercare & no rescue--only mentions of it)
a/n: idk what possessed me to write this but here we are <3
It was a simple data extraction mission. The facility was supposed to be abandoned. It wasn’t even a two-person mission, but there was a newbie, Cerys, they wanted to shadow you. Mid-twenties, late to the agency training program, Cerys was naive, but determined. A dangerous mix that you never would’ve agreed to if you’d known what was waiting inside the facility.
Technological experimentation and advancements. That’s what was written in your file as a description of the place. You didn’t need to know anything else; it wasn’t pertinent. All you had to do was find anything that wasn’t destroyed and bring it back to base. You were armed out of protocol, but even then, you hardly felt anything more than a blade and a pistol was necessary.
Unfortunately, as you ventured deeper into the facility, down steps that weren’t nearly as degraded as they should’ve been, around corners where the cameras had lights that still blinked, Cerys’ naive determination bit you right in the ass. The both of you.
While you were checking stacks of too-clean files in an office, she got to the computer first. The fact that it booted up as quickly as it did should’ve deterred her, but she carried on. The instructions were to boot it up, insert the thumbdrive to link your tech support back at base, and then lock the computer to allow for them to break through it. She forgot the order.
You were only a few words into the file–gained not just intelligence, but humanistic cravings–when she purposefully locked the computer. When the alarm sounded and you saw that thumbdrive in her hand, you knew you were screwed. Naive and dangerous. The words rattled around in your head like a death siren.
The gates dropped before you could take a step toward the door. The loud roar of the siren drowned out the hissing of the vents situated within the ceiling, walls, and the floor. There was just the scent of honey in your panicked breathing, and such panic…. You’d inhaled too much already. Cerys collapsed first without even reaching for her gas mask. You managed to get yours off your belt and halfway to your face when your eyes couldn’t stay open. It fell to the floor as unceremoniously as you did, giving you a final look at it cracked just out of reach.
As your vision faded to black, a mechanical whirring replaced the alarm. A shiver sank along your spine as the edge of consciousness danced in front of you. Years of training and direct experience sank dread into you. Death was typically better than whatever waited for you on the other side of capture. You tried to keep your eyes open, tried to move, to reach for your weapon, to get anything to alter the outcome awaiting you. But there was a beep amongst the noise; a blurry figure replacing the opening gate. Half a dozen, small, spindly arms spun out from their back; a mechanical hum slithered into the air while metal claws pinched and spun, inching toward you at the snail’s pace the person maintained.
“Mmmm,” a quiet voice carried from them. Robotic. Curious. You struggled to keep your eyes open long enough to see the red eye glowing back at you and the scarred skin across that side of her face. “New toys. Let’s play, shall we?”
Cold metal brushed your cheek.
In one breath, everything stilled. Every sense was clouded; nary a thought came to imagine what awaited on the other side of unconsciousness for you. There was the office, then darkness, and then…the world was back. Just like that.
It was a slow return. One where your eyes remained as heavy as they’d been prior. Opening them was a struggle; they weighed a hundred pounds, and the rest of your senses were swimming in a rip tide to get the fuck out. Where were you? What happened? What was going on? Where was Cerys? Your weapons? Your mission? You–where were you? Who had taken you? Who was there? What’d happened to them? What’d happened to you?
Stuck. That was the first to break through. You were stuck. Something thick and sturdy held you firm in a cold, stiff chair. And…and a pinch. There was a pinch in your arm that stayed; were you injured? You tried to get your eyes open to see, but your head was pulled back and a quiet latch was done. You couldn’t move your head.
You couldn’t move.
But you could hear.
First, your pulse. It slammed around inside of you like a sledgehammer trying to break out. Then, whirring. Loud, slow whirring. Nearby. Next to you. Around you. All around you. It rumbled and hummed and…and there was a gasp. A whine. A grunt. Shouting. Muffled shouting. There–right there. Right where your eyes wouldn’t open.
Come on.
Your pulse ticked higher.
Your stomach twisted.
Open. Open. Open.
Open!
Blurry vision graced the first successful attempt. It was uncomfortable, but you managed a blink. Then, another. The dark, grimy room grew crisper. The source of the noises became crisper. In front of you. Where you were strapped to a bottomless chair so tight, you could only move your fingers and toes–nothing else gave. Your suit had been stripped off, leaving you in your sports bra and underwear, baring your arm for what you saw to be an IV tucked into the crook of your elbow. Taped firmly, but nothing was entering or leaving…yet.
But you couldn’t focus on that. You couldn’t, not when your head was strapped back to the padded headrest. You had to look forward. Had to see the strange woman, more metal than flesh, hang the giant bag on the hook next to Cerys. A golden liquid going through the tube to the needle taped into her arm. She shouted, tried to thrash, tried to fight, but a gag in her mouth kept everything incoherent except for the occasional no, stop.
Panicked eyes shot across to you right as the concoction reached the needle. Poison? What– Cerys’ eyes dilated. Her breathing didn’t settle, her chest heaving and shoulders writhing to break through the strap across from them, but her eyes glazed over and tears welled up in moments.
“Mmmm, there we go. See? I told you, it will be fun. So fun. New test subjects….” The stranger brushed her metal fingers over Cerys’ cheek, smearing her tears. “I have cleaned up the…the formula. It is stronger. Much more potent. Addictive, I have found, an unfortunate side effect, but I need to ensure it works. Every drop. Every…every test.”
Cerys thrashed harder. A sob broke out from behind the gag.
“New toys, new toys, new toys–they are so welcome. So fun. So perfect, yes.” The mechanical arms on the woman’s back moved. They reached for what you couldn’t see well in the dim lighting behind Cerys’ chair. Your stomach twisted, and you tried to break free again. Tried to help. But the restraints held. You were next.
You….
A large device was pushed underneath the back of Cerys’ seat. One arm reached up and pulled a string, turning on a spotlight to capture all of the area. Sweat already formed on Cerys’ brow, more tears streamed down to her jaw, and there was drool on her chin. Her pupils stayed wide and eyes stayed just as glazed over. Her thighs quivered and her hips tried to move.
The woman hummed a nonsensical song.
Various arms moved toward Cerys, and you went totally still.
The device that was locked at its wheels just underneath Cerys had three ends protruding, a motor, and a remote connected by a long wire at the bottom. One mechanical hand came in with a bottle of something glistening, dribbling it over the thick, long, protruding ends that were aligned in such a way…. Another mechanical arm moved. Its three-clawed fingers went between Cerys’ legs. She didn’t flinch when it bunched the material of her underwear up and pulled, ripping the crotch and successfully baring her.
The woman reached forward herself, metal fingers skimming up Cerys’ leg and not even hesitating to touch her. She ran her long, slender fingers over Cerys’ cunt, spread it, inspecting it, dipping a finger inside of her–
Cerys moaned. Her eyes clamped shut and her hips tried to buck.
The woman laughed. “Yes, yes. You want it. I know. I know the concoction does that much. Yes, you want. And want. And want.” Her finger pulled out, taking a wet trail with it, all the way up to Cerys’ clit. “This, too. Yes. Yes. Yes.” She flicked it hard, and Cerys lurched, barking out a sound somewhere between pain and pleasure. “But I need you to want to never not want. Need…need to make it feel like it is never enough. Never, ever, ever enough. Over and over and over. Until you are coming apart asleep. Until you only want. Only ever want. No matter what. No matter anything. Yes, yes, yes.”
Your grip tightened on the end of the arm rests. The woman knelt down and gave the device one last adjustment. Then, without much fanfare, she turned the remote and pressed a few buttons. The arms moved to Cerys’ sports bra, snipping away at the fabric to slip it away from her right as the protruding ends moved up. The first found her cunt, pressing in slowly, making her eyes fly open and more drool come past the gag. The second was further back, earning a gasping, writhing reaction as it pressed its way into her ass. The third was smaller, coming up higher, where the woman used her fingers to bare Cerys’ clit. Then a flat, silicone end was adjusted to press flat against it. The restraints kept her steady without a single inch to run away from as they filled her.
The woman flicked the bag on the hook only to turn and tilt her head, eyes on Cerys shaking uncontrollably in the chair.
“Test one. Subject A. Singular inserts in each hole. Begin.”
Click.
Click.
Click.
The device roared to life. The phallic ends moved opposite of each other at a steady pace, squelching as they began to pump into her. The flat end locked against her cunt began to vibrate. Loudly. It happened in a second–the start, and the shriek Cerys let out. She bounced in those restraints, taking the objects against and again, and every writhe that was able to move her, just wound up humping herself against that front piece on her clit.
The mechanical arms and their small claws came forward. Cerys’ eyes rolled back before they touched her. She screamed just as they closed around her nipples, tweaking, pulling, and pinching the hard peaks while she thrashed.
While she came.
Abruptly.
Almost painfully.
She squirted around the devices, shaking visibly, gasping and pulling and moaning uncontrollably.
The woman laughed, clapping.
The device stayed on.
Cerys whined. Moaned. Louder and louder, her throat sounding raw already. The golden concoction stayed in the IV. Stayed in her veins.
Again.
Throwing her head back in the restraint holding it, she clamped her eyes shut and came again. Her breathing stuttering, her thighs quivering, her toes curling. Squirting again.
Click. Click. Click.
The device got faster. Harder.
Cerys’ eyes opened in a daze, drool was all across her chin and down her front. Tears welled into big drops that raced each other down her cheeks, but her shoulders pushed back, pressing her chest out. She rocked her hips as much as she could. Her eyes rolled back before she convulsed again, moaning with her climax and gushing around the object thrusting into her cunt.
The woman laughed again. Clapped again.
Then, there was a red eye landing bright right on you. Your breath caught, but you stayed silent despite the lack of a gag. Speaking earned you nothing, despite not being able to find your voice yet. It hung back in the netting of knots in your throat. Your fate was laid out in front of you, drugged out her mind, trying to nod along when she came again. Then again. And, when the woman turned and stepped toward you, head tilting and eyeing you dangerously–she came again.
“Subject B,” she mused, the extension scarring wasn’t just on the side where the metal met flesh on her face, but everywhere she wasn’t organic. Two arms stayed back with Cerys as she approached you, seeming to act with a mind of their own. “Toy, toy, toy, new toy.” She walked closer. She smelled like motor oil and the irony scent of metal. “I am not ready for you yet, yet, yet.”
A cold hand tapped your cheek. You didn’t flinch. Enough training kept you steady despite the panic in your gut.
Cerys came again.
She shouted something. A single word. Repeated.
“Her first.” She pinched your chin and dragged her fingers down your throat. “Her, first, first, first because she will break easier. I can tell. I know these things. They are so easy to spot now.” She brushed her fingertips lower. Over your sports bra, hooking one around the very top, and then something clicked. The material started to give as she carried her finger downward through it.
Cerys repeated that same word, crying it out in clear desperation.
You closed your eyes and barely huffed out a breath when the fabric over you parted entirely. Cool air washed over your bare chest.
Cerys came again, sobbing. Shouting.
Yes.
The word clicked when she sobbed it out behind the gag. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
One mechanical arm shot back. The machine clicked three times, and the sound died. The visceral sound Cerys let out brought a shiver down your back. The woman flicked your nipples until they perked, and you just squeezed the arm rests tighter. Harder. The needle in your arm burned.
No.
Cerys shouted.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
“No!!!”
“See?” the woman mused, laughing. Her grin was wide and mangled, her stare maniacal. “See, so easy. So perfect. So susceptible, that one is. Yes.” A mechanical arm reached behind you. Squeaking made goosebumps rise and your pulse stammered. “Do you want more? Do you want to see how much your aching holes stretch and take?”
“Yes!!!!!”
The woman hummed.
Your eyes dropped to the tube being brought near your needle. To the yellow concoction in the bag just in your peripheral vision. Multiple arms shot back to Cerys. The concoction began to drip out of the bag. Air bubbles gone, she connected the tube. Your chest heaved, knowing what to expect. Knowing you were seconds away from becoming Cerys.
You tried to fight it. The immediate rush of heat that slammed into you when it reached your bloodstream. It turned the room fuzzy, and your heart raced uncontrollably. You itched. Beneath your skin, beneath your underwear, it itched. It itched with…with a sudden, sharp throbbing. An ache that wrapped around you like barbed wire. It was like a lick of heat against your clit that drew nearly all attention to the pleasure senses in your body, and it licked again. And again, but only like it was mocking you. It turned your stomach to clenching, hot lava that traveled down to your already leaking cunt. Where you clenched around nothing, and it felt like death to be left so. Rewiring you–you felt it–like it was trying to weasel its way into your head to make you drool, beg, and moan for relief.
Fight it. You clawed at the arm rests.
The woman stood in front of Cerys. The arms moved frantically around her.
Fight it. Fight it. Fight it. You had twelve hours of silence before a rescue team would be sent after you. Fight it. You just had to fight it.
The woman stepped back. When you blinked, you felt the tears fall down to your chin. When you blinked, Cerys had moved. She faced away from you, her back arched near painfully as two suction cups were attached to her nipples. The rest of her secured to the chair where she sat off of the very edge. Where you could see her dripping. Clenching. Everything on display for you right as the device was wheeling out and turned around. Another attachment was added.
Lined up again, one end larger than the last stretched her asshole with a slow press in. The same flat piece was seemingly nudged up between the chair and her cunt, staying perfectly stuck against her clit. Then two phallic ends nudged up against the entrance of her cunt.
Click.
One pressed in, and Cerys’s whines got louder.
Click.
As the first was halfway inside of her, the second pressed in after it.
She shuddered. She screamed.
Click.
The part on her clit roared to life.
She shook and clenched, spasming in the chair as she came hard. Squirting, again, all in perfect sight for you to watch.
Fight it. You clenched your jaw. Your pussy ached. Clenched. Pulsed. The phallic ends fucked Cerys harder. Faster. She was gone. She already was by the first orgasm earlier, but watching it unfold now, she was nowhere to be found. She just moaned and, when the gag was removed, begged for more. Shouted yes over and over again. Until you realized you were sitting there with your toes curled, panting, dripping onto the floor as a mechanical hand nudged your underwear aside. Just watching.
F-Fight…it….
The woman stood next to you, humming and laughing ecstatically.
“Watch, watch, watch my success!” She gripped your shoulder and squeezed, shaking you in excitement. “Look! Look at her! Look at it work!”
Her hand dropped. Her hand went all the way down. She knelt next to you, her hand falling between your legs. Cold fingers touched you and yanked your focus to your cunt. She ran her fingers over your sopping went cunt, spread you and plainly going to pull the hood back on your clit. You couldn’t see past your heaving chest or her, but you could feel her stare before she brought a fingertip to your clit.
One brush.
All she did was brush against it, and you lurched.
More. More. For fuck’s sake, more. Only wanted more. Only wanted that. Nothing else. Nothing else. Nothing else. More.
You clenched your jaw until you swore a tooth cracked. F-Fight it, goddamn it.
She tapped her finger against it hard and slow. Your thighs quivered. Your pussy clenched.
Fight. It.
She slid her thumb and forefinger around it, pinching it just a little, then rubbed it between them with gradually increasing pressure until everything clenched. It hurt how good the attention felt. It hurt how badly you’d take whatever she’d give you. Whatever pushed you to the edge you were creeping toward at breakneck speed. The edge that Cerys fell over again, sobbing. Squirting.
Red glowed up at you from below. She started slow circles on your clit while she stood. Staring at you. Watching you. Watching your face contort as you fought it. Fought it. Fought it. As hard as you could.
As hard as you could for as long as you could.
Mechanical arms brought small claws to your aching nipples. You jerked, but you had nowhere to go. They came around them with a pinching touch and then they pulled back, pulling at them in rhythmic motions. Over and over and over. While her finger worked your clit faster with a little more added pressure.
No.
You felt another tear slip out.
She grinned, nodding.
No, no, no–fight it.
Your vision blurred over. Pleasure licked your nerves and injected them directly.
N-No….
The claws pinched your nipples harder. She kept attention on your clit. Cerys came again with a wanton, hungry moan. The shaking of her body in pure ecstatic pleasure telling you what awaited you in a second. A single, desperately fought second.
But you fell.
Empty. Pulsing. Clenching. Your mouth fell open in a sound you didn’t so much hear but rather feel in its sinful, hungry, sheer desperation. Pure pleasure. Wrung right out of you from the claws, from her finger. Your clit throbbed. Your pussy gushed and dripped.
Something…snapped inside of you as pleasure drowned.
More.
It wasn’t enough.
As you thrashed in the chair, pussy aching, you shouted it wasn’t enough. Begged. Pleaded. Screamed as the itch set in deeper. It clawed through you and tore you asunder. No part of you was left untouched by it. It swallowed you whole and spat you out.
Thick, lubed ends pressed into you by your next breath. They stretched and filled you so wonderfully, searching for that itch they’d scratch, and scratch, and scratch for you. Your toes curled as the flat end was latched forward and pressed against your clit.
“Subject B. Begin.”
Click. Click. Click.
Twelve…Twelve hours….
Your body became alight. There was nothing but the chase for ecstasy. Overwhelming stimulation ripped through you, and you found that obsession in that very ecstasy again. And again. And again. And again. Until you it wasn’t about an itch to scratch but a feeling to feel; to chase; to drown in while chasing the rip tide.
01 . ⠀⠀ ˚ ﹒ ૮ ⠀⠀⠀━╋⠀⠀𖤝 summary :: ben only meant to use the bathroom, but walking in on you half bare with a razor in your hand changes everything. what starts as an accidental interruption quickly turns into something filthy, mean, and completely shameless when ben decides you need to be punished for trying to shave what he thinks should be left exactly as it is || 10k
02 . ⠀⠀ ˚ ﹒ ૮ ⠀⠀⠀━╋⠀⠀𖤝 content warnings ::⠀⠀dad’s best friend!ben . age gap . power imbalance . rough sex . bathroom sex . bush kink . pussy worship . daddy kink . degradation . mean dom!ben . punishment kink . face slapping . spanking . clit pinching . oral sex . face fucking . spit . messy oral . cunnilingus . mirror sex . manhandling . praise kink . humiliation kink . unprotected sex . creampie . risky setting . dirty talk
navigation . kofi
BEN NEVER KNOCKED because Ben had known your family for too damn long and walked through the house like every hallway had his name on the deed. He came down the hall with that heavy, arrogant stride of his, belt already half loosened, muttering something about needing to take a piss before the game came back on.
The bathroom door swung open before you had any time to react, and suddenly there he was, broad shoulders filling the frame like he belonged there. You were sitting on the closed toilet seat with one leg propped against the edge of the bathtub, razor in hand, shaving cream smeared messily along your inner thigh.
Your pussy was exposed between your parted legs, soft hair still damp from warm water and soap, your skin already flushed from the awkward position you’d twisted yourself into. For one frozen second, neither of you moved. Ben’s eyes dropped before he could pretend they hadn’t, and the sight hit him hard enough that his jaw locked instantly.
He saw the spread of you, the softness, the wet shine where embarrassment and heat had already started betraying you. His cock reacted before his brain caught up, hardening so fast beneath his jeans that he had to shift his stance.
His thoughts about you had never been clean, not once, no matter how many times he’d told himself you were off limits. Now you were right in front of him like every filthy idea he’d ever swallowed down had crawled out and sat pretty between your thighs.
“What the hell are you doin’?” he asked, voice low and rough, but his eyes didn’t leave you. You should’ve snapped your legs shut quicker, should’ve screamed at him like this was horrifying, should’ve thrown the razor at his head for walking in without knocking.
Instead, your thighs only shifted halfway together before hesitation caught you because the way he looked at you made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t pretend was fear. “Ben,” you breathed, clutching the razor like it could save you from your own body. “Get out.”
The words came out too soft to be serious, too breathless to mean anything close to rejection, and both of you knew it the second they left your mouth.
Ben’s mouth twitched like he heard the lie in them immediately. “Yeah?” he said, stepping farther into the bathroom instead of leaving. “That what you want, sweetheart?”
Your lips parted, but no answer came out. His gaze dropped again, openly this time, shameless in a way that made your pulse hammer. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too warm, too full of him and the heavy drag of his attention across your bare skin.
Ben pushed the door shut behind him with one hand, the quiet click of the latch making your whole body tense. He didn’t lock it, but he didn’t need to for the sound to feel final. “Put the damn razor down,” he said. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakably a command. Your fingers tightened around the handle once before loosening, the razor settling against the counter beside you with a tiny plastic tap.
Ben’s eyes followed the movement, then dragged back down to your lap. He looked at the shaving cream on your thigh, the soft hair you’d been about to remove, and the exposed heat of your pussy with an expression that bordered on offended.
“You were gonna shave all that off?” he asked, voice dropping lower. Your face burned so badly you thought you might actually pass out from it.
“I was going to,” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed and failing horribly. Ben’s jaw ticked, and his cock throbbed hard in his jeans as he stared at the part of you he had no business wanting this much.
“Don’t,” he said flatly. You blinked at him, stunned by how serious he sounded. “Excuse me?” Ben took one slow step closer, boots heavy against the tile, eyes dark and unashamed. “I said don’t,” he repeated, like you were testing his patience on purpose. “Hair adds personality.”
The words were so obscene in his mouth that your pussy clenched before you could stop it. Ben saw the tiny twitch of your thighs, saw the way your stomach pulled tight, and his expression sharpened with satisfaction.
“Well, goddamn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You liked that.” Your breath caught hard enough to make your chest rise visibly. “You can’t just say things like that,” you whispered. Ben gave a low, humourless laugh. “Honey, I can say a hell of a lot worse than that.”
You hated how badly you wanted him to. You hated how your body had gone hot all over, how the cool air against your exposed pussy made you feel even more aware of how open you were under his gaze. You hated that he hadn’t touched you once and yet you could already feel wetness gathering, slick and humiliating, making you ache.
Ben watched it happen with the kind of attention that made you feel stripped past naked, like he could see every thought you’d ever had about him. He looked older, rougher, meaner than any fantasy you’d let yourself have, broad and smug and so full of himself it should’ve disgusted you. Instead, it made your thighs tremble.
“You always this mouthy when you’re sittin’ there with your pussy out?” he asked. “Or is that just for me?” Your breath stuttered. “Ben,” you warned, but it came out weak and needy. His eyes lifted to yours, and the amusement there was cruel enough to make your stomach drop. “Don’t use that tone unless you’re askin’ me to fix it.”
The worst part was that you had imagined him fixing it too many times to count. You had thought about Ben when he leaned over you in the kitchen to grab something from a high cabinet, smelling like whiskey, smoke, and expensive cologne.
You had thought about him when his hand brushed your lower back as he moved past you at family cookouts, careless and brief, but enough to make you throb for hours afterward. You had thought about the rough sound of his voice saying your name, thought about him catching you staring, thought about him knowing exactly what you wanted before you had to admit it.
At night, alone in your room, you’d dragged your dildo from the drawer with shaking fingers and pushed it between your thighs while imagining it was him. You’d ridden it slowly at first, knees planted in the mattress, one hand braced against the headboard while the other rubbed messy circles over your clit.
You’d pictured Ben beneath you, big hands gripping your hips, mouth twisted into something mean as he watched you struggle to take him. Sometimes you’d bounced so desperately that the toy slipped against that sensitive spot inside you again and again until your legs shook.
Sometimes you’d buried your face in your pillow and moaned his name into the fabric, terrified someone might hear and secretly wanting them to. More than once, you’d come with Ben’s name on your tongue, your pussy clenching around silicone while your brain filled in the weight, heat, and cruelty of him instead.
Sometimes, when the fantasy got too filthy to stop, you’d whispered Daddy into your pillow and pretended it was his hand in your hair forcing you to say it louder.
Ben didn’t know the details, but he knew enough from the look on your face. He saw recognition flicker there, saw guilt, saw the exact kind of shame that only came from being caught wanting something you’d already touched yourself to.
His cock pressed painfully against his zipper now, thick and hard, the ache making his patience feel thinner by the second. He had tried not to think about you like this because your father was his friend and because there were lines even he understood he wasn’t supposed to cross. But he’d thought about you anyway.
He’d thought about your mouth when you laughed too hard at his jokes, your legs when you crossed them on the couch, your ass in those tiny shorts you wore around the house like you didn’t know what you were doing. He’d thought about bending you over the kitchen counter while everyone else was outside, about pressing a hand over your mouth and making you stay quiet.
He’d thought about how pretty you’d look crying from too much pleasure, how quickly your attitude would disappear once he got his hands on you. Seeing you now, wet and exposed and pretending you weren’t leaning toward him, snapped something ugly and hungry inside him.
“You’ve thought about this,” he said, voice quiet and dangerous. Your eyes widened. Ben smiled without warmth. “Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.”
You swallowed hard, but the denial wouldn’t come. It sat uselessly behind your teeth while his gaze pinned you in place. “I didn’t say anything,” you whispered.
“You don’t have to.” Ben moved closer again until his knees nearly brushed yours, his shadow falling over you in the cramped bathroom. “Your body’s runnin’ its mouth just fine.” Your thighs pressed together on instinct, but the movement only dragged your wet folds against each other and pulled a tiny sound from your throat.
Ben’s eyes dropped instantly. “There it is,” he said, mean satisfaction cutting through his voice. “You’re wet.” Your face burned so violently you had to look away. He reached down and caught your chin, fingers firm enough to stop you from hiding but not painful.
“No,” he said. “You don’t get shy after sittin’ here like this.” Your lashes fluttered, breath trembling under his thumb. “I didn’t know you were coming in.” Ben leaned closer, his voice dragging rough against your skin. “And now that I am?”
The question hung between you, filthy and heavy. You should’ve said something smart, something sharp, something that made you feel less exposed. Instead, your gaze dropped to the front of his jeans. The shape of him was impossible to miss now, hard and thick behind denim, straining like the sight of you had ruined every bit of control he thought he had.
Ben noticed you looking and gave a low laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s your fault.” Your lips parted softly, heat blooming through your stomach at the accusation. “Mine?”
“You’re sittin’ there with your legs open and that pretty little cunt out, and you’re askin’ if it’s yours?” His fingers tightened slightly at your jaw when you shivered. “Don’t play stupid with me.”
A shaky breath escaped you, and your pussy clenched again under the weight of his words. Ben watched your reaction like it fed him. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You really do like it mean.”
You did, and that was the problem. Your old partners had always tried to be sweet, careful, soft in ways that made you feel restless instead of wanted. You’d wanted rough hands and dirty words and someone who didn’t ask you five times if every breath was okay when your body was already begging.
You’d wanted someone who could look at you and know you needed to be handled. Ben looked like exactly that kind of man. He looked like the kind of man who would take your attitude apart one cruel sentence at a time and enjoy every second of it. He looked like the kind of man who would call you pretty and pathetic in the same breath.
Your stomach tightened as his thumb dragged slowly along your lower lip, and you had to fight the urge to open your mouth for him. “What are you thinkin’ about?” he asked. You shook your head faintly, cheeks blazing. Ben’s expression hardened with impatience. “Use your words.”
“I’ve thought about you,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. Ben went very still. The room seemed to shrink around both of you, the hum of the bathroom light suddenly louder overhead. His eyes darkened in a way that made your pulse stumble. “Yeah?” he asked. “How?”
Your fingers curled against your bare thigh, nails pressing tiny crescents into your skin. “At night,” you whispered, voice shaking. “When I’m alone.” Ben’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, and his cock jerked visibly in his jeans.
“Doin’ what?” Your throat worked around a swallow. “Riding my toy.” His nostrils flared, and the grip on your chin turned more possessive. “Moanin’ my name?”
Your silence answered before you could. Ben’s laugh was low, nasty, and pleased. “Course you were.” The humiliation of it made your eyes squeeze shut, but he shook your chin once, forcing your attention back to him. “Eyes open.”
You obeyed instantly, and the satisfaction on his face made you ache harder. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me how you do it.” Your heart pounded so hard you could feel it between your thighs. “I sit on it,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “Slow at first.”
Ben’s gaze dropped to your pussy like he could already see it happening. “Then?” “Then I move faster,” you breathed, the confession pulling heat through your whole body.
“I ride it until I can’t keep quiet.” Ben’s jaw tightened again, hunger turning the line of his mouth cruel. “And you say my name while you’re fuckin’ yourself on it?”
“Yes,” you whispered, and the word came out like surrender. Ben’s breath left him in a rough exhale. His hand fell from your chin, but only so he could brace it against the counter beside you, caging you in without touching anywhere else yet.
You could smell him now, smoke and whiskey and something masculine enough to make your head swim. “Filthy girl,” he said, and the insult landed like praise. Your pussy pulsed openly, wetness slicking between your folds while the shaving cream melted farther down your thigh.
Ben’s eyes tracked everything, taking in the swollen shape of you, the soft hair framing your pussy, the shine of slick gathering where your body had given you away. “You were gonna shave this,” he said, almost offended again.
“This pretty little mess.” Your breath hitched as his knuckles brushed the inside of your knee, not quite touching where you needed him. “Don’t,” he said again, rougher this time. “I like it like this.” Your thighs trembled apart another inch. Ben saw it and smiled. “Good girl.”
The praise made you nearly dizzy. It was worse because it came from him, from Ben, from the man you’d imagined being cruel enough to make you cry and pleased enough to kiss the tears afterward. He crouched slowly in front of you now, still too close, still not touching your pussy, his eyes level with what he had walked in on.
His cock was so hard it looked painful, straining against denim while he balanced one forearm on his knee. “Spread your legs,” he said. You hesitated for half a second, not because you didn’t want to, but because the embarrassment was almost too much to survive. His eyes flicked back up to yours.
“Don’t make me ask twice.” Your knees parted wider, slow and shaky, exposing yourself fully beneath his gaze. Ben inhaled through his nose, controlled but heavy. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Look at you.” Your pussy clenched around nothing as he stared, swollen and slick and framed by the hair he’d just ordered you not to remove. He noticed every bit of it. “Bet your toy doesn’t look at you like this.”
“No,” you breathed before you could stop yourself. Ben’s smile sharpened. “No, what?” Your stomach twisted because you knew what he wanted. “No, Ben.”
His eyes flashed at the sound of his name from your mouth in that tone, breathy and obedient and already ruined. “There she is,” he said. “That’s the voice you use when you’re ridin’ that dildo thinkin’ about me, isn’t it?”
Your hands gripped the edge of the toilet seat, and you nodded faintly. “Say it.” “Yes,” you whispered. “I think about you when I ride it.” Ben’s cock jerked again, and this time he didn’t even try to hide the way he adjusted himself roughly through his jeans.
“You think about me fillin’ you up instead?” he asked, mean and direct. Your body answered with a visible shiver. His gaze dropped, and his voice went darker. “Dirty little thing.”
The bathroom felt unbearably hot now, the mirror faintly fogged from the shower you’d taken before deciding to shave. You were still exposed under the ugly overhead light, one leg braced awkwardly near the tub, shaving cream drying tacky on your thigh.
Ben looked at you like none of it mattered, like the mess only made him want you more. His eyes were hungry, but not gentle. There was nothing soft in the way he studied you, nothing hesitant in the way his attention dragged over your pussy and made you feel owned before he ever laid a hand there.
“You want me to leave?” he asked suddenly. Your pulse jumped. He wasn’t asking because he wanted to leave. He was asking because he wanted to hear you choose the opposite. You stared at him, lips parted, face flushed so hot it hurt. “No,” you whispered. Ben’s smile turned wicked. “That’s what I thought.”
He stood again slowly, towering over you in the little bathroom until your breathing turned shallow. One big hand came to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair just enough to pull your head back and force your eyes up to his.
The grip wasn’t gentle, and the shock of it made your pussy clench hard. Ben’s gaze narrowed. “You like being handled too,” he said. It wasn’t a question. You made a small sound, something between a whimper and a confession, and his mouth twisted with approval.
“All this time walkin’ around this house actin’ sweet,” he muttered. “Meanwhile you’re upstairs bouncin’ on a toy moanin’ my name.” Your face burned again, but his hand in your hair kept you from ducking away.
“Does your dad know what a filthy mouth you’ve got when nobody’s listenin’?” You shook your head quickly. Ben leaned down until his lips hovered close to your ear. “Good. Because that’s mine now.”
The words punched through you, sharp and wrong and so hot you nearly whimpered out loud. Ben pulled back just enough to look at your face, and whatever he saw there made his expression go even darker. “You want mean?” he asked quietly. “You want me not to hold back?”
Your body trembled under the question, and for once you didn’t try to pretend otherwise. “Yes,” you whispered. His grip in your hair tightened. “Then quit pretendin’ you’re embarrassed.” You nodded, but he clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “Words.”
“I want you mean,” you breathed. “I want you to not hold back.” Ben’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then to your open thighs, then back up again. Your lips trembled before the last word slipped out soft and needy.
“Daddy.” Ben went completely still for half a second, and then his smile turned downright cruel. “Careful, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough with lust. “Daddy’s real good at givin’ spoiled girls exactly what they ask for.”
Ben’s hand stayed buried in your hair for another second, keeping your head tipped back while he looked down at you like he was deciding exactly how much trouble you’d earned. “Daddy,” he repeated, voice low and rough, the word sounding filthy in his mouth, like it had dragged every last decent thought out of the room with it.
His eyes dropped again between your thighs, and his expression hardened the second he saw the razor still sitting on the counter beside you. “All that pretty hair,” he muttered, almost disgusted, “and you were gonna scrape it off like it didn’t belong there.”
His hand left your hair only so he could grip your thigh and spread you open wider, rough enough to make your breath jump. You whimpered immediately, fingers tightening against the edge of the toilet seat while your pussy clenched under his stare. Ben saw it and gave a short, mean laugh. “Look at that. She knows she did somethin’ wrong.”
Before you could answer, his palm came down sharply against your pussy.
The sound cracked through the bathroom, wet and obscene, and your whole body jerked from the sting. Pleasure burst hot and sudden beneath the pain, your thighs trying to snap shut before Ben caught one and shoved it open again.
“Uh-uh,” he said, voice hard. “You don’t get to hide now.” Your mouth fell open around a shaky moan, face burning because the slap should’ve shocked you more than it turned you on. Ben’s eyes darkened at the sound, and the front of his jeans strained harder as he stared down at you.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, palming himself roughly through the denim with one hand while the other kept your legs spread. “Knew you were a dirty little thing, but this?” His palm landed against your pussy again, hard enough to make your hips buck off the seat. “This is fuckin’ pathetic.”
“Ben,” you moaned, the name slipping out before you could stop it.
His face changed immediately.
Not anger, exactly, but something meaner and more possessive, like you’d disappointed him on purpose just to see what he’d do about it. “What’d you call me?” he asked softly. Your breath hitched, eyes wide, thighs trembling around the ache he’d slapped into you.
“Ben,” you whispered again, weaker this time, and the second it left your mouth, his hand cracked sharply across your face. Not enough to hurt badly, not enough to scare you, but enough to turn your head and leave your cheek stinging hot beneath the bathroom light.
The shock punched a broken sound out of you, but it wasn’t fear. It was a moan, loud and helpless, your pussy clenching so hard that Ben saw it happen. His jaw tightened like the sight had nearly ruined him. “Try again,” he said.
“Daddy,” you whimpered instantly.
Ben’s hand flexed against his jeans, rubbing the hard shape of his cock through the fabric while his mouth twisted into a cruel little smile. “There she is.” Your cheek burned where he’d slapped you, heat blooming under your skin while your whole body seemed to pulse with the humiliation of how badly you’d liked it.
He watched your face for a beat, making sure you were still with him, still wanting it, and the way your thighs stayed spread for him answered before your mouth could.
“You’re gonna learn real quick,” he said, voice dropping into that rough, old-fashioned arrogance that made your stomach twist, “that when Daddy tells you to keep somethin’ pretty, you don’t go reachin’ for a damn razor.”
His fingers slid down between your thighs then, not gentle, not giving you softness after the sting. He pinched your clit between two fingers, sharp and sudden, and your body jolted so hard your heel scraped against the bathtub. “Oh my god,” you gasped, grabbing at his wrist even though you didn’t pull him away.
Ben clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed by the way you were falling apart already. “No, no. Don’t grab at me like you’re not spread open beggin’ for worse.” His fingers pinched again, controlled and cruel, enough to make your hips twitch up into his hand while your eyes watered from the intensity.
He palmed himself harder through his jeans as he watched you, breath coming heavier now, his own restraint fraying in the sharp line of his jaw. “Look at you,” he said, dragging his gaze over your pussy, swollen and wet and framed by the hair he’d decided belonged there. “Gettin’ all messy because I punished this pretty cunt for misbehavin’.”
Your face went hotter, but you couldn’t stop the needy little sounds spilling from you every time his fingers pressed and released. He noticed each one. He fed off them. “That’s it,” he muttered. “Cry about it a little. Makes you prettier.”
“Daddy,” you moaned again, louder this time, the word shaking out of you like a confession.
Ben’s expression went hungry.
He leaned closer, broad body crowding yours until all you could smell was smoke, whiskey, and him. His thumb brushed over your stinging cheek with a mockery of tenderness, almost sweet if his other hand wasn’t still between your thighs, keeping you trembling and exposed.
“Now you remember,” he murmured. “Had to slap some manners into you, huh?” Your lashes fluttered, and you nodded before you could stop yourself. That made him groan under his breath, rough and pleased, his hand rubbing over his cock through his jeans with less patience now.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick with lust. “You’re gonna be a real problem for me.” Then his eyes dropped once more to your pussy, and his mouth curved into something wicked. “But first, we’re gonna make damn sure you don’t forget who told you not to shave.”
Ben’s smile stayed cruel for one more second before he finally stood to his full height, towering over you in the cramped bathroom like he owned the damn place. His hand dropped from your hair, but the loss of contact didn’t make you feel free. If anything, it made you feel more exposed because his eyes kept you pinned harder than his grip ever could.
The bathroom door was still unlocked behind him, not even fully latched right because he’d shoved it closed in a hurry. Anyone in the house could’ve walked past and heard the low scrape of his breathing, the tiny desperate sounds you kept failing to swallow, or the sharp metallic clink when Ben touched his belt.
He didn’t care. Not even a little. He glanced toward the door once, almost lazily, then back at you like the risk only made him meaner. “Ain’t gonna save you by lookin’ at it,” he said, voice rough and smug. “Door’s right there, sweetheart.”
Your thighs trembled around the ache still pulsing between them. Ben’s hand moved to the buckle at his waist, and he looked down at you with that old-fashioned arrogance that made your stomach twist. “Now be useful and undo it.”
Your mouth went dry as you stared at him, sitting there with your pussy still exposed and your cheek still warm from his hand. Ben didn’t move closer at first, just waited with his head tilted slightly, like patience was a punishment of its own.
The leather belt sat heavy around his waist, dark and worn, the buckle catching the harsh bathroom light. You reached for it with shaky fingers, and his eyes dropped to your hands immediately. “Look at you,” he muttered, almost amused. “Shakin’ already.”
“I’m not,” you whispered, but the lie sounded pathetic even to you. Ben gave a low laugh that made your pussy clench again. “Sure you aren’t.” Your fingertips brushed the front of his jeans, and you felt him hard beneath the denim, thick and straining, hot even through the fabric.
He hissed softly through his teeth when you touched him, jaw tightening like he hated giving you the satisfaction. “Careful,” he said. “You wanted Daddy mean, don’t go actin’ delicate now.”
You swallowed hard and worked the belt open, the metal buckle clicking loudly in the quiet bathroom. The sound made your pulse jump because it felt too real, too close, too far past fantasy to pretend you hadn’t wanted this exact moment. Ben watched you unthread the leather with dark, greedy eyes, his chest rising slower now like he was forcing himself not to rush.
The belt slipped loose in your hands, heavy and warm from his body, and he let it hang there for a second just to watch you stare. “Jeans,” he ordered. Your fingers moved to the button, clumsy from nerves, and he clicked his tongue in irritation.
“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, you ride a damn toy moanin’ my name but can’t work a zipper?” Heat flooded your face, but the shame only made your body react harder. You popped the button open, then dragged the zipper down slowly.
Ben’s cock strained immediately against the fabric beneath, the shape of him obscene and impossible to ignore. “That’s it,” he said, voice dipping. “There’s the smart girl.”
He shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, and the sight of him made every thought in your head scatter. Ben was thick, heavy, and flushed dark at the head, the skin pulled tight and hot from how long he’d been hard watching you.
He wasn’t neat or pretty in some soft way. He looked obscene, masculine, and demanding, the kind of cock that made your stomach dip before you even touched it. A vein ran along the underside, standing out more when his hand wrapped around the base and stroked once for his own relief.
Pre-cum already glistened at the tip, gathering slowly before slipping down the swollen head. Your lips parted before you could stop yourself. Ben saw it and smiled like he’d caught you stealing. “Yeah,” he murmured.
“That’s what I thought.” He tapped the head of his cock against your lower lip, smearing the first wet streak across your mouth. “Been thinkin’ about this too, haven’t you?” You nodded before pride could stop you. “Say it.”
“I’ve thought about it,” you whispered, voice shaking so badly it barely sounded like you. Ben’s hand moved to your jaw, thumb pressing into one side while his fingers held the other. “About what?” he asked, because of course he wanted to make you say it. Your eyes flicked down to his cock, then back up to his face.
“About your cock,” you breathed. Ben groaned under his breath, a low, filthy sound that made his grip tighten. “Good girl.” The praise hit you hard enough to make your thighs squeeze together. His gaze dropped and caught the movement, and his mouth curled with satisfaction.
“Still tryin’ to rub that needy little cunt together?” he asked. “Greedy thing.” You whimpered, and he dragged the wet tip of his cock across your cheek before you could answer. “Mouth open.”
You obeyed instantly, lips parting around a shaky breath. Ben didn’t let you take him yet. Instead, he dragged his cock slowly across your face, smearing pre-cum over your lips, your cheek, and the corner of your mouth in a hot slick line.
The humiliation of it made your eyes flutter, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. You wanted him too badly, wanted the weight of him, the taste of him, the proof that he’d stopped pretending he didn’t want you back.
Ben watched your face the whole time, his expression cruel and fascinated, like he wanted to memorize exactly how ruined you looked before he even got inside your mouth.
“Look at that,” he muttered. “Pretty face made a mess already.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your lower lip again, smearing more pre-cum there until your mouth felt wet and swollen. “Tongue out,” he said. You stuck your tongue out immediately, and his eyes darkened. “Fuckin’ hell.”
Ben leaned over you, keeping one hand on his cock while the other gripped the counter beside your head. For a second, you thought he was just going to push inside your mouth. Then he spat directly onto your tongue. The wet heat of it landed heavy and humiliating, and your whole body shivered violently.
Ben smiled like the reaction pleased him. “Don’t swallow,” he said. Your tongue stayed out, trembling slightly, the spit shining there beneath the ugly bathroom light. He dragged the tip of his cock through it slowly, smearing his spit and pre-cum together over your tongue in a slick, filthy glide.
Your eyes watered from how badly you wanted him to stop teasing and just use your mouth already. Ben saw the desperation immediately. “Christ,” he said, voice rougher now. “You really are made for this.” He rubbed himself across your tongue again, hips pushing forward just enough to make your throat tighten in anticipation. “Daddy’s gonna ruin that mouth.”
The first push inside was slow enough to make you feel every inch. Ben’s cock stretched your lips wide, heavy on your tongue, the taste of pre-cum, spit, and warm skin filling your mouth all at once. Your hands went to his thighs automatically, gripping the denim bunched low around them for balance. He hissed sharply when your lips sealed around him.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice already darker. “Knew you’d look good with a mouthful of cock.” You made a soft sound around him, and the vibration dragged a rough groan from his chest. His fingers threaded into your hair, not gently, not sweetly, but with control that made your scalp sting in the best way.
“Don’t use teeth,” he warned. “Unless you want me to get real mean.” Your eyes flicked up to his. He smiled down at you. “That’s what I thought.”
You tried to start slow, lips sliding carefully along his length while your tongue pressed against the underside. Ben let you for maybe three strokes. Then his grip tightened in your hair, and he pulled you forward until the head of his cock pushed deeper against your tongue. “No,” he said flatly. “Not like that.”
Your breath stuttered through your nose as he held you there, the weight of him filling your mouth more completely now. “You don’t get to tease after what you almost did to that pretty bush.” He dragged you back slowly by the hair, then pushed in again, deeper this time.
Your throat fluttered around him, and his jaw tightened hard. “Fuck,” he groaned. “That’s better.” He looked down at you with blown pupils and a cruel little twist to his mouth. “Open up.”
You forced your jaw looser, eyes watering as Ben pushed farther in. He watched every tiny reaction, every blink, every shaky inhale through your nose, every way your hands tightened on his thighs. His cock was thick enough that your lips burned around him, and the stretch made your head feel light. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Take it.”
He pulled out just enough for air to rush into your lungs, then pushed back in before you could recover fully. The rhythm made your body jolt, and your pussy pulsed wetly between your thighs. You were painfully aware of it, of how exposed you still were, of the soft hair Ben had forbidden you to shave framing the slick mess your body had become.
He was aware too. His eyes dropped once toward your open thighs, and he actually groaned at the sight. “Still drippin’,” he muttered. “All because Daddy’s using your mouth.”
The words made you moan around him, and Ben’s grip in your hair went brutal for half a second. “Yeah?” he asked, breath roughening. “You like hearin’ that?” You nodded as best you could with his cock in your mouth, and he gave a short, nasty laugh. “Course you do.”
He started moving his hips then, shallow at first, fucking into your mouth with controlled little thrusts that made your eyes water more with each one. The sound was obscene, wet and muffled and trapped in the small bathroom. Your cheeks hollowed instinctively, and Ben cursed beneath his breath.
“Goddamn, sweetheart.” His free hand came down to your cheek, thumb smearing the pre-cum already drying there. “Look at you.” He pushed deeper suddenly, making you gag softly around him. “That’s it. Let me hear it.”
The gag made him throb against your tongue. You felt it and whimpered, humiliation and arousal twisting together so tightly you couldn’t separate them anymore. Ben’s breath came heavier, his stomach tightening beneath his shirt each time your throat tried to take him. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t slow out of sweetness. He just watched you with cruel hunger, fingers locked in your hair while he used the grip to set the pace.
“You wanted this,” he said, voice low and harsh. “Don’t forget that.” Your nails dug into his thighs, and he looked pleased by the desperation. “Been upstairs ridin’ that toy thinkin’ about me, right?” He thrust again, rougher this time, making your throat flutter.
“Now you’ve got the real thing, and you’re still actin’ surprised.” A tear slipped down your cheek. Ben wiped it with his thumb, then smeared it into the pre-cum across your skin. “Pretty when you cry.”
Your body went hot and weak at that, thighs squeezing uselessly around the ache between them. Ben noticed the motion and laughed again, cruel and breathless. “Poor thing,” he said, though there was no pity in it. “Mouth full and still worried about your pussy.”
He pulled out until only the tip rested against your tongue, letting you breathe for one shaky second. You gasped softly, lips wet and swollen, chin messy. Ben looked at your mouth like it belonged to him now. “Say it,” he ordered. You blinked up at him, dazed.
“Say whose cock you wanted when you were ridin’ that little toy.” Your voice came out broken and wet. “Yours.” His eyes narrowed. “Try again.”
“Daddy’s,” you whispered.
Ben’s whole expression changed.
The word hit him like a match to gasoline, and his cock jerked hard in his own hand before he pushed back into your mouth. “There you go,” he groaned. “Now you’re learnin’.” He fucked your mouth harder after that, no longer pretending he was patient. His hips snapped forward in short, rough strokes, each one forcing your lips wider and your throat tighter around him.
Your hands gripped his thighs as tears gathered faster now, not from fear, but from the overwhelming fullness and the ruthless pace. Ben watched them spill with obvious satisfaction, his mouth parted, his breathing rough and uneven.
“Take it,” he rasped. “That’s a good girl.” You moaned again, and the sound came out muffled around his cock. “Fuck, that mouth.”
The unlocked door sat behind him like a dare the whole time. You could see it in brief, watery flashes whenever your eyes drifted past his body, the simple twist lock untouched, the hall beyond hidden but not distant enough. Ben didn’t even glance back. If anything, he angled himself wider in front of you, broad shoulders blocking most of the room while his hips kept moving.
“You nervous someone’ll hear?” he asked, voice thick with amusement. Your eyes widened around him, and that was answer enough. “Too bad.” He pushed deeper, holding you there long enough for your throat to tighten around him.
“Should’ve thought about that before callin’ me Daddy with your cunt out.” The shame made you whimper, and Ben’s cock pulsed heavily against your tongue. “There she is,” he muttered. “Loves being scared of gettin’ caught.”
He pulled out fully for a second, letting his cock drag wetly over your lips. You coughed once, soft and breathless, saliva clinging between your mouth and the flushed head of him before breaking. Ben gripped his cock at the base and slapped the heavy length lightly against your cheek. “Messy,” he said. “But you can do better.”
Your lips trembled as you looked up at him. “Please,” you whispered before you could stop yourself. His brows lifted. “Please what?” Your face burned. “Please use my mouth.”
Ben stared at you for half a second, then laughed in a way that made your stomach fold in on itself. “Now that’s a polite little slut.” He tapped the tip against your tongue. “Open.”
You opened for him again, and he slid in with less resistance because your mouth was already wet and stretched from him. This time he didn’t bother building slowly. He buried one hand in your hair and braced the other against the wall beside the mirror, hips driving forward until your throat tightened around him.
The bathroom mirror caught the angle of him above you, jeans shoved low, shirt rumpled, jaw clenched, eyes dark with lust. He looked like he’d walked straight out of every forbidden thought you’d ever had and become worse in person.
Meaner. Larger. More shameless. Your own reflection flashed in the corner of the mirror too, knees parted, face messy, mouth full, eyes wet. Ben saw you notice and grinned. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Look at yourself.”
You did, because his hand in your hair gave you no choice. Your face was smeared with pre-cum, spit, and tears, lips stretched around his cock while your mascara had started to blur at the edges of your lashes. Your body looked wrecked and exposed, pussy still bare under the light, the soft hair between your thighs damp with slick.
The sight made you moan around him without meaning to. Ben groaned immediately, hips stuttering once before he corrected himself. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Don’t do that unless you want me to finish early.” He pulled out abruptly, leaving you gasping, and wrapped his hand around himself at the base.
His cock was slick from your mouth now, shining wet, the head darker and more swollen than before. Pre-cum leaked again, thick and clear, slipping from the slit despite the way he held himself back. “Not in your mouth,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Not yet.”
You looked up at him, dazed and needy, throat aching and lips parted. Ben saw the disappointment flicker across your face and laughed under his breath. “Don’t pout,” he said. “You haven’t earned that.” His thumb smeared over your bottom lip, dragging saliva across your mouth before pushing lightly against your tongue.
You sucked it without thinking, and his jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re trouble.” He stepped closer again, cock heavy in his hand, still hard and slick and flushed from how close he’d nearly gotten. “Hands behind your back.”
You obeyed immediately, folding your hands behind yourself while still seated and exposed. Ben’s eyes dragged over you, pleased and mean. “Good. Now you’re gonna sit there and let Daddy decide what he does with you next.”
He rubbed the head of his cock over your lips again, not letting you take him, just painting your mouth with more slick while you fought to stay still. “This is what happens when you try to ruin somethin’ I like,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
“I make a mess of you instead.” Your pussy throbbed visibly beneath his gaze, and Ben’s mouth twisted. “Still wet,” he murmured. “That poor little cunt’s got no shame at all.” You whimpered, shoulders trembling with the effort not to reach for him again.
He dragged the underside of his cock across your cheek, then down over your chin, smearing your own spit back across your skin. “Gonna remember this every time you see that razor, aren’t you?” You nodded quickly, eyes wide and glossy. “Yes, Daddy.” Ben’s smile sharpened. “Damn right.”
He pushed back into your mouth one last time, slower than before but somehow even more possessive. Your lips closed around him, and he gave a deep groan that vibrated through the quiet room. He didn’t thrust immediately.
He just held himself there, heavy on your tongue, making you feel the weight and heat of him while your eyes stayed fixed on his face. “See?” he murmured. “This is useful.” Your throat worked around him, and his cock twitched hard. He hissed and pulled back before he could lose control.
“Fuck.” His hand tightened around himself again, stopping the orgasm that had clearly started to build too fast. He looked angry about wanting you this much, which only made him look hungrier.
“Not yet,” he said, voice wrecked but firm. “Daddy’s not done teachin’ you a lesson.” You gasped softly when he withdrew fully, mouth empty and aching. Ben looked down at you, cock still hard in his fist, and smiled like the night had only just started.
You sat there exactly how Ben had told you to, hands tucked behind your back, shoulders pulled slightly open because you weren’t allowed to hide from him anymore. Your breathing came back in uneven little pulls while your chest rose and fell too quickly, tits bouncing faintly with every shaky inhale as the bathroom light made every inch of you feel exposed.
Your mouth was still swollen and wet from him, lips parted as you tried to steady yourself, but Ben’s eyes weren’t on your face anymore. They had dropped lower, dragging over your bare chest, your trembling thighs, and the slick mess between your legs with the kind of shameless hunger that made your pussy clench again.
He stood over you with his jeans still open, cock hard and flushed in his hand, the head wet from your mouth and still leaking despite how tightly he held himself back.
The bathroom door stayed unlocked behind him, quiet and dangerous, but Ben didn’t even glance at it. He looked like he wanted the risk. He looked like he wanted you to remember every second.
“Hands stay there,” he said, voice rough and mean, his accent thicker now that he was worked up. “You move ’em, I stop.”
Your thighs twitched at that, and his mouth curled like he’d felt it somehow. “Course that gets your attention,” he muttered, stepping closer until his knees nearly brushed yours. “Mouth full of cock, cunt all wet, still sittin’ there like you’re the one bein’ tortured.” He dragged his gaze over your pussy again, slow and deliberate, taking in the soft bush he’d already decided belonged exactly where it was.
“Look at this,” he said, almost under his breath, like he was still pissed at you for nearly shaving it. “Pretty little thing, all soaked and puffy, and you were gonna take a razor to it.” Your face burned, but you didn’t close your legs. You couldn’t.
Ben dropped slowly to one knee in front of you, then the other, big hands landing on your thighs with a grip that made your breath hitch. “Since you wanted to be stupid,” he said, spreading you open wider, “Daddy’s gonna remind this pussy why it doesn’t need fixin’.”
The first rough pull at your bush made you gasp sharply. Ben’s fingers tangled in the soft hair between your thighs, tugging just enough to make your hips jerk and your clit throb. “There,” he said, voice low with satisfaction. “See? Personality.”
Your pussy looked wrecked beneath his stare, swollen from arousal, glossy with slick, the lips flushed darker and parted around the wet ache he’d worked you into without even properly touching you yet. The hair framed you messily, damp near the center from how wet you’d gotten, and Ben looked at it like it was something he wanted to ruin and worship at the same time.
His thumb dragged through your folds once, slow and rude, spreading your slick before he pressed the pad of it against your clit. You whimpered, shoulders trembling as you fought to keep your hands behind your back. Ben watched your face with cruel amusement. “Don’t start cryin’ yet,” he said. “Haven’t even put my mouth on you.”
Then he leaned in.
The first drag of his tongue through your pussy made your whole body jolt against the toilet seat, a broken sound spilling out of you before you could swallow it. Ben groaned into you immediately, the vibration rolling straight through your clit and making your thighs shake harder beneath his hands.
He didn’t eat you gently. There was nothing delicate about the way he opened you with his thumbs, pulled lightly at the hair to angle you how he wanted, then licked into you like he was angry at how good you tasted.
“Fuck,” he muttered against you, mouth wet and rough. “That’s why you were actin’ so dumb, huh?” His tongue pushed inside you suddenly, hot and firm, and your head tipped back against the wall with a helpless moan. “Daddy,” you gasped, already shaking. Ben’s hands tightened on your thighs. “Yeah,” he growled into your pussy. “That’s what I thought.”
He tongue fucked you with filthy, impatient strokes, pushing in and dragging out just to feel the way you clenched around him. Every time your hips lifted, he shoved you back down with one hand and tugged at your bush with the other, keeping you spread open and helpless under his mouth.
“Stay still,” he snapped, but there was a rough smile in his voice. “You wanted to be a big girl and shave this pretty cunt, didn’t you?” His tongue circled your clit before he sucked it into his mouth, and the sudden pressure ripped a loud cry out of you.
“Ben—” His hand came down hard on your thigh, not your face this time, but the warning was clear. He pulled back only enough to glare up at you. “What’d you call me?” Your chest heaved, tits bouncing with the effort of breathing. “Daddy,” you corrected quickly, voice breaking. Ben’s expression softened into something meaner. “Better.”
He went back down like he’d been starving.
His mouth sealed over your clit, sucking until your legs tried to clamp around his head, but his shoulders forced them open again. The scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs made everything sharper, rougher, dirtier, every pass of his mouth leaving you more sensitive than the last.
He kept making those low, approving sounds into you, like he couldn’t decide whether to punish you or praise himself for getting you this messy. “Look at you,” he mumbled between licks, his lips shining with you. “All wet for your dad’s best friend.”
The words made you moan so hard your hands twitched behind your back, and Ben noticed instantly. “Don’t you fuckin’ move those hands.” You froze, breath catching. He smiled against your pussy. “Good girl. Learnin’.”
You were shaking so hard now that staying upright took effort, your back pressed against the wall, knees spread wide, hands locked behind you while Ben worked you open with his mouth. His tongue pushed inside you again, deeper this time, the wet obscene sound of it filling the bathroom while his nose brushed against your clit. You moaned his title over and over, each
“Daddy” softer and more ruined than the last, and every one seemed to make him rougher. He dragged his tongue up to your clit and flicked it fast, then sucked, then pulled back just to spit on your pussy and smear it in with two fingers.
“Messy little thing,” he muttered, rubbing the spit and slick over your swollen clit before replacing his fingers with his mouth. Your body lurched forward, but he shoved you back again with a hand on your stomach.
“No. Sit there and take it.” His other hand pulled at your bush again, possessive and cruel, making you whimper from the sting and the pleasure tangled together. “This stays,” he said against you. “You hear me?”
“Yes, Daddy,” you sobbed.
The answer made him groan like it satisfied something ugly inside him. He licked you harder after that, mouth dragging over every wet, swollen inch of you while his hands held you open like he owned the view. Your orgasm started building too fast, violent and hot, gathering low in your stomach until your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his head.
“I’m close,” you gasped, voice shaking. Ben didn’t pull away. He only looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and mouth slick, and the sight nearly finished you right there. “Then come,” he ordered, voice muffled against your pussy.
“Cum on Daddy’s tongue.” His tongue pushed back inside you at the same time his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, cruel circles that made your whole body seize. You cried out, hands straining behind your back as pleasure finally snapped through you.
You came hard against his mouth, hips bucking despite his grip, thighs shaking so violently that Ben had to hold you down. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, tongue dragging through the slick rush of your orgasm while you sobbed his name wrong once and then corrected yourself into a desperate “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy” that made him growl into you.
Your pussy clenched around his tongue, swollen and soaked, every pulse making your body jolt in sharp little waves. Ben drank it in with a filthy kind of satisfaction, sucking and licking until you were writhing away from him because it was too much. Only then did he finally pull back, lips and chin wet, breathing rough as he looked up at you.
“There,” he said, voice wrecked but still cruel. “That’s what this pussy needed.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed your thigh hard enough to make you whimper. “Not a razor.” His eyes dropped to the soft, damp hair between your legs, and his mouth twisted with smug approval. “Me.”
Ben didn’t give you time to come down properly before his hand was back in your hair, hauling you up from the toilet seat with a roughness that made your knees nearly buckle. Your body was still shaking from his mouth, thighs slick and trembling, pussy swollen and wet enough that every step felt obscene.
“Up,” he growled, like he didn’t care that you were boneless and breathless and barely able to think. His grip stayed firm at the back of your neck as he turned you toward the sink, crowding behind you with his open jeans brushing against the backs of your thighs.
The bathroom mirror caught everything immediately, your messy mouth, your flushed cheeks, your tits rising and falling too fast, and Ben behind you looking huge and mean and completely gone on you. “Look at yourself,” he said, voice low against your ear. “Look what Daddy did to you already.”
Your palms hit the counter as he bent you forward, the edge of the sink pressing hard into your hips while your legs shook beneath you. Ben didn’t let you close them, not even for a second. He shoved one thigh between yours and forced your stance wider with his own legs, spreading you open until your pussy was exposed to him in the reflection.
“There,” he muttered, one hand gripping your hip while the other dragged down your spine. “Much better.”
Your eyes flicked to the mirror and immediately tried to drop, humiliation burning through you at the sight of yourself bent over the bathroom sink with your thighs parted and your slick still shining between them. Ben caught your chin from behind and forced your head back up. “No,” he snapped. “You wanted this. Now you watch.”
Before you could answer, two of his fingers shoved into your mouth, pressing down against your tongue until your lips closed around them automatically. “That’s it,” he said, sounding disgustingly pleased. “Drool on ’em.”
Your eyes watered as he pushed them deeper, your mouth stretched around his fingers while saliva gathered fast and messy. He watched you in the mirror, jaw tight, pupils blown, his cock dragging hot and heavy against your soaked folds from behind.
The tease of it made your hips jerk back despite yourself. Ben laughed under his breath, mean and breathless. “Greedy little thing. Mouth full and still tryin’ to get fucked.”
Then he lined himself up and thrust into you hard.
The stretch stole every bit of air from your lungs. Your moan came out muffled around his fingers, broken and wet, while your hands scrambled against the sink for something to hold. Ben cursed behind you, low and rough, his grip on your hip turning brutal as your pussy clenched around him immediately.
“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dipping briefly against your shoulder. “Tight little cunt’s been beggin’ for this all night.” He didn’t give you time to adjust for long. He pulled back halfway and snapped his hips forward again, shoving himself deep enough that your knees nearly gave out. “Look,” he ordered, fingers still pressing into your mouth. “Look how pathetic you are takin’ it.”
You forced your eyes up to the mirror, and the sight nearly ruined you. Your lips were stretched around Ben’s fingers, drool slipping down your chin, eyes glossy and blown wide while his body crowded yours from behind.
His cock disappeared into you with every rough thrust, your pussy wet enough that the sound filled the bathroom, filthy and rhythmic beneath both of your breathing. Your slick coated him instantly, creamy and clear around the base every time he drove back into you, making a messy shine where your bodies met.
Ben’s hand left your hip suddenly and came down hard across your ass, the slap echoing off the tile. You cried out around his fingers, clenching violently around him. He felt it instantly. “Oh, you liked that,” he said, voice sharpening with cruel amusement. “Course you did. Dirty little slut likes bein’ bent over and used in the bathroom.”
Your pussy tightened harder at the words, and Ben groaned like it pissed him off how good you felt. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, spanking you again, harder this time. “You’re squeezin’ me every time I call you what you are.” His fingers pressed deeper into your mouth, making you drool more, making the reflection even messier.
“That what you needed?” he asked, hips snapping into you with mean, steady force. “Needed Daddy to talk to you like some needy little whore so this pretty cunt would behave?” You whimpered around his fingers, nodding before you could stop yourself. His mouth twisted in the mirror. “Yeah. Thought so.”
Ben fucked you harder after that, like your body had given him permission to stop pretending he had any restraint left. One hand stayed in your mouth, keeping you quiet and messy, while the other alternated between gripping your hip and landing sharp, stinging slaps against your ass.
Each one made your body jolt forward against the sink, and each thrust dragged you back onto him again. “Look at that,” he rasped, eyes locked on the reflection of where your bodies met. “Taking Daddy’s cock like you were made for it.”
Your walls fluttered around him, slick and hot and clenching every time his voice dropped into that cruel, possessive tone. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips stuttering for half a second before he caught himself. “This pussy’s dangerous.”
You tried to say Daddy, but it came out as a wet, muffled sound around his fingers. Ben’s expression darkened at the attempt. “What was that?” he taunted, thrusting deep and holding there until you squirmed. You drooled around his fingers, eyes pleading in the mirror, body shaking from how full you felt. He pulled his fingers out just enough for you to gasp. “Say it.”
“Daddy,” you cried immediately, voice wrecked and breathless. Ben slammed back into you so hard your hands slipped against the counter. “Good girl,” he grunted. “Say it again.”
“Daddy,” you moaned, louder this time, and your pussy clenched down around him so hard he swore through his teeth.
His hand came back to your hip, fingers digging in as he chased that reaction again and again. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough and breaking at the edges now. “Keep squeezin’ me like that.”
You could feel how close he was getting, the way his thrusts turned less controlled, deeper and harsher, each one punching little broken sounds from your throat. Your own orgasm built fast, too fast, pressure tightening low in your stomach until your thighs were shaking against his.
Your cum started slicking him even more before you fully tipped over, wetness gathering thick and messy around his cock, smearing down your inner thighs, making every thrust sound wetter than the last. Ben saw it in the mirror, saw your pussy getting sloppy around him, saw the creamy ring of your arousal coating the base of him. “Don’t you look away,” he ordered. “You’re gonna watch yourself cum on Daddy’s cock.”
The command snapped something inside you. Your body seized against the sink, pussy clamping down around him as your orgasm hit hard enough to make your vision blur. “Daddy,” you sobbed, shaking violently while pleasure tore through you in hot, helpless waves.
Your cum soaked around him, slick and messy, your pussy pulsing so hard it pushed wetness down over his cock and onto your thighs with every clench. Ben groaned deep behind you, his grip turning almost painful as your orgasm dragged his out of him too.
“Fuck,” he rasped, hips driving in once, twice, then holding deep as he came with a broken, furious sound against your shoulder. You felt him spill hot inside you, thick pulses filling you while his cock twitched hard through every wave. The heat of his cum made you whimper, your overstimulated pussy clenching around him again as if trying to milk out every last drop.
Some of it pushed wetly around his cock where he stayed buried, mixing with your slick until both of you were messy and trembling in the mirror. His body pressed hard over yours, breath hot at your neck while both of you shook through it together. After a long moment, Ben laughed softly against your skin, rough and breathless. “That’s one hell of a lesson, sweetheart.”
i haven’t written anything since the early 2010s bandom hellscape possessed this site, but @oldermenfucker post inspired me to send an ask, which sent me into a writing spiral i haven’t had since i was like 17. shout out @aryacoulson also for inspiring me, too 🤘🏼 just had to get this outta my system
robby would have married you any time, any place—at the local courthouse with just your closest friends & family, a party later to celebrate with everyone else; eloping across the boarder to ohio where there’s no waiting period for a license, with only your witnesses in tow, returning to work the next day like nothing happened; religious, secular, big, small, anything—as long as he could call you mrs. robinavitch at the end of it.
but what you two ended up with—at the botanical gardens, surrounded by friends and family (and maybe more residents than he’d imagined, but hey, they’re your friends and his work children as you teasingly called them)—was perfect. almost as perfect as the sight above him now. you, smiling down at him, in nothing but lace and satin and pearls and fuck—
“you doin’ okay down there, mr. robinavitch?” you asked teasingly, rolling your hips, matching the blissed-out, in-love expression on his face.
“perfect, mrs. robinavitch.”
you lean forward to give him a kiss that ends up being more like something between a laugh and moan as he thrusts up into you.
robby reaches up to put his hands on your hips, sliding up, or trying, to slip under the corset you’d been painstakingly laced into with the help of trinity and samira sometime between the reception and the car ride to the hotel. letting out a frustrated grunt, you felt him grip the silky material and start to pull, a few seams beginning to pop.
you sit up and slap his hands away, “uh-uh, big boy. you already tore my panties to shreds. leave it.”
“they were in the way,” he mumbles, looking between your eyes and his hands on the hem of your corset, like he was still contemplating tearing you out of it.
you grab his wrists and move them up, up your waist to set them on your breasts, threatening to spill out the bust as it (really, trin & mira shoved you into this thing like miracle-working, sexy-time elves, he was gonna have to deal with it). “just enjoy your wedding present, mr. robinavitch. just let me look pretty for you,” you say sweetly, as you begin rolling your hips again.
robby listens, ending his vendetta against your lingerie. he moves one hand up you chest slowly, thumb carefully running under the dainty string of pearls around your neck—“something new,” he had said when he gifted them to you a few months back, shrugging to look more nonchalant than he felt, the red staining his cheeks giving him away. “and something old,” as he presented a similar pair of pearl earrings. “these were my grandmother’s, i’m sure she’d have loved you and-and if they don’t go with your dress, i understand, you don’t have to wear them but…you…yeah,” he finished flustered, but you’d only kissed him and said, “of course i’ll wear them, they’re perfect.”
the thumb gently swiping at the hollow of your throat moves up, his big hand curling around your neck, not squeezing, just holding steady. robby’s other hand comes down to to hold your ass as he sits up. the new angle allowing him to hit a new spot inside you, his pubes to rub against your clit, adding delicious friction.
robby caught the whine that escapes your throat in his mouth, you both not kissing, but lips brushing together, sharing pants and moans and smiles, tongues occasionally swiping at the other’s, teeth occasionally nipping at the other’s lips.
“baby, i need more,” you eventually whine, eyebrows now furrowed in concentration.
robby gives you a quick peck before flipping you over onto your hands and knees, you quickly settling down to rest your head and chest on the fluffy hotel duvet, ass still in the air. robby settles himself behind you, your legs spread wide around his. he enters you again in one agonizingly slow thrust—you mumbling a hurry up—bending down to kiss between your sweaty shoulder blades, then delivering a playful swat to your ass, making you yelp and giggle.
hands grip tight to the meat of your hips as he begins thrusting into you slowly and deeply at first, lovingly. but as your moans and keening grow louder, desperate, he drove into you harder, more passionately.
“please, baby, touchmetouchmetouchme,” you moan.
robby lands another smack to your other cheek. “but i am touching you, sweetheart,” he teases.
you whine and kick at the side of his leg with your foot. receiving your message with a chuckle, he obliges, reaching one hand—his left hand, newly adorned with a gold band—around your throat, pulling you up to him, back flush with his chest. the other hand snakes around you to rub at your clit, still soaked with your slick and his spit from him eating you out after tearing—again, literally, rude—you out of your lacy white thong.
continuing to pound into you, he adds pressure to his grip around you throat, contrasting him speaking softly into your ear, “my beautiful wife…all needy and perfect for me…taking me so well…how’d i ever get so lucky?” punctuating each sentence with a kiss to your ear, your cheek, your neck—the hand between your legs moving faster, the hand around your neck gripping ever so tighter.
you feel the ache in your belly grow taut, the heat where your bodies meet between your thighs hotter, slicker. reaching up to grip the back of his hair, you turn your head to whine into his mouth, “please, i’m so close, michael, please.“
he licks behind your upper teeth, squeezing at your neck and whispers, “then come for me, mrs. robinavitch.”
he releases the pressure on your neck, oxygen rushing back into your brain. you come with a cry, thighs trying to squeeze close, stopped by your husband’s thick legs between them, whispering i love you, i love you, i love yous into his mouth. the hand around your neck releases you completely and you collapse forward into the bed.
you’re panting and sweaty, eyes closed, head to the side—nose against the side of your left hand, the one long adorning your engagement ring, now joined by your dainty wedding band—allowing robby to see the blissed out smile on your face. beautiful, he thinks. the new angle also lets him see the intricate lacing that runs up the spine of your corset.
robby slows his thrusts almost completely to a stop, thick cock still hard inside you. his hand, moving from your sensitive clit, palm gliding up your shaking thigh, the swell of you ass, to the base of your spine. he pulls at the ends of the bow at the base of your corset, untying the knot. one large hand shoving beneath the fabric, pushing up to loosen the lacing.
“h-hey,” you pant, weakly reaching around to blindly swat at his hand, missing entirely, fingertips just brushing against his thigh.
“shh,” he chuckles lowly, “let me unwrap my wedding present, mrs. robinavitch.”
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie
Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene
A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao
Word Count: 14.3k
The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.
On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.
You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.
He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?
You didn’t answer.
You don’t plan to.
The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.
Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”
Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”
His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”
“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”
As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”
Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”
She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”
Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”
“Whatever you say, cap.”
The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.
In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”
She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”
He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”
The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.
—
It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.
You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“No worries, gorgeous.”
Your focus snaps.
Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”
Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”
He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”
You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”
“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”
“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”
Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”
You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”
Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”
Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.
“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”
Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.
Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”
“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”
He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”
“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”
Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”
You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”
It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.
He sends you texts. You don’t reply.
He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.
After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”
“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”
Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”
“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”
Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”
“But I’m not your girlfriend.”
“And thank god for that.”
“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”
“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”
“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”
“And you repaid her by leaving.”
Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”
“But she did.”
“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”
“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”
“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”
“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”
“Flatterer.”
“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”
Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”
“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”
At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.
When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”
His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”
Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”
“Not hostile, just professional.”
“You were definitely hostile.”
Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”
She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”
Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”
“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”
“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”
“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”
Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”
Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”
“At the door.”
Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”
Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”
“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”
Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”
“It’s ten thousand dollars.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”
Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”
You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”
“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”
“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my drama.”
“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.
Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”
Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”
Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”
“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”
“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.
She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”
“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”
“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”
“And you’re not forgiving enough.”
You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”
“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”
Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”
“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”
With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.
I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life.
That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice.
But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that.
So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that.
It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please.
I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more.
And I promise I love you. Both of you.
I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours,
M.
All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.
Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”
Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”
Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”
You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”
Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”
You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.
In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.
In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.
I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.
Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should let him grovel.”
Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”
“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your co-parent or sperm donor or whatever. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”
“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”
“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”
“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”
You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”
“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”
“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”
“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”
Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”
“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”
You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”
And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.
Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.
Then.
After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”
“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”
Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”
Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”
Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”
“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”
The world tilts slightly.
Robby’s breath catches in his throat.
Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?
You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.
You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.
“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”
“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”
You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”
Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”
You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”
His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”
Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”
“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”
“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”
“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”
Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”
With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”
“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”
Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”
You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.
“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”
You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”
“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”
“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”
‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.
After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”
One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”
You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”
“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”
You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”
His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”
“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”
Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”
You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”
He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m 100% confident.”
“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”
That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”
“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”
Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”
“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”
Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”
“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”
He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”
Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.
Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.
With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.
Noted. Thanks for the tip.
Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.
I’m rooting for you.
If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.
Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.
Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.
“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”
“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”
With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”
Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”
“Kids. Plural.”
He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”
You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”
Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”
You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”
“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”
“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”
Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”
“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”
Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”
You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”
“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”
“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.
“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”
You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”
He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”
“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”
“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”
You tease, “Sounds horrible.”
“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”
Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”
“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”
“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”
Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.
…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…
After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”
Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”
Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”
“You were just talking to her.”
He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”
She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”
Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”
You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”
He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”
Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.
“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”
You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”
“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”
“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”
“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”
“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”
He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”
“Michael!”
“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”
“I will not hesitate to splash you.”
Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”
Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”
“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”
After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”
His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”
You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”
He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”
And you want to kiss him.
You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”
He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”
You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.
As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”
You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”
Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then he curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”
You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”
“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”
You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”
He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as his confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.
Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”
Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”
Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”
Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”
“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”
Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.
Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.
You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.
For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.
So you decide.
Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”
His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”
“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”
“What would it be, then?”
He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to be something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”
You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.
When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-
Woah, asshole.
Calm down.
He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.
All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”
When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint fluttery aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes.
To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”
Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”
Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.
He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”
“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”
Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”
“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”
“You do?”
There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”
With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”
“See you soon, Michael.”
“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”
When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.
Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.
Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”
He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”
You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”
You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.
As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”
“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”
You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”
When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”
You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”
“God forbid.”
“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”
“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.
“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”
“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”
Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”
“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”
Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”
You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”
“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Good. As he should.”
Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”
“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”
Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”
“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.
Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”
Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”
You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”
You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”
He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”
The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”
And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.
Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”
You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”
“What? You don’t want a shower?”
“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”
Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.
Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.
She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”
“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”
“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”
Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”
“We’ll see.”
You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”
“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”
Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”
You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”
Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”
You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”
Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”
You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”
Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”
When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”
He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”
You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”
So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”
Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”
Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.
You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”
Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”
He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.
Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.
From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.
That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.
Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”
Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”
Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”
Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”
Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”
“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”
“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”
As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”
“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my boyfriend or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”
Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”
“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”
A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”
“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”
“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”
“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”
“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”
Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.
“Rest of your life, huh?”
“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”
You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”
“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.
Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”
Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.
Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”
Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”
You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”
Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”
You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”
“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”
Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”
“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”
He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”
“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”
You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t play dirty with me.”
“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”
“Now who’s playing dirty?”
“I would never.”
Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.
God.
God.
Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.
Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”
“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”
“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”
You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?”
Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”
He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”
The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.
Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.
And you kiss him.
It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”
Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”
You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”
“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”
“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”
Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”
“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”
He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”
You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”
Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”
“I want a hot tub.”
“Okay.”
“And a soaking tub.”
“Okay.”
“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”
“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”
Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”
Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”
i’ve read so many things about reader being with jack and having a threesome w him and robby (because they’re no strangers to sharing with one another)…. and since i’m a firm believer that robby is big i keep thinking about them not even letting you see his dick before he’s inside you because jack knows it’ll make you nervous
jack’s working you out of your bra while you’re on the bed kissing robby, and when your breasts are exposed robby’s big hands come up to knead the soft flesh and pinch your nipples. he smiles against your lips when you whimper into his mouth.
you, ever polite, reach out right away to palm him through his pants and return the favor. he lets you for a while, but once his cock starts growing he’s catching your wrist and guiding your hand away.
“why don’t you lie back, babygirl.” Jack instructs softly.
you listen, of course you do, wanting to be nothing but good for them. jack helps you shimmy your panties down your legs while Robby stands and takes off his shirt. you’re captivated watching him reveal his broad upper body. then he unbuckles his belt. deftly undoes the fly of his pants.
jack leans down to capture your mouth, smoothly drawing your attention away from robby. he can feel your eagerness through the kiss, it’s practically radiating off of you
you gasp softly when robby’s calloused fingers make contact with your pussy, swiping up your slit and stopping to rest against your clit. you pull away from jack. your eyes shift downwards, but he’s quick to catch your chin with two fingers and bring them back to his own.
“stay right here, doll. eyes right on me.”
you smile at the words, leaning up to press another sweet kiss to his lips. but i don’t wanna leave robby out, you think fuzzily, and when you pull away your eyes are seeking out the other man again
you find him this time, thankfully when he’s leaning down far enough that his torso obstructs the view of his cock bobbing just above your swollen pussy. he offers you a gentle smile.
“hi, pretty girl.” he murmurs. “you just look at Jack, alright? can you do that for me?”
you’re confused now. your brows knit. jack strokes his thumb over your pursed lower lip.
“we don’t want you to tense up, baby.” He explains vaguely.
“i’m not nervous,” you whisper. you sound so sweet, trying to reassure them, and robby can’t help the low groan that escapes him.
“That’s good, sweetheart.” He rasps.
“Just listen to me, honey.” Jack grips your chin now, turns your head a bit further towards him. You don’t wanna disobey him tonight. You want Robby to see how good you can be. So you meet Jack’s eyes. “Stay right with me. That’s it.”
The head of Robby’s cock nudges against your hole and you whine at the familiar feeling. Then he’s pushing into you, and you’re gasping at the stretch. He’s thick. You pant softly, catching your breath.
“Oh my god,” you whimper. Jack cups your cheek, pets your hair with his other hand.
“I know, baby.” He coos. “You’re doing so good.”
“s’so big”
“You’re okay,” Robby’s voice is thick with arousal and restraint, “You’re a big girl. You can take the rest.”
That has you clenching down, eyes flaring wide and excited panic rushing through you. The rest?
Robby groans, almost pained, at the tight constriction around his dick. His resolve to go slowly is thinning.
“Shh,” Jack soothes you, “easy, babygirl.”
How much more can there be? You try again to look, but Jack shifts to the side, gets his face between you and the man half inside you.
“Uh uh,” he scolds softly. “I need you to relax for me. Relax for Robby, sweetie, let ‘im in.”
Robby, desperate to speed things up, finds your clit with his broad thumb. You moan at the slow circles he draws there, pleasure spreading through your tense heat. Your pussy pulses, but otherwise eases up.
“There she goes.” Robby groans appreciatively.
“Good girl.” Jack praises. He presses a kiss to your damp forehead, watching your face scrunch up when Robby continues feeding you every inch of his cock. “Knew you could do it.”
Robby never had a problem taking off his pants before a quick hookup, the only issue comes when it’s time to get rid of his shirt. Luckily, you’re there to show him just how much you love his body.
tags/warnings: smut, minors DNI, belly riding, porn wirhout plot, male masturbation, nipple play, belly worshipping, blowjob, cum eating, casual sex, self image issues and insecurities (from Robby), age gap, f!resident!reader
You were lying there in the dim glow of Robby’s bedroom, your chest still rising and falling in waves with the aftershocks of the orgasm he’d dragged out of you with his mouth. It hadn’t taken long to get here, a few twelve-hour shifts together, a couple of shared looks across the ER, and now here you were: naked, spent, and staring up at the man who’d just eaten you out like it was his sole mission in life.
Robby stayed there, kneeling between your legs, still fully dressed in gray cargo pants and a white t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. His salt-and-pepper hair was mussed after your fingers had been in it not ten minutes ago, and those big brown eyes of his were fixed on you now with a heat that made your thighs press together instinctively. His mouth was still shiny with the remnants of your arousal, his lips slightly swollen from the work he’d put in between your legs.
You swallowed, your voice was a little husky from the moans he’d pulled out of you earlier. “It’s a little unfair, don’t you think?” The words came out teasing as you gestured lazily at yourself, then at him. “I’m laid out here all naked, and you’re still fully dressed.”
A low chuckle rumbled out of him, and Robby dragged his eyes over your body slowly. He took in the sweat still decorating your chest, the way your nipples tightened under his gaze, and the slick shine between your thighs that he’d left behind. “I figured you’d want a minute to catch your breath before we even the score.”
You didn’t want a minute, you wanted him, right fucking now. The power imbalance had always been there, with him being the chief attending and you his newest resident, that was part of the reason you’d find yourself so attracted to him from the beginning. But now, the power had flipped in the best way the second you left the hospital, and you felt like you had all the control right now.
You pushed up onto your elbows, dropping your gaze pointedly to the obvious bulge straining the front of his pants. “I’ll catch my breath later. Right now I want to see what I’ve been feeling pressed against my thigh for the last fifty minutes.”
He didn’t argue, just moved his hands to the waistband of his pants, hooking his thumb under the fabric as he popped the button with a flick. The zipper rasped down, and you sat up fully then, reaching for him without thinking. You brushed his fingers as you tugged at the belt he hadn’t even bothered to undo properly in his haste earlier. You worked it free, sliding the buckle open with a clink.
“Someone’s eager,” he commented, but he let you take over, dropping on his back next to you, lifting his hips off the mattress to help you shove the pants down his legs. They caught briefly on the thick thighs you’d felt flexing earlier when he’d held your legs open, then pooled at his ankles before he kicked them aside, leaving him in just the black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide how hard he was. The outline was obscene, thick and straining against the fabric.
You didn’t hesitate, sliding up your hands over his thighs, feeling the coarse hair there, and hooking your fingers into the waistband of his boxers to drag them down slowly, letting the fabric catch on the head of his cock before it sprang free. And fuck… It was huge. You’d felt it through layers, grinding against you, pressing between your thighs when he’d pinned you to the mattress. But seeing it like this, bare and erect and curving slightly upward toward his stomach, was something else entirely. The thick veins ran along the shaft, and the head was flushed dark and already glistening at the tip, easily the biggest you’d taken or even seen up close.
Robby lay there unapologetic, but the way his breath hitched when your eyes widened told you he knew exactly what he was packing. “Jesus, Robby,” you breathed, half-laughing as you wrapped your hand around the base before you could stop yourself. Your fingers didn’t quite meet, the girth was filling your palm perfectly. You gave it one slow stroke from root to tip, feeling the way it jumped in your grip, the bead of pre-cum that slicked your thumb as you swirled it over the head.
He let out an exhale, lifting one hand to cup the back of your neck. “Careful,” he warned you. “You keep going like that, and we’ll be over before we even start.”
You stroked him again, firmer this time, twisting your wrist just a little at the head the way you hoped he’d like. The weight of him, the heat, the soft grunts that escaped his mouth… it all made your mouth water and your pussy ache all over again. Robby twitched his hips forward once, fully involuntarily, before he caught himself.
The small distance between your bodies closed as you leaned in, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was slow at first, allowing you to taste the faint remnants of yourself on his mouth from earlier. Robby responded immediately, keeping his hand at the back of your neck, threading his fingers through your hair as he angled your head just right, deepening the kiss and brushing his tongue against yours.
You never stopped moving your hand, sliding it over the rigid member, feeling the vein along the underside throbbing with each pass of your thumb over the head. Robby was leaking steadily now, making each stroke smoother and wetter. You tightened your fingers just enough at the base, then loosened on the way up, learning what made him moan the loudest. The kiss grew messier as Robby nipped at your bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue, sliding his free hand down your bare back to pull you closer until your breasts pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt, molding your naked body over his still clothed one.
You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp for air. “God, you feel so fucking good,” you murmured, giving his cock another firm stroke that made his breath hitch. Then you let go for a second, gripping the hem of his shirt instead. You tugged at the fabric, trying to pull it upward. “Let me get this off you.”
Robby’s hand caught your wrist gently but firmly before you could yank the shirt higher. He pulled your palm back down toward his erection, guiding it back around his shaft with intent. His voice came out guarded. “It can stay on.”
You paused, keeping your fingers still, loosely wrapped around him, but not moving them. You searched his face, those sweet eyes, usually so commanding at work, now held a flicker of hesitation you’d never seen before. You tried again anyway, your other hand joining the first at the bottom of his shirt, tugging it playfully. “Come on, Robby. What are you doing? Let me take it off.”
He exhaled through his nose. “What are you doing?”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “Trying to get your shirt off. Seems only fair after you had your head between my thighs for like an hour.”
He shook his head once, trying to offer you one of his smirks, but it fell a little flat. “Why?”
The question threw you off, and you blinked as you sat back slightly on your heels on the bed, your naked body fully on display while he lay there in just the shirt and nothing below the waist, with his huge cock still jutting out proudly, glistening from your strokes, bobbing slightly with his heartbeat.
“What do you mean, why?” you asked, genuinely confused. “You can’t blame a girl for wanting a little skin-to-skin contact. I’m completely naked here, and you’re still half-dressed.”
Robby glanced down at your hand hovering near his cock, then back up to your face. For a second, the confidence that had defined every second since you’d walked through his door, the way he’d pinned you down, the filthy praise he’d growled while licking you through your orgasm, just seemed to drain right out of him. He looked… human.
“It’s just…” He rubbed a hand over his face, the same gesture you’d seen him do at work more times than you could count. “I don’t have much time to hit the gym anymore. Between the shifts and everything…”
You’d never guessed Robby could be self-conscious about what was under his shirt. This was the same man who never doubted himself when there were lives on the line in his ED, who’d answered your shameless flirting with such confidence, like crossing the line with a coworker was nothing new to him. The same man who had just let you see everything he kept hidden between his thighs without a flicker of hesitation.
Yet now, as your fingers hovered at the hem of his shirt, he looked almost… shy. Self-aware, and mbarrassed of showing you his fully naked body. And you wondered, quietly, if he always kept his shirt on when he fucked
You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “Do you think I care? Robby, I’m not here because I think you look like some bodybuilder under your shirt.”
He let out a breath that was half-laugh and half-sigh, running his hand through his hair. “It’s just… the years don’t come alone. I’ve forgotten to look after myself and… Fuck, look at you.” He dragged his eyes over your body again, the curve of your breasts, the way your thighs still glistened faintly from his mouth, and your release. “You’re… to die for. Fcking perfect. And I’m laying here like this.”
You weren’t blind, you’d noticed the slight softness around his middle that the oversized scrubs usually hid, the way his shoulders were still broad and strong but no longer sharply cut like they probably once were. None of it bothered you, quite the opposite, it turned you on. Ripped, gym-perfect guys had never done much for you. What drove you absolutely insane was the natural, masculine reality of Robby’s body, the solid weight of him.
You shook your head. “Shut up,” you told him affectionately. “Just shut up and let me see. I promise I’m gonna love it.”
For a long moment, he just looked at you, those intense eyes searching your face and looking for any sign you were bullshitting him. You held his gaze, resting your hand lightly on his thigh, stroking the coarse hair there in slow circles. Finally, Robby exhaled slowly, and he moved his hands to the hem of the shirt. He gripped the fabric, hesitating only a heartbeat longer, then pulled it upward in one motion, dragging it over his head and off his arms.
His chest was broad and strong, but it had a soft layer of fat to it now, the kind that came from too many fast and crappy meals and not enough time for anything resembling a consistent workout. His belly was round and soft, curving gently outward. There was a light dusting of dark hair across his chest that trailed down in a thicker line toward his navel and beyond, disappearing into the thatch at the base of his still-hard cock.
Robby’s face tightened the moment the shirt hit the floor. He opened his mouth, already starting to apologize again. “Look, I know it’s not—”
You didn’t let him finish, just surged forward on your knees, cupping his face in both hands and crashing your mouth against his in a hard kiss. It wasn’t gentle this time, it was hungry, almost fierce. Robby made a surprised sound in his throat, but he kissed you back just as fiercely. You began to move your hands everywhere at once, exploring his body greedily. One slid down from his jaw to his neck, then lower to his shoulders, squeezing the solid breadth of them. The other roamed across his chest, pressing into the soft give of his pectorals, spreading your fingers to feel the warmth, the slight weight, the way his skin heated under your touch.
You squeezed, kneading the softness there, brushing your thumbs over his nipples, which tightened instantly. Then your hands drifted lower, over the round curve of his belly, grabbing handfuls of the soft flesh, digging your fingers in with appreciation. It felt good, warm, and real, but you could feel the faint tremor of self-consciousness still lingering.
You broke the kiss just enough to speak against his mouth. “Your body is so fucking sexy, Robby,” you punctuated the words with another hard kiss, then another. “I’m so turned on right now. You have no idea. This—” You squeezed his belly again, then slid up to cup his chest, circling his nipples. “—all of this. God, you’re driving me crazy.”
He tried to pull back slightly, still caught in that loop of doubt, muttering something about “not exactly a prize,” but you silenced him with your mouth again, kissing him even harder, leaving no room for arguments.
Moving down slowly, you pressed your lips to the center of his chest first, right between his soft pecs. Then you let your tongue out, dragging a stripe across one of his nipples, making the nub tighten under the flat of your tongue. You circled it lazily before closing your lips around it and giving a gentle suck.
“Fuck…” he muttered and you smiled against his skin as you moved to the other nipple, licking strokes over it before flicking the tip with your tongue. You alternated between them, licking, sucking and grazing with your teeth just enough to make his chest twitch beneath your mouth. His nipples were sensitive, pebbled and flushed by the time you pulled back, leaving them shiny with your saliva.
Then you started moving even lower, you kissed your way down the warm, rounded swell of his belly, taking your time. Open-mouthed kisses, and licking from below his sternum all the way down to his navel. Robby’s stomach tensed as if he was trying to suck in his stomach, but he eventually relaxed as you nuzzled into it, rubbing your cheek against the curve like you couldn’t get enough.
“You have no idea how much I love this,” you said against him, kissing the softest part of his lower belly, nuzzling and pressing your face into him, inhaling his scent while you squeezed the sides of it with your hands possessively.
Robby let out a shaky exhale above you, his cock throbbed visibly against his stomach, inches from where you were resting your cheek, but you stayed focused on worshipping the belly he’d been so self-conscious about only minutes earlier.
Finally, you pulled back, moving up his body one again, resting your forehead against his. You kept your hands on his body, one still kneading his belly possessively, the other tracing patterns through the hair on his chest.
“Wanna see how turned on you got me?” you whispered.
Before he could respond with more than an exhale, you shifted on the bed, swinging one leg over his hips to straddle him. The position put you directly above his lap, but you didn’t lower yourself onto his cock, instead, you settled your weight so that your slick, still-sensitive pussy hovered just above the round curve of his belly.
The heat of your core radiated against his skin, close enough that he could undoubtedly feel the wetness. Your thighs bracketed his sides until your knees were pressing into the mattress on either side of him. You rocked your hips once, very lightly, parting and brushing the slick folds of your pussy teasingly against the soft warmth of his tummy, just enough contact to let him feel how drenched you still were, how your body had responded to him, to all of him.
Robby’s hands came up to your thighs instinctively, gripping them. You looked down at him, resting your hands on his shoulders for balance. “See? This is what you do to me. Just looking at you… touching you… It’s got me soaked all over again. Fuck, Robby, I want all of you.”
The sensation was nothing like anything you’d felt before, his stomach was so soft, so warm, so wonderfully plush that it cradled every inch of your cunt like it had been made for this. Your juices, still plentiful from the earlier orgasm and the fresh wave of arousal that seeing him shirtless had triggered, immediately began to coat him. With each forward rock of your hips, you smeared more of your wetness across the swell, painting glistening trails over the trail of hair that led down from his navel.
The friction was perfect, it got your clit dragging deliciously against the flesh, the slight give allowing you to press down harder without discomfort, every movement sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.
You kept moving your hips in rolling waves, forward and back, then in small circles that made your shiny pearl catch just right against the warm curve. You could feel your arousal building rapidly, how your inner walls clenched around nothing as you used his soft belly like the most perfect toy.
“Fuck… Robby,” you gasped, tipping your head back as another wave of pleasure rolled through you. “Your body feels so good… so soft and warm.”
Robby looked completely gone beneath you. His eyes were wide with disbelief and lust. He couldn’t seem to decide where to look, flicking hiz gaze frantically from your face, flushed and lost in pleasure, to your bouncing breasts, to the mesmerizing sight of your beautiful, glistening pussy rubbing all over his soft stomach. His mouth hung slightly open, like a man utterly wrecked by the sight of a beautiful woman using his imperfect, lived-in body to chase her own pleasure so shamelessly.
He watched every roll of your hips like it was the most hypnotic thing he’d ever seen. Your slick folds spreading and dragging over him, the way your clit peeked out with each backward slide, swollen from ll the friction. Robby’s hands twitched at his sides at first, then he finally moved one, wrapping it around the thick base of his cock. He started stroking himself slowly, almost absentmindedly at first, but he tightened his grip as he watched you grind faster.
You noticed the rhythmic movement of his right arm, and you let out a breathless laugh that turned into a moan when your clit caught particularly well against a spot on his belly.
“You’re touching yourself?” you managed to say as you pressed down harder, smearing more of your juices across his skin in a wide arc. “Robby… you really can’t wait, huh? Do I make you that desperate?”
He nodded jerkily, moving his hand faster along his massive shaft now, getting his fingers wet with pre-cum as he pumped them up and down the veined length. “Fuck yes. Look at you… riding my stomach like that… so fucking hot. You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”
His words only spurred you on, so you leaned forward slightly, changing the angle so your clit got even more direct pressure with every grind. Your pussy was absolutely drenched now, with yourr juices flowing freely and coating his entire lower belly in a slippery mess.
Robby’s stroking grew erratic as he watched you chase your orgasm on his body, the contrast was dizzying, your youthful form moving so fluidly against his older and softer one. His free hand eventually came up to grip your thigh, fingers digging into the muscle as if to ground himself while you used him.
You kept going, riding him harder. “Oh god… I’m so close,” you whimpered. “It feels so fucking good… I’m gonna cum just like this…”
The orgasm hit you all of a sudden, and its intensity was overwhelming. You arched your back sharply at the same time a loud moan tore from your throat. Your pussy clenched and pulsed against his skin, fresh waves of your release flooded out, soaking his tummy even more thoroughly. Your hips stuttered through the climax, grinding erratically as you rode it out fully, prolonging the sensation by pressing down hard and rolling until the last tremors finally subsided. Only then did you lift yourself off him, shifting to kneel beside his hip on the bed.
You looked down between his legs, expecting to see his cock still hard and ready. Instead, it was soft now, resting against his thigh, still impressive in size even when flaccid. Robby’s hand and shaft were covered in thick ropes of his own creamy cum.
His chest rose and fell rapidly with a mix of embarrassment and satisfaction.“Sorry,” he muttered, “I couldn’t stop… watching you like that… fuck, you were too much.”
You let out a soft chuckle, one that was was warm and loving, without a trace of mockery. “You really came, didn’t you?” you reached out to brush a stray lock of his salt-and-pepper hair back from his forehead. “Just from watching me grind on your belly like that. God, Robby… that’s kind of hot.”
He let out a self-deprecating groan, rubbing his free hand over his face as if he could wipe away the flush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah… fuck. Couldn’t help it. You looked… Jesus, the way you were riding me.. You were all wet, getting off on me like that.”
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I wanted to be the one who got you off like that,” you said quietly, the words carrying a playful edge of disappointment that wasn’t really disappointment at all. “Wanted to feel you cumming inside me, or at least have my hands or mouth on you when it happened. Not that you stroking yourself while I came all over your stomach wasn’t insanely sexy… but still.”
Robby’s brown eyes darkened again at your words, and you tilted your head, letting your gaze drop deliberately to his spent cock. You licked your lips slowly, feeling a throb of arousal in your belly at the sight. “Think you can get it up again?”
He let out a short, breathless laugh that turned into a groan. “Fuck… I can try.” Without hesitation, he moved his hand back to his cock, fisting it slowly, squeezing it from root to tip in long strokes. The flesh began to twitch under his touch, thickening slightly as the blood flowed back in.
He watched you the whole time, but you didn’t let him do it alone for long. “Let me help you,” you whispered, moving down his body, settling between his spread thighs on the bed. You leaned in, tracing a broad stripe from the base of his cock upward with your tongue, collecting the salty and bitter taste of his cum in one pass.
You moaned softly at the flavor, and licked again, this time focusing on the underside of the shaft, dragging the flat of your tongue along the prominent vein there, cleaning every streak of pearly white that had dripped down. When you reached the head, you swirled your tongue around it in circles, lapping up the thicker globs that clung to the slit.
His cock jumped, hardening noticeably now, the entire length was shiny with your saliva instead of his release. You took the head into your mouth briefly, sucking with pressure, hollowing your cheeks as you worked to clean him completely.
You pulled off for a moment and looked up at him from between his thighs with a wicked little smile. “Told you I’d help.”
Robby’s chest rose and fell faster, the soft roundness of it moving with each breath. “Fuck me.” He cursed into the room.
You leaned back in, extending your tongue for another slow lick along the full length of his now fully erect cock. “In a second.”
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A/N: I’m sorry this is all I’ve had time to write, my life is extra busy with work and college. I really want to write stories with more than just smut, but I can’t seem to find the time right now. I hope you still enjoy this in the meantime.
can’t stop thinking about robby taking me from behind, leaning over the top of me and his tummy fitting perfectly into the arch of my back. i need that old man. i need his dad bod
ughh you’re shivering, he’s grazing you so good. can’t believe his eyes. how perfect you two fit together. and he’ll admit, at first he was worried. old man body, no abs. but you love it.
now all he can think about when he’s taking you from behind is how younger and smaller your body is compared to his. how your back is the perfect resting spot for his stomach. his arms locked around you, overloading your senses.
gets off on being this old man who can make you feel so good. have you whining and pleading. he’s all kissing, slobbering on your face and telling you these exact thoughts. love being your old man. can you feel all of me, baby? ’sfeelgood?
and you’re just nodding, trying to kiss him back through blubbers. but he just chuckles and calls your little attempt cutegahscabcuugh
eleven years ago, robby had a fling with a first year medical student, only for her to drop out and disappear without even a note. forward to present day, and a precocious 10 year old has shown up in the pitt demanding to see her dad, a photo of a familiar face gracing her phone screen.
series cw: mdni. kidfic, fem!reader, age gap (early 20s/30s, early 40s/50s), miscommunication, exes to idiots in love, romcom nonsense, medical/legal/scholastic/child-rearing inaccuracies, overuse of the word puppy, all lowercase. no physical reader description other than shorter than robby, no physical child description other than having curly hair (unspecified from whose side) and robby’s eyes. additional cw on each chapter. pics just for vibes.
Jack said "i'll pay for it" and i blacked out. here's this. (the gif is def brett richards but ignore that!)
Summary: A short trip to the ER one night spirals into an unlikely accidental sugar daddy relationship with a certain night shift attending that you never expected.
Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only!!, medical innaccuracies (never been to the ER for a mild allergic reaction so just <3 look past any mistakes), slight miscommunication trope, jack is WHIPPED from day 1, sugar daddy jack yes god, lots of complicated feelings abt money, reader is trying her damnest to still be independent, so much fluff, robby has his whimsy back in this, jack is trying his hardest to be Normal abt you (he is failing), oral f!recieving, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (and the crowd...cheers? wear a condom!)
WC: 16.5k (I SAID I BLACKED OUT)
The last place you expect to end up on your birthday is PTMC’s ER and yet, that’s exactly where you sit.
For the record, you think you’re fine. Your friend thinks otherwise, hence the fact that you’re now at the ER and not still at the restaurant. At least she drove you here instead of calling an ambulance -- you do not have the money for that -- but she didn’t stay with you. Which you kind of understand. ER’s aren’t the best place to be, and it’s late and she has to work super early and you told her to leave.
You just also hadn’t entirely expected her to go without any pushback, but what can you do?
Still, it just seems par for the course. The course being your entire life. There’s never any fight, no one ever really wants to stay. It’s-- Well, you’d say it was weird if it wasn’t your normal, everyday life.
But it’s fine. Again, you’re the one who told her she didn’t need to stay and that you would be fine because you are fine. So, you’re having a little allergic reaction. So what? It’s not like your throat is closing up or anything. It’s just been like, sort of, itchy. And maybe you have hives. Maybe.
The ER isn’t empty by any means, but there are empty chairs and in your ER experience, that’s a rare and good sign. You hope it means this won’t take long at all, and that you aren’t exactly high priority.
Until you’re called back before a lot of people who definitely checked in after you.
You go through the motions of triage, explaining what’s wrong, insisting that you’re fine, but apparently the hives look bad and apparently the little cough you have might be a bad sign, because before you know it, you’re in a room of your own.
You huff, which turns into some coughing, and you grimace. Your throat does not feel great.
You don’t have to wait long at all before the curtain pulls back so abruptly that you flinch, and then lock eyes with an absolute silver fox of a doctor. Suddenly your breathing issues have nothing to do with the alleged allergic reaction that you might be having.
“I’m Dr. Abbot, it’s nice to meet you, though I’m really sorry it’s under these circumstances.” The corners of his lips quirk in a small smile when he turns to look at you. “What brings you in tonight?”
“Um…” you swallow uncomfortably. “Possible allergic reaction?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Possible?”
“I don’t have any allergies,” you say. “Not that I know of, anyway. But I was eating dinner and then my throat started to feel really scratchy and water wasn’t helping it, and then like, apparently there’s hives on my neck--”
“Okay,” Dr. Abbot listens intently, straightening up. “Are you having any trouble breathing now?”
You shake your head. “No, my throat is still scratchy, but I can breathe fine, I just keep coughing a little because it feels like something is stuck.”
He nods. “Okay. Let me know if that changes, as soon as it changes. I don’t care if you think it is, let me know. Okay?”
You nod this time. “Okay. Got it.”
“Now,” he smiles softly, walking to your bedside. “What was for dinner? And do you mind if I take a look at that rash you keep scratching at on your arm?”
You freeze, literally caught in the act, nails still digging into your forearm before you slowly move your hand away. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head, sitting down on the stool beside your bed. “Don’t apologize. Can I?” You nod and his fingertips touch your skin. “What was dinner?”
You explain what you had and at what restaurant, and Dr. Abbot listens. He lists some possible allergens, but that it’s impossible to really know. It could even be a case of cross-contamination, but since you don’t know of any allergies in general, it’s hard to say what it could be exactly.
All the while he’s examining your skin, leaning so close you can feel his breath. His fingertips ghost over the hives, applying pressure here and there, which apparently tells him something, but what exactly, you have no idea.
“You ever taken Benadryl before?” he asks, leaning back to look up at you.
You nod. “Yeah, just when I’m like deathly sick.”
He laughs. “Good. I’m going to get one of my nurses to bring some in because you do have some pretty good hives on your neck, now making their way onto your arm here. The bad news is it absolutely looks like an allergic reaction of some kind, but the good news is it seems to be an extremely mild one. I am going to need to keep you for a couple hours to monitor you, make sure the Benadryl works and that your breathing doesn’t change. Is that okay?”
You nod. It’s not like you have anywhere else to be. “That’s fine, yeah.”
“Okay,” he smiles, squeezing your hand once, and it’s only then that you realize you had begun to start scratching again.
It’s also when you realize he’s wearing a goddamn wedding ring.
You wedge both of your hands under your thighs, looking away as you let out another small, “Sorry.”
Even in your peripherals you can see he gives you a strange look before he shakes his head. All he says is “I’ll be right back” and then he disappears.
You lean your head back against the pillows and sigh, loudly. Which turns into a cough, but it’s small, and doesn’t hurt anymore.
And then it’s like Dr. Abbot appears out of fucking nowhere, curtain flinging back, his eyes wide as he peers in. “Are you okay? Trouble breathing?”
“No, sorry,” you lift your head, putting on what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I was just…”
He watches you steadily for a moment. “Okay. Let me know if that changes.”
You nod again. “Roger that.” Why did you just say that?
He smirks as he leaves again, and this time you toss your head back into the pillows a little more aggressively.
You cannot look so flustered every time he speaks. He’s married, for Christ’s sake, and he is not flirting with you. He is your doctor.
You expect the next time the curtain opens for it to be a nurse with your Benadryl, but it’s Dr. Abbot yet again. He has a cup of water in one hand and the little packet of Benadryl in the other.
“Are you okay taking pills?” he asks, handing you the water, and you ignore the way your fingers brush.
“Yeah,” you murmur, watching him as he sits down on the stool again. He definitely doesn’t need to be the one giving you the medicine, let alone sitting down at your bedside to do it, but you don’t call him out on it.
You take the two pills from him and swallow them with some water, feeling his gaze on you but keeping your eyes focused on the door. When you finish, you sneak a glance over at him, and he’s watching you. Still.
“Good.” He says it so softly that you almost don’t hear it. “I’ll come back in a bit to see how you’re doing, but if anything changes, you can press this button right here and it’ll send a signal to the nurses’ hub. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
You nod, but he doesn’t budge, so you add, “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”
He pulls the curtain behind him as he leaves, and part of you wishes he had turned the lights off, too. It’s late as hell and you were already tired to begin with from working as many extra shifts as you can get your hands on. The allergic reaction certainly isn’t helping your tiredness.
It feels like barely any time passes before Dr. Abbot comes in to check on you again. It does seem odd, just how often he’s checking in, but maybe it’s a slow night. There were empty chairs, after all.
You sit silently as he checks your hives from his place on the stool. He hums a little as his fingertips ghost over your skin. You answer his questions about how you’re feeling. Better, less itchy, your throat doesn’t hurt anymore. You blink slowly and Dr. Abbot notices, smiling at you, but this one is strangely soft.
“Feeling sleepy?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry, forgot Benadryl hits me kinda hard.”
“That’s okay, it’s normal,” he assures you. “Did you drive here?”
“No, my friend dropped me off.”
His eyebrows furrow. “She didn’t stay?”
“She has to work super early shifts,” you wave him off. “It’s fine, I’ll just Uber home or…or something.” Which is still not ideal because it’s money you don’t want to spend, and maybe you could get your friend to come back and pick you up, but you don’t want to wake her up if she’s asleep already.
He eyes you warily. “Why don’t you sleep this off for a bit, and then we’ll talk about getting you home. Okay?”
You’re too tired to argue, honestly. You clearly haven’t taken Benadryl in ages because it’s hitting you like a freight train right now.
You don’t argue, but you do say, “Are you sure?” and Dr. Abbot just nods, patting your arm.
“You stay put, I’ll come check in on you, but I want those hives to go down some more before you leave,” he says, which, you have no idea how this works, so this is probably typical protocol, who knows.
“Okay,” you shrug. “As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” he smiles. “You’ll be okay here. Get some sleep.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
+++
You’re still sleeping soundly by the time six a.m. rolls around, which leads to a lot of questions, all directed at one Dr. Jack Abbot.
“So…” Robby leans onto the desk next to where Jack is charting. He showed up a bit early today for who knows what reason, but clearly one objective is getting on Jack’s nerves as soon as possible. “Want to tell me what’s up with the patient in 12?”
“Allergic reaction, not sure what caused it,” Jack rattles off the usual descriptions necessary at handover, except he won’t be handing you over to anyone. “Her friend dropped her off.”
“So you’re waiting for her friend to come get her…?” Robby asks, eyebrows furrowed and head shaking.
“No,” Jack says. I’m taking her home, he wants to say, and nearly does, but he can’t say that because he hasn’t even asked you if you want that. You said you’d Uber, but you didn’t exactly look like that idea appealed to you for some reason.
“Jack,” Robby sighs. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Jack bites out, logging back on to triple check something that he definitely doesn’t need to triple check. He knows he has a bad habit of getting attached to certain cases, but those cases are usually veterans and their families. Not…not pretty young women who come in alone and insist they’re fine when they’re clearly on the cusp of anaphylactic shock (how you didn’t end up in shock, Jack still doesn’t know, but he’s glad you didn’t get worse).
“She’s a patient,” Robby says flatly. “She’s your patient.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Jack repeats, eyes scanning over your file some more when his eyes lock on the date. Your birthday.
Your birthday was yesterday now, when you got here. You didn’t mention anything about that.
Strange.
He logs off and turns to Robby. “I’ve got her cleared for discharge and I’m going to go let her know now. Happy, boss?”
Robby holds his hands up in mock surrender.
Jack turns and heads toward your room, well aware that he shouldn’t have let you stay this long. You’re taking up a bed that they probably need, but in his defense, this is the first time in a long time that there aren’t any beds lining the walls when dayshift comes in. He counts it as a win. And justification that you’re fine to take up one bed. They still have the pedes room empty, anyway.
He knocks on the door before opening it, sliding the curtain back gently, remembering the way you flinched earlier.
“Hey,” he says, smiling without thinking. You’re awake and sitting up, which is a good sign. But you’re glaring at him. “How are you doing?”
“Why am I still here?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest. “You were supposed to let me sleep off the Benadryl, not sleep through the night.”
He chuckles, grabbing the stool and wheeling it over so he can sit at the end of your bed, putting some distance between you this time. “Because you clearly needed the rest. I came and checked on you every hour; you were out cold.”
You grumble something and then huff. “Well, I need to go, I have to work in like…four hours. So. Can I go?”
He doesn’t like the idea of you working after a night in the ER, but he also knows he can’t exactly tell you not to. Medically, you’re fine. “Yeah, you’re free to go, that’s what I was coming to tell you, actually.”
“Great.”
He fucked this up. He doesn’t know how, and he’s not sure why he’s even thinking that there’s something to fuck up. You’re his patient. But still, it feels like he’s ruined everything. Whatever everything is.
“Uh, here’s your paperwork,” he says awkwardly, handing over the sheets. “Just a review of what you were treated for and with what, and who saw you.” He pauses. “If you need a note for work--”
“I’m fine,” you say, taking the papers. “Thanks.”
“Okay,” he nods. “Well, if you--” How does he fix this? Why does he feel like there’s something to fix? “If you feel any worse again, come back, or…”
You raise your eyebrows at him.
“Or if you just want a check up,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as ridiculous as he feels. “You can stop by any night.”
He hears your breath hitch and he graciously ignores it.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you murmur.
He nods again. “No problem. I’ll uh…let you get out of here.” So I can do the same. And go crawl in a hole.
He leaves without another word, trusting that you can get yourself to the exit without him.
He finishes handover with Robby, welcomes the rest of the dayshift as they come waltzing in, and then he gets the hell out of there.
He almost goes to the roof, but thinks better of it. He grabs his stuff from his locker, shaking his head at himself the whole time. He leaves the ED through chairs like always, grimacing when he sees it’s filling back up already. Dayshift will have their hands full, no doubt.
He’s just walking up the sidewalk to the parking deck where his truck is when he spots you. Still here. Sitting on a bench in the park across the street.
Jack doesn’t think. He just looks, crosses the street, and walks right up to you.
You’re looking down at your phone and muttering under your breath. He doesn’t want to startle you, but that’s probably inevitable. Still, he tries not to, and clears his throat to (hopefully) announce his presence loud enough.
It works. You lift your head and your wide eyes stare back at him. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoes. “Everything okay?”
You open your mouth and he can already see the I’m fine forming around your lips. He expects it. He expects you to tell him to get lost, that he’s being a creep. But you don’t.
You shut your mouth, roll your lips into your mouth, and sigh. “No, my uh…My friend works on the other side of the city, and I know her schedule so I know she’s already halfway to work, so I can’t ask her for a ride, so I was just going to Uber to my place, but my fucking-- The app keeps declining my card. It’s never done that before, so I’m trying to figure out what the fuck it’s doing, but it keeps saying it’s not accepted and--”
“I’ll pay for it.”
You blink, his words forcing the rest of yours to die in your throat. “What?”
“I can pay for it,” he says again. Then adds, “If that’s okay with you.”
Your mind is clearly still stuttering, gears grinding to a halt, trying to catch up. “Why?”
Jack can’t help it, he laughs. “Because you’re my patient and I’d really recommend you get home soon and rest before your shift at work,” he says. He still doesn’t want you to go to work. He wants you to show your boss the discharge paperwork and take the day off.
But, he realizes, maybe you can’t afford to do that.
“Here,” he says, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He produces one of his old credit cards, one that he hardly ever puts anything on aside from gas for his truck. He holds it out to you. “Use this one. See if it’ll accept it.”
You blink again. After far too long of a pause, your hand reaches up and you take the card. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” he says, shifting on his feet as he watches you put the information in. Some weird part of him hopes you save the card. Some weirder part of him wants you to take the card entirely.
But, of course, you don’t do that. You put the information in, wait for it to process, and then you hand the card straight back to him.
The app accepts it. Your phone dings as a driver is found.
You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you look up at him with a soft smile. “Thank you so much, seriously. And I’ll delete the card after--”
“Don’t worry about it,” he shakes his head. “Consider it a belated birthday gift.”
You hang your head at that with a small laugh. “Thanks.”
He smiles again. “Get home safe, okay?”
He figures it might be a step too far and too weird to wait here with you until your ride shows, so he makes his exit.
But if he waits in his truck in the parking deck until he sees you get in your Uber, well, that’s his business and his business only.
+++
How much variation can one have in their ramen? It’s about all you can afford at the moment, so you’re trying to think of some things to add in to make it less pathetic and…repetitive to eat every single day.
You’ve gotten some frozen edamame, and some cheap frozen gyozas, because why the fuck not. A poached egg would be nice, but eggs aren’t exactly in the budget at the moment, so instead you stare wistfully at them as you pass by.
And that’s your Big Mistake of the day, because instead of watching where the fuck you’re going, you’re looking at the eggs like they’re your long lost husband. Which means you collide right into the person your delusional friend thinks is your long lost husband.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you blurt, your hands reaching out to steady Dr. Abbot just as he’s doing the exact same for you. It’s a hilarious gesture on your part because he isn’t the one who needs help staying on his feet. You’re the one about to fall over.
“Dr. Abbot,” you gasp, stepping away from him, your basket swinging on your arm. “What are you doing here?”
The question makes him pause and his lips quirk. “Um…buying groceries? Is that allowed?”
Fucking duh. “Yes! Sorry, I just meant-- Never mind.” You glance at his basket and see he’s put two steaks in and some butter, but nothing else. “Wow, steak dinner,” you joke. “Celebrating something?”
You expect him to say yes, my wedding anniversary or something of the sort. Because he’s still wearing a ring-- because, of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? It’s only been two weeks since you were in the ER. And it’s not like you know anything about his personal life, wife included.
He laughs, looking down at his basket like he forgot what he’s buying. “No, not really, just craving steak. I sometimes have one after I work a double. As a reward, you know.”
“Right,” you nod, like you understand what he means. Like when you pull a double at your job, you do the exact same thing. Like you can afford to do that. “Well, enjoy.”
“I will, thank you,” he says. Then, he commits the highest form of treachery. He glances at your basket. “Ramen?” he starts, then you see his brain register the other items. “Fancy ramen?”
“Gotta make it healthy somehow,” you joke.
He nods slowly, eyes cutting to the side at the eggs. You wonder if he noticed the way you were staring at them. “I sometimes do a fried egg with mine,” he comments. “Adds to it.”
“Yup,” you say. “It does.” But have you seen the fucking price of eggs right now? “Anyway, I should-- I need to get going, but um, enjoy your steak and days off, I’m guessing.”
He accepts your abrupt end of the conversation with a humble nod. “Will do. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”
“You too,” you say over your shoulder, making a beeline down a random aisle just to get away.
You end up down the cereal aisle which isn’t such a bad idea. You have some milk left at home, but even if it’s gone bad, you can eat the dry cereal.
You stare at all of the boxes like they’ve personally offended you, wondering when these prices went up too. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe you’re just dealing with a lot of extra expenses right now, and it’s fried your brain. Probably.
You grab the cheapest, off-brand bag you can see. It’s ridiculous and massive and definitely meant for parents of four kids, but it’s cheap and it’ll last you. So.
You wander aimlessly around the rest of the store, debating over some other snacks and food that you don’t really need, but you do want. In the end, the not-needing wins, so you head for the checkouts.
The self-checkout is crammed for some stupid reason, so you pick a mostly empty line and hop in. You hate not using the self-checkout, but it’ll have to do.
“I swear I’m not following you,” a voice says from behind you.
You glance back and see that it’s Dr. Abbot and you laugh a little, awkwardly. “Sure,” you tease. “I totally believe you.”
He cracks a small smile then, setting his things on the conveyor belt behind yours. The steaks, butter, and now eggs, milk, and bread have joined. Along with a four-pack of beer.
“Healthy,” you raise your eyebrows. “Don’t know what I expected from a doctor who works nights, though.”
“Funny,” he says. “How are you doing, by the way? I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
“I’m okay,” you reply, stepping forward as the person in front of you pays. “Thanks for asking.”
“You never came back to see me,” he says, his eyes just a little sad and his voice a little too soft.
“I didn’t get any worse,” you shrug, ignoring the way his statement made your chest grow tighter and butterflies kick around in your stomach. “And a check-up isn’t really in the budget, Dr. Abbot.”
“Please,” he says, exhaling. “Call me Jack.”
You give him a strange look before greeting the cashier as she scans your things through.
You did the math on your phone as you put things in your basket, but the fucking taxes get you every time. And now you’re not sure if you overshot or not.
You try your debit card and, as you dread, it declines.
“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself. “One second, sorry.”
“No problem,” the cashier says, and to her credit, she doesn’t sound like she feels any sort of way about it. She probably deals with this a lot.
“Here, I’ll try a different card,” you smile, hating every second of your fucking life. You didn’t want to put this on your credit card, but fine. If you must.
Except that fucking declines too. Fuck. Did you freeze it so you’d stop using it while you paid some of it off and forget to unfreeze it for emergencies like, say, a surprise ER trip and work cutting your hours?
Probably.
“Um…” You can feel the back of your neck starting to sweat from the embarrassment of it all. “I’ll just have to-- I’ll come back, or--”
“I’ve got it,” Jack says, stepping forward and handing cash over to the cashier before you can stop him. He does at least glance at you and ask, after he’s handed the money over, “If that’s okay?”
It’s not, not really. Because you already owe him for the Uber, and you don’t want to owe him for this too, but you really need the fucking food. So, you swallow your pride and say, “Yeah, thanks,” instead.
You shove your things into a bag as Jak takes his change from the cashier. He pockets it, thank god, because you think you might’ve exploded if he tried offering it to you.
She scans his stuff and he pays with a card, and you really don’t know why you’re still standing here, but you are. You’re just…frozen. He’s been so nice. But. Your eyes catch on the wedding ring.
He puts everything into two bags and thanks the cashier before smiling over at you. “Ready?”
You just nod numbly, walking with him toward the exit. “Thank you,” you say as the two of you are outside. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs. “It’s not a problem,” he says, pausing with you on the sidewalk. “It’s the least I could do.”
You’re not sure what he means by that, and you don’t ask.
“Let me walk you to your car,” he blurts. “It’s dark.”
The parking lot is extremely well-lit, but you let him have this one. There’s no real harm in it. “Sure. I’m over this way.”
You realize that it isn’t as well-lit where you’ve parked, so you’re glad you let him walk you.
You unlock your door with your key and lean over the console to set your groceries in the passenger seat. You straighten up to see Jack still standing there, looking a bit awkward himself.
“Well,” you murmur. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
“Hopefully not in the ER,” he says, dropping his head with a chuckle. “As much as I’m glad I was able to help you, I really don’t want you to be a patient again.”
“You and me both,” you mutter, remembering the bill you have to chip away at. “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.” He gives you a stern look and you roll your eyes. “Jack. Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight,” he smiles, then turns and walks through the cars.
You sigh so heavily that you feel it in your bones, sliding into the driver’s seat, pulling your door closed with you. You tip your head back against the headrest with a stupid, giddy smile that feels ridiculous and floaty.
And then, you turn your keys in the ignition.
Now, ideally, the car will start after a second. Normally, the engine fucking starts. Except this time, all you hear are clicks. The clicks of doom.
“Fuck,” you say out loud because you, unfortunately, know exactly what the clicking means.
The fucking battery is dead. Because of course it is. Because of course you needed one more goddamn thing to happen that will cost money that you don’t have.
You lean forward and rest your forehead on the steering wheel, hitting it just a little too hard, but you’re too tired, stressed, and frankly fed up to even care.
How the hell are you supposed to get home now? You can’t call a towing service because how the hell are you supposed to pay for that? And despite the fact that you know what’s wrong with your car, you have no idea where the nearest car parts store is. Sure, you can Google that, but right now it feels like lifting your head is too much effort.
You try turning the key one more time, just to see if it was a fluke. Clickclickclickclick. Fine.
Then, there’s knocking on your window, and it makes you jolt so hard you nearly slam your head into the top of your car.
You turn your head, heart racing, but it’s just Dr. Abbot. Jack.
You open the door just as Jack is saying, “I heard the battery. I have jumper cables if you want…?”
“Please,” you exhale, not even caring that you sound desperate and that this will be yet another thing you’re indebted to him for.
“Give me a second, I’ll pull my truck around.”
“Thanks.”
He gives you another one of his ‘no need to thank me’ smiles and walks through the cars again. Soon you hear a truck starting, and you realize he parked just a few cars over from you on the other aisle.
You step aside so he can pull into the empty space beside your car. You try (and fail) to not look at him and think about how handsome he looks while he drives.
To keep your eyes under control, you bend down and flick the switch to pop the hood on your car, walking around the front to lift it up.
Jack walks over with the cables, hooking them up despite you reaching for them. “I’ve got it,” he says, not unkindly. “You jumped a car before?”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “My old car was a piece of shit. Even with a brand new battery, it would decide it wanted to be jumped sometimes.”
He whistles as he turns and finishes hooking up the cables. “Damn.”
“Yeah, at least this is the first time this one has needed it,” you reply. “But I haven’t put a new battery in it since I got it like…two years ago, so.”
“Might be time then,” Jack says. “Alright, we’re good. Want to try starting it now?”
“Roger that,” you say, and you’ve got to stop saying that around him. It must be your go-to when you’re flustered, which is just ridiculous. You need a better phrase.
You slip into your driver’s seat and try the key again. It stutters once, but then it starts, and your body sags with relief.
You leave the car running and step out to thank Jack again. He’s looking at your engine with furrowed brows, though, and that’s not what you want.
“No…” You groan. “What’s that face for?”
“One sec,” he says, then heads over to his truck, leaving you there at the hood. You hear rustling and turn to look, but his door and your door are blocking your view.
Next thing you know, he’s leaning into your driver’s seat, saying something about checking some light on the dash.
You have no fucking idea. You don’t remember seeing a light pop up when your car started, but then again, you were just elated that your car allowed itself to be jump-started at all.
Then he’s done, as quickly as can be, shutting his truck door and joining you at the hood.
“You need an oil change,” he says.
“I know,” you roll your eyes. “About a hundred miles ago. I’ll get it done soon.”
You can tell by his face that he definitely doesn’t believe you, but it’s not his problem. You reach over and disconnect the black cable, raising your eyebrows at him so he’ll go disconnect it from his truck. He goes without arguing, and then waits for you to disconnect the red before he disconnects his. He takes the cables from you with what you think looks like an apologetic smile.
“Thank you for the jump,” you say. You don’t want him to feel apologetic, you just…
“It’s no problem, seriously,” he says. He starts looping the cables and loosely knotting them. “Do you need any help with the battery, or…?”
You just give him a wry smile. “I’m a big girl, Dr. Abbot. I can get a new battery for my car.”
“Right, sorry,” he nods, taking a step back. “Goodnight.”
“Night, Jack,” you say, meaning it this time.
He waits until you get in your car and drive away before he even gets in his driver’s seat. You see the little smile on his lips in your rearview mirror.
When you get home, you find a second bag of groceries tucked beside yours on the floor of your passenger seat.
You huff as you take both inside your apartment, setting them on the kitchen counter. You glare at the bag that has eggs, bread, and milk in it as if it disgusts you. Maybe what disgusts you about it is the fact that you aren’t upset about it, not really. You need the food. You just hate that he did so much for you tonight. And that other night in the ER.
You take everything out and shove the eggs and milk in the fridge, tossing the bread into the cabinet. And that’s when you see it, floating down from where it was likely stuck to the bread because of the static electricity.
A receipt. Or the torn-off end of one with some scribbled writing on the back.
Call if you need anything. Or if you just feel like calling. -Jack
You almost snort at the message, but it is sweet. You imagine Jack furiously writing it in his truck before sneaking the groceries over, hands shaking as he writes his name and number.
You put a new contact in your phone -- Jack Abbot (ER Dr) -- but you don’t text him. You’ll save that for another day. Maybe.
+++
By some grace of some higher power, your car starts the next morning -- after a little bit of stuttering. Plus, you were able to figure out the nonsense with your credit card, so you make the drive to get a new battery.
The guy at the autoparts shop takes pity on you (or maybe he’s flirting, but you aren’t interested) and he changes the battery out for you, free of charge. You know how to change it on your own, but since he offered, you let him. Sometimes you just don’t feel like dealing with shit.
You at least have half a tank of gas still, so there’s that. It should last you for a while, as long as you’re careful about getting to and from work. You can walk, it just takes thirty minutes, but it isn’t a bad walk by any means when the weather is nice.
The key phrasing here being when the weather is nice. And you swear, you fucking swear, the weather was supposed to be nice today. There was nothing in the forecast about rain.
But there fucking should’ve been, because here you stand, looking out the front windows of your job -- a small coffee shop that can only give you part-time hours right now -- as it fucking pours.
You can’t even stay in here because the shop is closed now and the security alarm needs to be set. You need to leave before your boss texts you and asks why you haven’t already left.
But you have a long ass walk ahead of you in this shitty weather and you’d rather die. Honestly.
At least it isn’t thundering. Although, maybe being struck by lightning would be nicer.
“Fuck. Me” is the most eloquent thing you can think of as you exit the shop and lock up, waiting to hear the alarm beep three times over the sound of the rain. You hate when it stops beeping like it should because that means nothing is wrong which means you have to leave.
You didn’t even wear a jacket with a fucking hood this morning.
After a few more minutes of (foolishly) hoping the rain is going to slow down, you say fuck it and head out, soaked through your clothes within a minute.
You’re going to have to put your fucking phone in rice when you get home, rice that you aren’t even sure if you have, because if you did, you’d eat it.
You make it to a nearby awning of another shop when a thought occurs to you. A very stupid, ridiculous thought.
You grumble as you dig your phone out of your pocket, surprised that it’s even somewhat dry. You find Jack’s contact and open a new text thread.
Hey, you start, and then you realize you should introduce yourself so you give the whole spiel and then, anyway are you at work rn?
His reply comes within seconds. Not yet. Why?
The raindrops on your screen keep causing you to type the wrong thing and then before you know it you’re fucking calling Jack Abbot.
“Fuck!” He picks up far too quickly. “Hi.”
If he heard your expletive, he doesn’t mention it. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you say automatically, and then you grimace. “Well, no, not really--”
“Where are you?”
You rattle off the street name. “I was at work, but we’re closed now, and I didn’t drive today because I’m trying to save gas and I thought the weather would be nice, and now it’s fucking pouring and I’ve walked like, five steps and I’m soaked, and I just--” You take a deep breath, hating the way your voice cracks. “I could really use a ride.”
“I’m on the way,” he says, and you realize that it already sounds like he’s driving. “Are you somewhere dry right now?”
“Yeah, I’m under the florist’s awning,” you sniffle. “Sorry about like, being a nuisance in your life lately, geez.” You add a laugh, hoping he’ll join you, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything, and in that moment you regret calling. You almost think he’s hung up, but you can still hear his truck. His turn signal. His breathing.
So, you stay on the phone, for who the fuck knows why, stewing in your embarrassment, and already planning on how to tell him this will be the last time. And that you’ll even let him block you if that’ll make it…better. Or something.
You finally hang up when you see his truck rounding the corner.
He does a three-point turn so the passenger door is at the curb, and you should not find that as hot as you do.
Next thing you know, he’s leaning over the bench and opening the door for you from inside, waving you in. You jump in, probably slamming the door but you’re too soaked to care.
“Fuck me, I didn’t even think about getting your truck all wet--”
“It’s fine,” Jack says quickly, and a little too short. “Some rain won’t hurt her. Are you cold?”
You don’t know why, but you feel scolded. You sink into the seat and buckle yourself in, shaking your head. “No, I’m fine.” It’s a lie. “Thank you.”
He turns the heat on anyway, then turns all the vents toward you.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He just nods. The truck doesn’t move.
“Oh!” you blurt. “My address. Do you have a GPS--”
“You’re not a nuisance.”
You blink. “What?”
“On the phone,” he says, turning to look at you. “You apologized for being a nuisance, but you’re not one. You don’t need to apologize for calling me when you need something. That’s why I gave you my number.”
“Why?”
His eyebrows furrow. “Why what?”
“Why did you-- Why do you want to help me so much?”
He smiles softly at that. “Because it doesn’t sound like you have a lot of people in your life who help you.”
You’re not sure how to respond to that. Because the problem is that he’s right. You don’t. Not close by, anyway. And you can’t really ask for help because the whole point of you moving out here was to be independent. It won’t look great if you start asking for money if the whole point of moving was to have some space and find your footing on your own.
You stay quiet just a beat too long. Because then Jack adds, “Or maybe I just like you, or something.”
Your eyes snap to his and he’s smiling still, but a bit playful now.
“Or something,” you repeat, a smile tugging at your lips. “Should’ve known you throwing money around was you trying to flirt.”
“You saying it wasn’t working?”
You open your mouth to protest, but you can’t. You turn your gaze away and wave your hand at him. “Just drive.”
He chuckles, “Yes ma’am.” He puts the truck in gear and starts moving. “I do need your address, though.”
You tell him your apartment complex, again asking, “Do you want me to put it in Maps?”
He scoffs. “Maps. I know my way around.”
You don’t know why, but you find that hot. Really hot.
But your traitorous eyes glance back at his left hand, and the wedding band is still there. It makes something heavy settle in your stomach, and you unconsciously shift closer to the door.
You’re not sure if the air shifts in the cab of his truck, but it sure feels like it.
The ride is silent except for the rain as Jack takes all the correct turns, knowing exactly where to go without you pointing or anything. When he pulls into the complex, you direct him over to your building, and he pulls up as close as he can to the doors.
“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him with a probably too obviously forced smile. “See you.”
Jack opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but you can’t hear him over the rain, and then you slam his truck door closed. On accident. It’s just raining really hard and you don’t want to get his truck wet any more than you already have. That’s all.
It’s definitely not because you’re mad at him for not mentioning the ring and not because you’re mad at yourself for not bringing it up and for forgetting it was even there.
You stomp up the stairs and into your apartment, glancing out the window once you’re inside, and feeling another wave of anger at yourself when you realize you’re disappointed that his truck is already gone.
What the hell are you doing?
+++
Jack doesn’t hear from you for a week. He tries not to feel anything about it.
But he’s feeling everything about it. Obviously.
“Rough night?” Robby asks, backpack still slung over his shoulder, mistaking Jack’s faraway stare for something else. The confusion is clear on the dayshift doctor’s face. The board is tidy, chairs is mostly empty, only a couple beds line the walls out here.
And Jack looks haunted. He knows he does. “Nope,” he says, forcing a tight smile and pushing off the nurse’s hub. “You’re welcome for cleaning up your mess from yesterday.”
Robby barks out a laugh at that. “You’re welcome for giving you something to do.”
Jack scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Looks away and thinks about you again.
Robby, who is way too nosy for his own good, catches the shift. “Seriously, are you good?” He pauses. “Is this about her?”
Jack whips his head around so fast he swears he cracks his neck. “Who?”
Robby’s smile is soft. Knowing. “The patient you let sleep in and then ordered an Uber for.”
Jack hasn’t even told Robby about the grocery store, the car battery, or the rainy day car ride. All Robby knows is that day and the Uber, and Jack is obvious from just that alone. He can’t imagine how it’d all sound if Robby knew everything. Jack probably looks like a creep. Objectively.
“It’s nothing,” Jack says, and he doesn’t know what the hell he even means by that.
“Did something else happen?” Robby presses. Too nosy for his own damn good.
“No,” Jack says automatically, which he knows is a mistake.
Robby’s eyebrows lift skyward. “Have you seen her again? Jack, buddy, you’re holding out on me!”
“Nothing has happened!” Jack snaps, not unkindly. And saying it out loud reminds him: nothing has happened. So why does he feel like something is broken again? Like he needs to apologize and fix it? What is there to fix?
“Well you’re acting like a lot has happened,” Robby teases him just a little more. “Or like there’s trouble in paradise.”
It’s barely been a month and a half since your ER trip. There is no paradise for there to be any trouble in.
Still, Jack rubs his forehead. “There’s not. She’s just--” Quiet? But are you quiet? Or is this normal? Jack has no idea. He has no idea why he can’t bring himself to just…call you. Or text.
Dana chooses the perfect time to arrive, catching the way Jack’s anguished voice said she. The dayshift charge nurse comes over with a shit-eating grin. “Girl troubles? You’re better off asking a brick wall if you’re trying to get advice out of this one,” she jabs her thumb in Robby’s direction.
Robby leans over with a smile, getting eye-level with Dana. “And a very good morning to you too.”
“Morning, chipper,” Jack smiles at Dana. “No girl troubles.”
“Liar,” Robby coughs.
“Come on, Dr. Abbot!” Dana cackles. “Tell me your woes, let me see if I can help.”
Jack glances warily at the too-eager Robby, and then back at Dana who seems genuine in wanting to help. He takes a deep breath. “I gave her a ride home a week ago and she hasn’t spoken to me since.”
Dana raises her eyebrows, eyes a little wide. “Ride home from where?”
At the same time, Robby says, “I thought you ordered her an Uber?”
Dana’s eyes go really wide then. “An Uber from where?”
Jack clarifies. “No, the Uber was over a month ago, when she was in the ER. The car ride was a week ago-- remember the day it fucking rained like it was a hurricane? She was working and had walked that day.”
“So she…” Robby shakes his head, trying to puzzle this one out. “She asked you for a ride? How?”
“I gave her my number.”
Robby’s face breaks into a smile. Dana practically screeches, “When!”
“When I…” Jack sighs, lowering his voice. “When I ran into her in the store and then her car battery died so I had to jump her car and then I gave her my number in case she…needed anything else.”
“Oh my god,” Robby whistles. “Jack, you are--”
“Don’t say it,” Jack nearly growls. He never blushes, but right now, he can feel the heat crawling up his neck.
Dana graciously doesn’t mention the blush or how far gone Jack is already. “Okay, so, she has your number from that time, she texts you and asks for a ride home in the rain, you give her a ride, and…?”
“And?” Jack echoes. “What?”
“You tell me, Abbot, you were there!” Dana laughs. “What happened next? Did you go up with her--”
“No!” Jack hurries to clarify that too. “Jeez, Dana, what do you take me for? I dropped her off and then came into work.”
“You didn’t say anything to her.”
“No, we spoke.”
“So what the hell did you say!” Dana laughs louder. “Jesus Christ above, it’s like pulling teeth with you. Don’t laugh, Robinavitch, you’re just as bad.”
Robby’s jaw drops at that, clearly wondering why he’s getting any heat right now.
Jack chuckles and recalls the conversation. Everything he said to you. Everything you said back. It dawns on him slowly. “She was confused about why I was helping her, called herself a nuisance, so I told her to not think about it that way. I’m helping because I want to, and because I…” He sucks in a breath, looks away. “Because I like her, or something.”
Dana’s grin only widens at his admission. She gazes up at him like a proud mother. He can tell even though he won’t look at her. “What did she say?”
Jack smiles. “That she should’ve known I was flirting.”
“And?”
“And…I don’t know.” Jack crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I drove to her place, and she was watching me, but she just…got quiet at one point.”
Dana hums for a moment. Glances down at his hands. She narrows her eyes when she looks back up at him. “Jack.”
He finally looks her in the eyes again. “Yeah.”
“Were you wearing your ring?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “I always wear it.” Dana knows this. He doesn’t understand what this has to do with anyth-- “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” Dana laughs, shaking her head at him. “You’re welcome for the revelation. Next time disclose the wife before flirting with another woman. Poor girl has probably been sitting at home kicking herself for this all week.”
“Shit,” Jack says again, as if it has more meaning this second time around. In a way, it does, because he doesn’t want you to be beating yourself up over this. Over him being an idiot and not disclosing that he’s a widow who still wears his ring.
Robby claps him on his shoulder. “See you in a few minutes for handover, brother. Then you can call your girl.”
Jack opens his mouth to argue that you’re not his anything, but Robby is already following Dana off to the lockers.
+++
It’s a little after noon. You’re cleaning your apartment for the third time this week when Jack calls. You’re too far in the zone to screen his call, realizing far too late that it’s his voice on the other end.
“Hey,” he sounds a little shocked that you even picked up at all. “Can we talk?”
You nearly hang up. That’s far too serious of a question coming from a man who is married and who you’ve had only a handful of interactions with.
But, because you’re stupid, you say, “Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”
“I do have a wife,” he says.
You’re so caught off guard that you reply, “Good for you?”
“Or…had, I guess.”
Great. So he’s divorced. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse, and it’s hard to tell from his tone. “Okay?” You rub your temple. “Look, Jack, if this is about last--”
“I’m a widow,” he says, and that stops you cold, your eyes widening. He lets out a weak laugh. “Sorry for saying that in the most roundabout way possible.”
“Oh,” you elegantly reply. Then, inelegantly, you add, “Fuck, I mean, sorry. I’m so sorry, Jack, for your loss.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s been years. But that’s why I have a ring.”
“Of course,” you breathe, leaning back against your kitchen counter. “That’s okay. Obviously it’s okay. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
“No, it’s not your fault, and that was a logical conclusion to jump to,” he says honestly. “I just should’ve told you before I said I liked you and was flirting with you.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “Might’ve saved me a freak out.”
You can practically hear his frown. “I’m sorry.”
“Enough of that,” you murmur, waving your hands in your empty apartment. “Thank you for telling me.”
“If it’s not-- If you’re not…I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he breaks off with a soft laugh. “Can I take you to dinner?”
“Absolutely,” you reply. “I’d love that.”
Jack asks if you can do dinner that evening. Thankfully, you’re free, but honestly, you would’ve found a way.
He’s leaning against his truck when you come down from your apartment. He’s in dark jeans today, and a white t-shirt that almost looks a little too tight. You try not to ogle his arms too much, but it’s his fault for crossing them. Does he have any idea how good that makes his biceps look?
“Hey stranger,” you say, which is the worst attempt at flirting you’ve ever heard, but it’s what your brain spits out, so you commit to it. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I didn’t want to wait until you nearly bowled me over by the eggs again,” he teases.
You gasp. “Rude!”
He smiles, walking around to the passenger door to open it for you. He nods into the truck. “Hop in. We have a little drive.”
“Ooh, how mysterious.”
He chuckles as he shuts the door. You watch him as he rounds the truck and he catches your gaze through the windshield. You don’t hide your smile. You watch him even as he gets in the driver’s seat.
“Do I get to know where we’re going for dinner?” you ask, buckling in. “Or is it a surprise?”
“Depends,” he says, turning the key. “Do you like surprises?”
You smile. “I’ll allow this one.”
“Thank you,” he says. As he pulls onto the road, he asks, “How was your day?”
You tell him about the deep-cleaning. “I clean when I’m stressed, so I was in the middle of that when you called actually. I wasn’t planning to pick up.”
If he’s hurt by that, he hides it. Mostly. “Oh.”
“Well, I thought I was on the cusp of an affair,” you joke. “But it’s fine, the stress wasn’t entirely you. Work is cutting hours again, my friend might be moving states, and I’m just--” You cut yourself off with a laugh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says genuinely, turning his head to glance at you. “I asked because I want to know this stuff.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, a similar gnawing feeling in your stomach that isn’t hunger. “How was your day?”
“Good,” he nods. “Little stressful, but the ED always is. Dayshift left a fucking mess for us to clean up.”
You roll your eyes, saying, “Assholes,” automatically, like you know. Like you get it.
Jack just smiles harder. “Yeah, exactly. They’re assholes.”
When he turns to enter the highway, you give him a strange look. “How far are we going?”
“Just a couple towns over,” he explains. “Just faster this way.”
You hum.
“I’m starting to think you don’t like surprises.”
“I said I’d allow this one.”
“Ah,” he laughs. “So you don’t.”
“Not at all,” you admit, sinking into your seat. “But I’m trying to be cool.”
“You are cool,” he says honestly. “You don’t need to try.”
“Okay,” you breathe. And then, helplessly, you cave and ask, “Where are we going?”
He laughs, not at you, and not unkindly. “I’m taking you to this little family run restaurant I love. They make great pizza. The owner is a friend of mine.”
You relax a little, knowing the exact plan, and something warm settles in your chest at the information. A friend of his. A place he loves. And he’s taking you.
His arm has been resting on the console between the two of you this entire time, and it’s only now that you brave the distance and place your hand over his. He looks over at you with the sweetest smile, turning his hand over to press your palms together. You lace your fingers through his. He squeezes your hand, and it’s like all the nerves melt out of your body.
+++
Dinner with Jack becomes a regular thing. Once, sometimes twice a week. He always takes you somewhere new. He always pays. And you always let him.
It’s nice to not have to worry. You hate to admit it, but it is. You don’t have to worry about gas money, or money for the dinners, because when you offered to pay for both one time, he looked at you like you’d just slapped him.
“I’ve got it,” he always says. “Don’t worry about it.”
You try not to.
But he pays for so much. You forgot to delete his card off your Uber app and ordered a ride one day, the charge automatically approved, and then you saw the card number. You freaked out and texted him, apologetically saying you’d pay him back.
Don’t worry about it, he wrote back. Sorry I can’t give you a ride right now.
You rolled your eyes. I know you are not apologizing for being at work.
He took a minute to reply, but when he did, it said, Wouldn’t dream of it. Home safe?
You mentioned still paying off your ER bill, and miraculously, you got a letter from the hospital the next week saying your bill had been paid. You knew without a doubt that it was Jack’s doing, but you also didn’t have any definitive proof, so you didn’t press him about it.
But it lingered in your mind. Another thing you feel like you owe him for.
You mentioned work cutting hours again, leaving you with a poor excuse for part-time and rapidly dwindling savings, and Jack asked if you needed anything. You told him no, you were fine, you were just venting, but clearly it stuck with him.
Because the next time you have dinner, he says, casually, “I made you an authorized user on my credit card.”
You nearly spit out your wine, and then nearly kick him for that because this is a nice place. You’re in a dress and heels, for Christ’s sake. You can’t spit-take wine across the table.
“Why did you do that?” you hiss.
“I didn’t mean to make you snort wine--”
“No, the card!” You lean over the table. “Why am I an authorized user?”
He looks at you incredulously. “So if you need something, you can buy it.”
“You’re insane,” you laugh. “You know that, right?”
He’s smiling a little, but he’s still not following. “I just don’t want you to have to ask.”
“I’m still going to ask,” you say. “If I use the card.”
“You don’t have to,” he concedes, but you can tell he doesn’t like it. “But I want you to. Genuinely.”
You shake your head at him. “God.” Your emotions are thrashing inside your brain and heart like tidal waves. Frustration, annoyance, attraction. Because he’s practically handing you his credit card. You’re ridiculous. You’re setting feminism back by four decades.
“Okay,” he says warily, eyeing you across the table. “We can talk about it later?”
He sounds so unsure of himself, but you nod. “Oh, yeah. We’ll talk about it later.”
Dinner is fine, if a little awkward at times, both your fault and his. The drive back to your place is a little better because you practically wrap yourself around his arm while he drives with the other.
He parks at your apartment and you make no move to get out of the truck. Neither does he.
He clears his throat. “Look, I’m-- I’m sorry if that was too much, earlier. With the credit card. I just don’t want you going without when I have more than enough and I can just share it with you. I hate that your hours are getting cut, and I know rent and food and life isn’t cheap, so I just-- I want you to be taken care of. That’s all.”
You listen to each word, drinking it in, watching his jaw work as he speaks. He’s looking ahead, for once not staring at you with the intensity of a thousand suns. It’s how you know he’s being honest. And vulnerable.
“Jack,” you whisper. “Look at me.”
He finally does, and you see sincerity in them, but you also see fear.
“I’m not mad,” you begin, cupping his face. “I just think it’s a little funny that you’re giving me your credit card before you’ve even kissed me.”
He lets out a laugh that sounds relieved almost. “Well, believe it or not, my plan was to kiss you tonight.”
“Yeah?” you tease. “Sorry I ruined it.”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin it,” he says seriously. He leans a little closer. “But the card hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm,” he nods, eyes flicking down to your lips just as his tongue darts out to wet his own. “So I’m still kissing you before I give it to you.”
“Oh, you are?”
“I am,” he chuckles, one hand sliding up to gently cup the back of your head. “If you shut up and let me.”
“Well, maybe you should--”
He reads your mind. He shuts you up with the kiss, pulling your face to his just as he moves closer, like he’s desperate to close the distance. Weeks of dinners together, of phone calls on the way home from his shift while you’re on your way to yours, of kisses on your cheek and hands. Finally.
“Took you long enough,” you murmur when he pulls away. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that.”
“I was too slow, huh?” he smiles, thumb grazing your cheek.
“I like slow,” you admit quietly. “It’s been really nice.”
“Good,” he whispers, eyes scanning every inch of your face, memorizing. “I really like you, you know?”
“I kinda figured,” you smirk, earning another kiss. When you break away this time, you say, “I really like you, too.”
+++
When Jack’s credit card -- with your name on it -- arrives in the mail the next week, he brings it to you after his shift.
You pull him up to your apartment, calling him crazy the entire way, because he should be asleep right now, not bringing you a damn card.
“The card could’ve waited,” you mutter, taking the envelope from him and putting it on the counter. “You’re probably exhausted.”
“I’m fine,” he smiles through your fussing. “What are you doing awake anyway? Do you work today?”
You grimace. “Ha, no. About that…”
His curses under his breath. “No.”
“Yeah,” you shrug. “Last hired, first fired,” you chuckle despite how fucked it all feels. “I’ve just been trying to wake myself up earlier so I can apply to jobs and shit. But I’m so fucking stressed that it makes it hard to sleep at night, so I’m up super late, and yeah. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Sounds like it,” he murmurs. “You look exhausted.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean,” he pauses, seeing your teasing smile and kisses it. “Do you want to take a nap?”
“I have shit I should do,” you sigh. “You can, if you want. I won’t be loud or anything.”
“No,” he shakes his head at you, rubbing your arms. “You’re napping with me. Doctor’s orders.”
“Fine,” you grumble, but you’ve really put up no protest at all, which is how he knows you’re exhausted.
He follows you over to your bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s been in your apartment, but it is the first time he’ll be in your bed.
You’re still in your pajamas, so you crawl under the covers immediately.
Jack hovers in the doorway for a moment before saying, awkwardly, “Do you have anything I can sleep in?”
You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know, like, do you want me to be wearing clothes, or--”
You laugh so loud it bounces off the walls. “Sorry, oh my God,” you sit up. “Do you want some sweatpants or something?” Then, because he swears you can read his mind, you say, “You can just sleep in your boxers, you know. It’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” you nod. “As long as you’re fine with me taking my shorts off.” You hardly ever sleep with any pants on anyway, usually opting for just a t-shirt and your underwear.
“It’s your bed,” he says. “Also, um…”
You look up at him with raised eyebrows while you tug your shorts down. You drop them onto the floor and lay back down.
“I need to tell you something.”
You sit back up. “Okay.”
It sounds serious because, well, it kind of is. And Jack kind of can’t believe he hasn’t told you this yet, but he never had reason to. He’s always wearing pants around you. He never wears shorts. And it never came up in conversation. So.
“I lost my leg, when I was a combat medic.”
Your expression changes only slightly, from worry to understanding. You knew he was in the military, just not the amputation part. “Okay.”
“Not my entire leg, just below the knee. I have a prosthetic.”
You nod. “Okay.”
“Just so it doesn’t…freak you out or anything.”
You smile softly. “I’m not freaked out.”
“Okay.”
“Do you need anything?”
His eyebrows furrow. “What?”
You just shrug, like this is all normal, standing up so you’re meeting his eyes. “Do you want to take the prosthetic off to sleep? That’d probably be more comfortable. And do you need any painkillers or anything?”
He deflates. “Please, actually. If you have any.”
You kiss his cheek. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”
You disappear back to the kitchen and he stands there in your bedroom, stunned. He’s still standing there when you return, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Ibuprofen in the other.
“You okay?”
He kisses you. He doesn’t know what else to do.
You melt into it, nearly dropping the water and medicine in the process. “What was that for?”
“You’re really great,” he blurts, which isn’t what he wants to say. What he wants to say is I love you, but it’s too soon. Probably.
“Thank you,” you smile. You turn and place the water and pill bottle on your nightstand. “Do you need help or…?”
“No, no, I’m good, I just,” he pauses, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you back in. The words nearly slip out again, but he keeps them in. “Thank you.”
+++
The first time you use his credit card, it’s to buy groceries. You worry about it the entire time, and half expect it to decline when you hold it up to the reader, but it doesn’t. It goes through faster than any of your other cards ever have.
Thank you for the credit card, you text him right after. Got my groceries for a couple weeks.
Thank you for using it, he writes back. Buy yourself something fun please.
You use it to buy yourself a (probably) overpriced coffee and sweet treat a few days later. You send him a picture.
Fun items purchased.
He replies a couple hours later when he’s woken up from his post-shift nap. Good. Do it again.
You roll your eyes at the message, but send a red heart anyway.
A few weeks later, you find a different job at another random cafe, this one inside a big chain bookstore. Still not full time hours, and not at all what you really want to be doing with your life, but it’s something. It means you can pay rent with your paycheck, but then that means you have to put everything else on Jack’s card. Because your paycheck will only cover rent, and just barely.
Jack hears about it. Sorry for using your card for a billion things this week. You had to fill your car up with gas, get the oil changed finally because it started making a weird noise and you freaked out, and some of your food molded faster than expected so you had to go back to the grocery store. All in two days.
He sends ? back. Then adds, It’s your card.
Jack.
I’m serious, he says. Don’t apologize for using it. That’s why I gave it to you.
Yeah but now I owe you. A lot.
He calls you.
“Aren’t you at work?” you say in lieu of a greeting.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quickly. You can hear movement in the background, lots of voices and some beeping. “You understand that, right? I’m not going to ask for any of this money back. I’m not keeping a tab.”
“You’re sure?” You hate how pathetic your voice sounds.
“I’m sure,” he says softly. “Baby, how long have you-- You haven’t been thinking that this whole time, have you?”
Your reply is weak. And quiet. You’re too anxious about this to even realize it’s the first time he’s called you baby. “Maybe. Kind of.”
“No,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I should’ve-- You don’t owe me a penny, okay? No more of that. The card is yours to use, don’t worry about the limit. And don’t you dare try to pay me back.”
“Okay,” you murmur. Don’t worry about the limit. What the fuck is the limit?
“I said don’t worry about it,” Jack replies, and you can practically hear him smiling. “Get some sleep, okay? Why don’t we get breakfast tomorrow, you and me.”
“Okay,” you nod. “Okay. Want me to meet you at the hospital?”
“You can,” he says. “If you’re up for everyone wanting to meet you.”
You chuckle at that, hanging your head. Everyone’s been asking about meeting you, apparently. At least those that didn’t see you that night you first met Jack. “Sure, why not,” you say. “But tell them we won’t be staying long. You need to eat and take a nap.”
“Yes ma’am.”
You kind of love when he says that. “See you in the morning.”
“Sweet dreams, baby.”
+++
Jack doesn’t mention to any of his coworkers that you’re meeting him here after his shift ends. He thought about it, but then another trauma came in, and he didn’t have the time.
He almost forgets that you’re coming, but the second he hears your name leave Lena’s mouth, he remembers. And lights up inside.
“Your girl is in chairs,” she says, her tone veering toward sing-song. “Big plans?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack chuckles as he heads for the doors. “Breakfast.”
He opens the doors and spots you instantly, standing against a wall despite over half the chairs in the room being empty. His gaze softens when he sees you, not exactly looking well-rested, but beautiful. Always beautiful.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches you.
You put your phone away and smile tiredly at him. “Hey,” you murmur. “How’s it going?”
“Better now,” he admits, bringing you in for a kiss. “You can come back and hang out with Lena -- our charge nurse. I’ll be just a little longer with handover.”
“Oh! Sorry I’m early, I can chill here so I won’t be in the way--”
Jack grabs your hand and laces your fingers together. “You’re not in the way. Come on.”
You concede and let him pull you back. He introduces you to Lena who is lovely and says there’s a chair with your name on it.
“Robby just came in, should be out here in a sec,” Lena adds to Jack. “And Dana is probably not far behind.”
You’ve heard about Robby, the dayshift attending and chief of the ED. And also one of Jack’s best friends, despite (it seems) neither of them admitting it in those words.
“Thank you,” Jack says. “And sorry in advance for all the questions they’re going to ask,” he says to you.
“No problem,” you grin. “I’ll just ask for all the embarrassing stories about you.”
“Of course you will,” he sighs. “Right, I need to do some last-minute things, but I’ll be right back, and then hopefully we can get out of here on time, okay?”
“Okay,” you nod, content as can be, which is a good sign, but Jack also knows he’s going to return to you being told stories he does not want anyone to know about -- let alone you.
He drops a kiss to your cheek before he leaves. He covers everything as quickly as he can, and then rushes back, just to find you giggling with Robby and Dana like you’re all old friends. It makes something twist in his chest.
“There he is,” Dana grins like a Cheshire cat when she spots Jack returning. “Why didn’t you tell us she was coming in?”
Jack slides into place beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t know I needed to tell you about my breakfast plans.”
Dana and Robby just share a look.
“Well, it was very nice to finally meet you,” Robby says to you. “I’m going to go put my shit down so you two can get out of here.”
“Awh,” you pout playfully. “But Dana was just telling me about how helpless you both are with romance.”
Robby cackles and shakes his head as he leaves. Dana rounds the counter to start putting her things away and getting ready for the day ahead.
“Lena had to run, but she caught me up to speed,” Dana says. “Don’t forget to sign everyone off before you go.”
Jack nods. “Let me do that right now.”
You watch as he works, and as Dana sets up her station for the day. Robby comes back a few seconds later, drumming his hands on the hub as he gazes up at a screen above your head.
“So, what’s for breakfast?” he asks, cracking a smile when he looks back down at you. “Any place special?”
“Dunno, Jack’s buying,” you tease, nudging your boyfriend’s arm.
Jack’s just happy to hear you making a little joke about it after the anxious texts he got last night. “I made the plans, of course I’m buying.”
“You always pay.”
Robby and Dana share another one of those looks.
“Like an old married couple,” Dana mutters fondly.
“Yup,” Robby nods, still with that shit-eating grin on his face.
“Okay,” Jack straightens up. “Let’s get our shit done so I can leave.”
Handover doesn’t take long. What takes up most of the time is the gentle teasing that Robby and Dana interject here and there. Eventually, it’s all sorted and Jack heads off to the lockers to grab his things, leaving you (reluctantly) with Dana and Robby.
He comes back to find you in tears. Doubled over. Laughing your ass off.
“Did you break her?” Jack asks Robby, but he’s fighting an absurd smile because Robby is also wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Dana looks as smug as can be. “What the hell happened? I was gone for barely a minute!”
You stand up, swaying from the giggles that are still slipping out. “Oh my god. That was good, Dana. Should I tell him?”
“Tell me what?”
Dana just shrugs and gestures with her hand. Tell him if you want.
You round the hub and thread your fingers through Jack’s free hand, wrapping yourself around his arm. You lean close and kiss his cheek. “She said you’re basically my sugar daddy.”
Jack feels a blush heating up his neck almost immediately. “Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving.”
“Have fun, sugar!” Dana calls out, her and Robby’s shoulders shaking with laughter as you and Jack exit through the ambulance bay.
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Jack mutters (lovingly) once the two of you are outside. You took an Uber here (his orders) so the two of you could just take his truck to breakfast and then home.
“They loved me,” you protest, still wrapped tight around his arm, and it’s the best damn feeling he’s ever had. “Dana told me I should come the next time you guys go out.”
Oh God. Jack has avoided those nights for a long time. But maybe with you there, it’d be more bearable.
“Okay,” he says. “Next time there is one, I’ll let you know.”
“You better,” you smile. “Or Dana will have your head.”
+++
The guilt about spending Jack’s money doesn’t go away. It probably never will. But he never once makes you feel bad for it, always insists that you don’t need to worry about the limit (because he knows you won’t come close to it anyway, not with the way you spend and how he can pay off half of it each month), and he all but requires you to make fun purchases with it at least once a week.
It starts with just coffee. Or other fun drinks and food. Until he tells you those are just necessities to fuel your body. He means actual fun things.
So, you amuse him. You get a new pair of shoes because your others have had a hole in them for a while. But you make the mistake of telling him about said hole because then he just labels that as a necessity, too.
You try again with a new blanket. The heating in your apartment has been a little fucked the entire time you’ve lived there, but you think it might actually be going out this time. You, again, make the mistake of telling Jack that. The blanket becomes a necessity, and he comes over to look at your thermostat to see if he can fix it. (He can’t. You file another maintenance report.)
Third time’s the charm, or so you hope, so you start to think outside the box. Something fun. Something just for you. Something different.
It’s almost midnight when you think of something. You and Jack have been texting here and there while he’s at work, but it’s mostly devolved into him asking you why you’re not asleep yet. You tell him you’re busy trying to buy something fun. He leaves you alone.
Until he sees the charge go through on the card.
I’m going to pretend I don’t know what this is, he texts you, with a screenshot of the notification that clearly shows him that you spent nearly two-hundred dollars on lingerie.
Probably in your best interest to forget you saw that, you write back.
Saw what?
You giggle to yourself in your room. Goodnight!
You’re torturing me, he says. And then, Sweet dreams baby.
You didn’t pay for express shipping, but the lingerie arrives at your apartment just two days later. Perfect timing for Jack’s two days off in a row.
The plan was already for him to come to yours after his shift and pick you up so the two of you can spend his little mid-week weekend at his place. You finish packing your bag, lingerie included, just in time for him to buzz your apartment.
You let him up and then pull on your shoes, so you’re ready to go as soon as he knocks. He takes your bag for you and holds your other hand as he walks you down to his truck, none the wiser to what you have packed.
The day is slow and cozy and restful. You shower with him when you get in. The two of you then take a small nap, and you wake up just a little before he does so you can start on lunch. He hears you in the kitchen and comes out with his crutches, only just recently beginning to use them around you.
The two of you lounge on his couch the entire day, tangled up together, dozing off here and there with the TV in the background. You order in for dinner.
And after eating, you head into the bathroom to change into your favorite piece of lingerie that you ordered. Jack’s favorite color -- and coincidentally the one you thought looked best -- with lace in all the right places.
You come back out to the living room to find Jack has cleaned up already. It’s not even 9pm yet, and you’re both ready to go to bed.
But not to sleep. At least, that’s not on your mind.
You find him in the kitchen, setting the coffee pot for the morning.
“Hey soldier,” you murmur, sliding your arms around his waist. “Ready to lay down?”
He sighs, body relaxing against you. “Yeah. Ready to hold you.”
You press a quick kiss to his neck and his breath hitches for only a second.
You help him turn all the lights off as he goes to check that he locked the front door. You meet him in the bathroom to brush your teeth next to one another, all of it very sweet and domestic.
By the time you lay down beside him, you’re fine with just this, with just being held by him in the quiet.
Jack settles and pulls you into him by an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck with a happy little sigh.
His hand slides under your shirt to rest on your stomach, and you bite your lip, suppressing a smile as his fingers find the lace. He freezes.
“What,” he says, voice low, “are you wearing.”
You try to hide your giggle as much as you can, but it slips out a little as you say, “Nothing, let’s go to sleep, you’re really tired.”
His hand slides higher, cupping your lace-covered breast. “I’m wide awake now, baby.” His breath tickles your ear as he kisses behind it. “Now,” he pinches your nipple. “What are you wearing?”
“Nothing,” you reply, still feigning innocence despite the grin on your lips. Thank god you’re not facing him. “Come on, you’re tired.”
Next thing you know, you’re flat on your back with Jack hovering over you. Even in the dim light you can see the hunger in his eyes.
“I’m not tired anymore,” he repeats. “And now I have a problem.” He drops his hips, pressing his half-hard erection to your core, and you gasp.
“Seems like a one-man issue,” you smirk, shrugging innocently. “Don’t know why you’d need me.”
He nearly growls as he leans down to capture your lips. When your hands move to tug on his hair, he promptly pins them above your head.
“Keep them there,” he says against your lips. You nod, still kissing him. He pulls back just a little to say, “Good girl.”
Your chest rises and falls rapidly as Jack kisses down your cheeks, your neck, your chest. He reaches your stomach and pushes the t-shirt-- his t-shirt up until he sees the lace. He hisses through his teeth, looking at you with fire in his eyes.
“Should’ve known you were up to something,” he says absentmindedly, his fingers moving to the waistband of his shorts that you’re wearing. “You never wear shorts to bed.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice how weird I was acting,” you laugh softly. “I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”
He drags the shorts down your body, tossing them to the floor. He presses his lips to your thighs, in awe of how you look.
“Can I move my hands?” you smirk. “Kinda want to take the shirt off.”
He just looks up at you with a smile, crawling up the bed to tug the shirt over your head, too. He tosses it somewhere, leaning back to take you in. His gaze makes you squirm.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His hands roam your body, feeling every inch. “I almost don’t want you to take it off.”
You bite your lip. “I thought you’d say that.”
His eyebrow raise with the realization. One hand travels down to find out what you mean. His eyes close as a moan breaks through his lips, and a gasp falls from yours. The pads of his fingers circle your clit gently before dipping between your folds, just barely teasing inside you.
“Jack,” you gasp, back arching just from the minimal touch.
He removes his fingers instantly, pressing his entire weight on top of you as he claims your mouth. “I’m taking my time with you,” he whispers. His hands pin yours above your head again. “Stay still, yeah?”
“No promises,” you smile, but when he gives you a look, you nod. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll try.”
“That’s my girl.”
Staying still is harder than he thinks it is. It’s near impossible to not arch into his touch, especially with his teasing. You try to sink into the bed instead of up toward him, but it takes all of your effort.
And it’s killing you that he doesn’t want to take the damn lingerie off. You kind of assumed he wouldn’t want to, but feeling his lips and tongue through the lace is torture. You don’t want the barrier, but he’s determined to keep it on.
“Wait,” you gasp when his lips ghost over your nipples. His head raises immediately. “Can you--” You pause, swallowing. “Can you take your shirt off? I want to see you.”
He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Of course.” He tosses his shirt away, but leaves his boxers on. “Better?”
You want the boxers gone too, but you decide not to push your luck. You just nod. “Yeah. Better.”
He resumes his path from earlier, lips hovering over your nipples. He sinks his teeth ever-so-slightly into your breast, just enough to feel you tense underneath him. He soothes it with a kiss.
He does the same to your thighs and hips, so close to where you need him, but never close enough. He’s only just about to hover over your clit when your hips act on their own, thrusting toward his mouth, your clit just barely catching on his nose.
His hands immediately grip your hips to push them back down, tsk’ing with his tongue. “What did I say?”
“I know, I know, stay still,” you whine, still trying to move your hips, trying to find any friction. But your hands have stayed where he asked. “You’re torturing me.”
He soothes his thumbs over your hips, chuckling. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Exactly!” you cry, lifting your head to look at him. “Please fuck me.”
His smile turns into a grin. “So polite.”
“Jack.”
“I want to do something else first,” he says. “But you’ll get your wish, trust me.”
You toss your head back on the pillows dramatically. You feel him moving, but you’re too busy with said dramatics to care.
Until you feel him licking from your entrance to your clit.
“Oh my god,” you moan, your hips trying to thrust upward again, but he’s ready for you, and he holds you in place.
He alternates between teasing your clit and teasing your entrance, never doing much to either to make you reach your climax. It’s only when he settles on just your clit, flicking his tongue in the way he knows you like, that you start to get close at a rapid pace.
“Jack,” you try to warn him in your tone, but he knows.
You half expect him to stop. To not let you have it. That’s why it comes as such a surprise when he goes faster, throwing you over the edge, and he doesn’t stop.
You know you look wild, hips thrashing on the bed as he fights against you and holds you down, continuing to lick and suck you through the orgasm. His tongue dips inside your entrance and you swear you feel a second wave of your climax hit, the sensation making you see stars.
You’re not sure how long it is before he lets up, you just know you’re floating by the time he crawls up your body. His erection presses against your stomach as he kisses you, coaxing you back to earth.
He pulls back just to watch you, the blissful look on your face, and how hard it is for you to open your eyes. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing the skin under your eyes until you finally look at him.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “Doing okay?”
You nod. “More than okay.” And then, because you can’t help yourself, “Are you going to fuck me now?”
He just laughs, capturing your lips again. “Yes, baby, I’ll fuck you now.”
“Thank god,” you breathe. “I’ve been waiting all day.”
He gives you another one of his stern looks, and sometimes you wonder if he knows the looks do nothing to deter your sass. Maybe that’s why he gives you them.
“I’m still taking my time,” he reminds you, lips quirking when he sees the bratty look fall from your face.
You open your mouth for some other retort, but he pins your hands again, earning a gasp instead.
“Stay still,” he says again. “Let me do all the work.”
You want to protest about him doing it too slow, but you keep your mouth shut just this once.
He’s still wearing his damn boxers.
You should’ve known he wouldn’t fuck you immediately. He’s always had this thing. He has to use his fingers first, get you ready for him. Never mind the fact that you’re used to him now, and that you have a vibrator that you use when he’s working. You don’t need him to use his fingers first. But does he listen? No.
Instead, he takes his sweet time. He works one finger into you slowly, then moves to two. He spreads and curls them, huffing out a little laugh when you arch against him. He makes sure to give your clit the friction it needs before adding a third finger. When he does finally add the third, your hands fly from their designated space, clutching his arms on pure instinct.
“It’s okay,” he coos, using his free hand to guide both your wrists back to where they should be. “You’re okay.”
You shake your head against the pillows. “M’close.”
“Then cum,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I can feel you.”
Your eyes open, fixing him with a glare. “I want to feel you.”
“You will,” he promises with a chuckle, kissing you again. “As soon as you cum again for me.”
He curls his fingers at just the right moment, pressing hard on your g-spot before easing up, and doing it again. And again. Over and over, all while grinding his palm into your clit, and he can feel it happening, your walls fluttering, building up and up.
“Come on, doll,” he whispers against your cheek. “You’re right there. Show me how pretty you are.”
You whine against his mouth, your body still fighting it for some reason, but then he starts to kiss your neck. He feels you tense another notch.
“Come on,” he murmurs, hand still working at that same, steady pace. “Need you to cum so I can feel you, please baby. Please, for me.”
That works like a charm, your whole body shuddering with the force of your second orgasm, held together only by Jack’s weight on top of you. He’s kinder this time, riding the waves out only just before he’s slowing to a stop, not wanting to overwhelm you before he can even be inside you. He waits for one last quiver before he gently eases his fingers out of you, covering your face in more kisses.
You’re gasping for air, looking even more relaxed, and pulling him down with both your hands to capture him in a kiss.
His hips unconsciously thrust against you, his clothed erection losing its patience. “Okay, okay,” he mutters. “I need to-- Let me grab a condom--”
“Or,” you pause, lifting your hips again, pressing your clit to his cock. “We could go without.”
He looks at you for a long moment before he mutters, “Fuck,” and kisses you again, immediately coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. “You’re going to kill me,” he keeps muttering. “Are you sure?”
You nod. “I’m sure. I’m very sure.” You’re on birth control and he knows this, but you’ve both wanted to be better safe than sorry.
Right now, you just want to feel him. All of him.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Jack,” you laugh. “Get inside me. Now.”
“Yes ma’am,” he grins, all goofy and lovesick, just the way you like. He kicks his boxers off and just presses the length of him against your folds, both of you groaning at the warmth.
He doesn’t enter you right away. Instead, he does something more obscene, just running the head of his cock through your folds, using the remnants of your orgasms to coat him. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, and you’re ready to pin him down when he does the same to you.
“We’re not rushing this one,” he says, ever so stern, but you can see the cracks starting to form. He keeps your wrists pinned beside your head. “Because if you rush me, I won’t last.”
You try not to smile at that.
Slowly, so slowly, he pushes inside. His head is barely past your folds when he stops, eyes shut, taking a deep breath. Your hips try to rock and his eyes pop open, fixing you with another look.
He pushes just a bit further and you gasp at the stretch -- maybe you aren’t as used to him as you think you are -- head tossing back against the pillows again.
“Breathe, baby,” he soothes, releasing your wrist to hold onto your hips. “Let me in.”
You try to relax, wondering how the hell you’re wound this tight when you’ve already cum twice. You know it makes no sense, but he feels bigger like this somehow. Just him. No condom between you.
“Jack, please,” you whine. “I need you.”
“I’m right here, baby,” he murmurs. “Right here.”
He pushes the rest of the way inside, hips flush with yours, and holds you there, just feeling you. It’s involuntary, the way you clench around him, and you hear his breath catch when you do.
“Be careful,” he chokes out. “You’re trying to milk me.”
“Maybe,” you reply, breathy and light. “I can’t help it. You feel so-- so big.”
“I told you--”
“Just shut up and fuck me.”
He leans over you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. He shifts inside you, rubbing right against your g-spot, and you gasp from the feeling, from the weight of him like this. “What are you forgetting?” He nips at your jaw.
“Please,” you add quickly. “Please-- Fuck!”
He grins against your neck as he starts thrusting steadily. Not hard, but not soft either. He’s only pulling out halfway before pressing back inside, making sure to feel every inch of your walls.
And then he starts talking.
“Can’t believe you bought this,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your ear. “You know how hot it is that you bought this for yourself? With my money?”
“Jack,” you gasp. “I didn’t--”
“I love when you spend my money,” he admits. “I want you to spend all of it-- it’s yours. I’m yours. All yours.”
Your hands move, but he doesn’t stop you. You wrap your arms around him, lifting your hips to change the angle as you wrap your legs around him, too. He groans at the change, thrusting harder.
“God, I love you.” He can’t believe he’s letting it happen now, letting this be the moment that he tells you, but it’s out there now. “I love you so much.”
“Fuck, Jack,” you pull his lips to yours. “I love you too. I’ve been trying so hard not to say it too soon.”
He kisses you gently, slowing his hips to savor the taste of you. “Me too,” he whispers. “But I love you too much to keep it to myself anymore.”
“Me too,” you smile, kissing him again.
He’s lost in the feel of you, starting the same rhythm again, steady and thorough, the way he knows is your favorite. Because he knows everything you need. He’s spent the majority of this last year just memorizing you. All of you.
He knows when your moans reach a certain pitch that you’re close, he knows what it means when your nails start to dig into his shoulders, and he knows what you need to get you over that ledge.
And once he gets you there, he follows right behind, hips stuttering, vision blurring from how good you feel, how good it feels to cum inside you, not into a condom. Your breath hitches in a way he’s never heard before when you feel him empty inside you, and then you groan, locking your heels together, pulling him even deeper.
He’s dizzy with it, his head falling into your neck as his hips lazily thrust as much as he can with how tightly you’re holding him. There’s barely any room to move, but he does, just a little, just riding it out with you.
He stays there, on top of you, hearts racing as one. Your fingers card through his hair gently, scratching his scalp just a little, just to soothe him.
And then you start laughing. He’s confused at first, wondering what the rumbling is, but then he hears your giggles, and he lifts his head, smile fighting its way to his lips.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you say, but you’re still laughing. “I just can’t believe you told me you loved me for the first time while you were inside me.”
His head drops to the pillow beside you with a groan. His reply is muffled. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t be!” you laugh harder, trying to pull him back up. “Jack, I’m not mad. It’s really sweet. I’d been holding back from saying it for a few weeks.”
“Me too,” he says. “But I meant to say it not during sex.”
“Oh well,” you shrug, not a care in the world. “You still can.”
“Oh, I will,” he promises. “I will say it all the time just to make up for this.”
“There’s nothing to make up for,” you assure him. “But I won’t mind hearing it all the time.”
“Good,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “And I meant what else I said, too. I really love it when you spend my money.”
“Does that seriously get you going?” you giggle. “I didn’t realize it was like that.”
“Of course it does,” he groans, feeling erection struggling to go down while he’s still inside you and talking about this. “I love it so much. And I love that you got this.”
“I look hot in it, huh?” you smirk. “It being your favorite color was just a bonus.”
“Thank you,” he says, hands roaming again, tracing the lace details again, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour doing that. “I think we might need another shower.”
“Mm, probably a good idea,” you nod. “Can I ride you?”
He groans again, head falling back into your neck. “If you even let me make it to the bathroom, then yeah. Sure, baby. You can ride me.”
“Then let’s go!” you laugh, trying to shove him off of you. “You’re going to have to help me get out of this. I’m not even sure how I got into it.”
He lifts his head, licking his lips as his eyes scan your body. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mum would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windscreen.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
summary - nightshift!reader is eager to catch a bit of rest before she has to clock in for her double. thing is, jack’s in her way. but he’s just where he wants to be.
warnings - nsfw. mdni. large unspecified age gap. hr violations. fingering. dirty talk. pet names. kid used. baby used. sort of exhibitionism if you squint.
notes - not proof read i just wanna fuck this old man
⋆ ｡ ˚ ౨ৎ ‧ ₊ ˚ .
“you still breathing?”
his arm fell from his face. the harsh white hospital lights made her look like an angel in his bleary vision. jack grumbled and pulled his arms over his head, stretching himself taunt. “oh good i thought you finally croaked,” she quipped.
as he lifted his arms his black tee drew up his stomach. his stomach was defined, but not to an unnatural extent. she wanted to sink her teeth into that bit of pudge around his hips. she caught a glimpse of the silver hair dusted along his abdomen, trailing up his navel and disappearing beneath the black cotton of his shirt. he was impossibly thick. he nearly filled the space of the hospital bed.
“you’d miss me too much,” he groaned. her eyes flew back up to his face. an undeniable heat slowly seeped down her spine and settled in her tummy. he crossed his large arms against his chest. she would happily spend hours kissing every one of the freckles there.
“it’s my nap time, old man,” she smiled, fidgeting with her fingers. the physician scowled, “i’m pulling a double.”
“yeah i know because so am i,” she pulled the railing down on the side of the cot. it snapped with a shrill squeak. he flinched sleepily at the noise.
jack sat up. her knees brushed the edge of the limp mattress. “you’re not getting my bed,” he insisted, pink knuckle roughly rubbing at his eye.
it was childish. but it worked like a charm. she puffed out her cheeks and pouted, “do you hate me?”
“what?” jack laughed. the crows feet at the edge of his eyes deepened. that smile. prodding against his cheeks like her personal vice. he shook his head, running a broad hand through his hair. he suddenly looked much more awake.
she shrugged helplessly, “you want me to go sleep in my freezing car in the snow,” she whined. jack stared at for a moment, just grinning. it was like she put him on pause and the gears in his head were working double time to keep him from doing something. what that something was, she wasn’t sure.
he huffed, “okay. c’mon.” he sat up a bit in an attempt to make space for her but his thighs nearly filled the entirety of the seat of the bed. her heart pattered a bit in her throat. an invitation to be as close as professionally possible. or maybe they were breaking a few rules. she grinned and leaned in, “you wanna cuddle?”
jack scoffed, “go sleep in your car.” she shook her head, “scoot over, asshole,” she giggled.
he listened. he pressed himself against the opposite rail, but there still wasn’t much room for her. she sat down and pulled her legs to her chest, reaching down and pulling up the rail. he was turned on his side, arms still crossed, legs crowding her own.
“you look real comfortable,” he muttered. when she looked to him his eyes were flitting about her face. he was so close. he had been this close before - leaning over her shoulder or whispering a dirty joke in her ear - but he had never looked at her like that. she teased, “oh so you do wanna cuddle?” her voice came out an octave too high. she bit her lip.
jack gently tapped her folded leg. “relax,” he whispered, tone husky and low, “i don’t bite.” her stomach was flipping with nerves. he had that catlike smirk on his lips and for once she couldn’t read his mind. he was so warm. so close. it made her brain fuzzy.
she sighed shakily. he licked his lips. she sunk into the bed, shifting awkwardly to ease the aching of her overworked joints. she turned her back towards him and her legs mirrored the curl of his own. she placed an arm under her head. she could feel the material of his scrub bottoms brushing against her ass. if she just backed up-
“you smell good,” he muttered. she looked over her shoulder to him with a knotted brow. it was like he was trying to kill her.
jack frowned, “what? go to sleep.”
“you’re cruel,” she huffed as she shimmied her shoulders to reposition her head. he laughed suddenly, “what did i do? i’m sharing my bed with you -“ his lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “you should be grateful.”
she turned her head a bit. the warmth of his breath tickled her cheek. his eyes had a bit of brown in them. “see. you’re mean,” but she was smiling because there was a wetness flooding the space between her thighs.
jack’s head reared back a bit. his brows ticked and eyes narrowed. he was offended by her disobedience. “c’mon, say thank you, doctor abbot.”
her heart dropped. she chuckled dryly, “shut up,” and turned her gaze back toward the wall.
jack grabbed her by the jaw, fingers digging in to her plump cheeks and forcing her lips to pucker. her eyes widened and heat flooded over her body. he made her look at him. half his body weight rested on her side. blazing like a sun. something snapped in her. it wasn’t a joke.
he looked scorned or maybe aroused. she couldn’t tell what lived behind his cheshire grin. “be a good girl. say thank you, jack, for being so kind to me.”
her cunt was throbbing now. “th - thank you, jack,” she managed to choke out. his grip tightened. jack shook his head lightly, “no, no. i know you’re a good listener. that’s not what i said.”
“thank you for being so - so kind to me, jack,” she mumbled. he smiled once more, nodding, “good girl. so smart.” his hand fell from her jaw to her throat. his calloused fingers slowly ghosted over the column of her neck before trailing down between her breasts, then over her stomach, and sliding beneath the waistband of her scrubs. his hand froze there. hot and oddly heavy against her abdomen.
“you want this?” he whispered. she nearly laughed. like she hadn’t shown him just how much she wanted him the past few months of their working relationship. she nodded enthusiastically, lip caught between her teeth.
the older man straightened up a bit. he slinked his other arm around her shoulders and she followed his lead - scooting up the bed flat on her back to make her body more accessible to him.
head resting against his bicep, she looked at him through her eyelashes. though his eyes were on her’s his gaze was heady and his mouth was just slightly agape in focus. the flat of his palm slid down her abdomen and cupped her mound. she whimpered, “jack.”
she was practically dripping. his fingers prodded at the patch of slick seeping through her panties. “fuck. you’re so wet,” he groaned. jack pressed his forehead against her temple, lashes fluttering against her skin as he closed them in ecstasy. he pressed one big, fat finger between her clothed folds. his fingertip began to ever so slightly dip in and out of her wet cunt.
she was whining, rolling her hips against his big hand. he pressed a chaste peck into the apple of her cheek. “d’you know how long i’ve wanted to get my hands on you? hm?” she screwed her eyes shut, holding back a squeal.
the calloused pads of his fingers dragged along her skin as he pushed her panties to the side. the heel of his palm pressed into her clit. two fingers swirled around her entrance then up and down her sensitive folds, collecting her arousal and using it as lubricant to play with her sex. “little pussy’s so wet and puffy,” he was all gravelly. “feel like velvet, pretty girl. s’this pussy just as pretty as you?”
she hummed. her mind was static. stuffed full of jack. jack’s musky cologne. jack’s breath against her. jack’s big bicep curling against her side. the outline of jack’s big hand completely, impossibly covering her lap through her bottoms. the freckles on his skin. the weight of his body against her.
“i could play with your cunt forever. but that would be mean, huh?” his voice dripped with faux sympathy. his touch stalled against her slick hole. she held her breath. “‘m not that mean. no,” he cooed. she could feel a bit of spittle on his lips. he was drooling. “‘ll fuck you with my fingers. how about that, kid?”
he was gross and perverted and decades her senior and she moaned like a whore, hips jutting instinctually. jack hummed against her hair. he pressed a wet kiss against her head and whispered a yeah before he slipped his finger in.
the digit curled against her gummy walls over and over. just one but it made her cunt ache. she was whimpering, panting, and he was shushing her.
“sh, sh, sh, babygirl. someone’ll hear.”
she opened her mouth to argue but euphoria scrambled her brains, “but i - feels g - s’good, jack. good, jack.” her words were airy. it made him laugh. he pressed his cheek against her and watched his hand as he slipped in another finger. she gasped at the stretch.
“i know, baby,” he cooed. lust was knotting a tight band in her tummy. the meaty heel of his palm was grazing her clit in tandem with the rhythmic thrusts of his wrist and curls of his knuckles. she was edging on release in such little time and jack knew. and he was losing his mind.
jack’s fat bulge was pressed against her hip. he ached with need. all that blood in his cock made him lightheaded.
she turned her head to him, watery eyes meeting his glassy ones. “jack m’gonna cum if - if -“ she cut herself off with a small moan. he was moving faster, brushing against that perfect spot in her pussy with his perfect fingers.
“want you to cum. make a mess on my hand, baby. i’ll clean it up, c’mon. jack’ll clean it up for you, baby.” his perverse encouragement had her on the edge.
then he pressed his lips to hers and everything felt hot. his tongue swiped against her own lazily. her hips stuttered and a sweet rhapsody of release trickled through her body. they moaned into each other’s mouths, jack lightly humping her leg, soiling the layers between them with ropes of sticky cum.
she rode his hand through her high. their lips finally parted with a wet tch. for a moment they passed back and forth the same hot breath. jack finally pulled out of her ruined pants.
he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked on the two digits. his eyes fluttered shut. he moaned like a teenage boy. she lightly giggled, still trying to catch her breath. jack pulled them out and pressed them to her smiling lips. she opened to taste the mix of his spit and her cum on his fingertips.
his hand fell to her chest and his head into the crook of her neck.“think we’ve still got time for a nap?”
Robby x F!Reader
MDNI 18+
wc:3.5k
summary: After shift, you expect to go home. Instead, Robby sends you a dropped pin inside the hospital with two words: come find me. What starts as confusion turns into something very uncharacteristic for Michael Robinavitch, broken rules, stolen moments in an empty wing, and a reminder that even the most disciplined doctor has limits when it comes to the woman he loves. Off the clock. Behind closed doors. Completely worth it.
c/w: smut, shameless smut, hospital quickie, dirty talk fingering, oral-fem receiving, piv sex.
The locker room is quieter than usual when you step inside, the rush of handoffs finally over and the Pitt settling into that brief, fragile lull before the next wave hits. Your brain is still half in it, replaying labs and consult notes while your hands move on autopilot. Twelve hours of organized chaos does not shut off just because the clock says you are done.
You strip out of your scrub top and trade it for a soft T shirt and jeans, rolling your shoulders to work out the ache that has settled there. You and Robby finished sign out together not twenty minutes ago, walking out of the trauma bay side by side like you always do. He had squeezed your hand and told you to meet him at the car. As far as you knew, you were both done for the day.
Your phone buzzes against the bench.
You expect something simple and familiar. A where are you. A hurry up. Maybe a joke about you taking forever to change.
Instead, it is a dropped pin.
You blink at it. The location is still inside the hospital.
Specifically, one of the older wings that is technically still in use but rarely visited unless you have a reason.
You type back immediately.
What is this?
The typing bubble appears almost at once. Disappears. Comes back.
Come find me.
You stare at the message, lips pressing together despite yourself. He is many things, but vague is not one of them. If he needs something, he says it. If he wants you, he usually says that too, in a tone that leaves very little room for interpretation.
You try again.
Are you okay?
A pause.
Then: Just come find me.
Your pulse shifts, not panic exactly, but something warmer, heavier. You were just with him. Nothing felt off. And yet he doubled back into the building without saying a word.
You shove your bag back in your locker, abandoning the plan to head straight home. Whatever this is, it is intentional. And if your boyfriend is sending you cryptic pins from inside the hospital after shift, you are absolutely going to find out why.
The older wing is quiet in a way the Pitt rarely is. The lights are dimmer here, the hallway long and mostly empty, patient rooms dark except for the occasional soft glow from a monitor. Your footsteps echo as you follow the pin on your screen, glancing into open doorways, half expecting him to be leaning casually against a counter with that infuriatingly calm expression he wears when he knows something you do not.
“Robby?” you call softly, not wanting to carry your voice too far.
You take a few more steps, squinting at the room numbers, when a hand suddenly catches your wrist.
You barely have time to gasp before you are tugged sideways into a room, the door clicking shut behind you with quiet finality.
“Jesus, Rob—”
The words die in your throat.
He is already crowding you, guiding you back until your shoulders brush the wall. His palms plant on either side of your head, bracing against the paint, effectively boxing you in. There is nowhere to go, not that you are trying very hard to escape.
His chest rises and falls once, heavy, like he has been holding something in.
Then he bends.
His nose drags slowly up the column of your neck, inhaling like he is committing you to memory. The sound that leaves him is low and rough, something between a groan and a growl, vibrating against your skin. It sends a sharp, electric shiver down your spine.
“Robby,” you breathe, hands instinctively landing on his sides.
He doesn’t answer. His mouth replaces his nose, warm and insistent as he presses open mouthed kisses along your neck, just below your ear, then lower. His stubble scrapes lightly against your skin. It’s deliberate. Unhurried. Possessive in a way that makes your knees feel suspiciously weak.
You are completely thrown.
“Uh, Robs, what’s going on?” you ask softly, even as your head tips to the side to give him better access, because you are only human and, after all this time, still painfully weak for Michael Robinavitch.
His mouth does not leave your skin.
“Apartment’s too far away, baby,” he murmurs against your throat, voice rough and low, the vibration of it sinking straight into you. His lips move as he speaks, brushing, pressing, not stopping for even a second. “I need you right now. Needed you all day, actually.”
You go completely still.
It is not the words themselves that stun you. It is where you are.
Michael Robinavitch does not fool around at work. Not ever. Not even a little. You have thrown Grey’s Anatomy in his face more than once, usually with a pointed look and a suggestion that on-call rooms exist for a reason. Every single time, he has met you with that steady, unshakable expression and a firm reminder that it is a television show, not a real hospital.
He has never wavered.
And now he is pinning you against a wall in an unused wing, breathing you in like he has been starving.
“Robby…” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
He exhales against your pulse point, hands flexing slightly against the wall beside your head. “You have no idea how hard it was all day,” he mutters, almost frustrated, like he is confessing something he should have said hours ago. “Watching you work. Listening to you. Every time you touched me, I nearly lost it.”
Your brain struggles to catch up with your body’s reaction. Heat floods low and heavy, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without conscious permission.
“You’re the one who said we don’t do this here,” you remind him softly, though there is no real resistance in it.
“I know,” he says, mouth dragging slowly along the curve of your neck again. “I know. But I’m done being reasonable for the day.”
That might be the most shocking part of all.
You stare at him for another second, trying to reconcile this version of Michael Robinavitch with the man who once lectured you for a full five minutes about “professional boundaries” because you kissed him in an empty stairwell.
He is still kissing your neck.
Still crowding you.
Still very much not being reasonable.
A slow, wicked little smile pulls at your mouth.
“Well,” you say lightly, even as your hands slide up his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, “this is interesting.”
He pauses just enough to glance up at you, hazel eyes darker than they were a minute ago. “Interesting?”
“Mm.” You tilt your head back against the wall, studying him like he is the anomaly here. “Because if I remember correctly, Dr. Robinavitch, hospitals are for medicine. Not… this.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” you ask sweetly.
“Quote me at me.”
You bite back a grin. “That’s a television show, not a real hospital,” you mimic under your breath.
His eyes flash, a warning wrapped in heat. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Just a little,” you admit. “I mean, you have been very firm about not fooling around at work. Very serious. Very principled.” Your fingers trail down his abdomen slowly, deliberately. “I was starting to think you didn’t have it in you.”
The reaction is immediate. His hands leave the wall long enough to grab your hips, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how wrong that last statement was.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and edged. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“Am I?” you whisper back, lashes lowering just enough to be provocative. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like I finally found the one place you can’t resist me.”
His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You think this is about resisting you?” he asks quietly.
You shrug as best you can while pinned between him and the wall. “You’re the one who said you needed me all day. Sounds like a self control issue.”
A rough sound leaves him, half laugh, half warning.
“You have no idea,” he says, leaning in until his mouth is just barely brushing yours, not quite kissing you. “How much I’ve been exercising self control.”
You hum softly, fingers sliding into his hair. “Prove it.”
His eyes darken at that, something sharp and intent settling there. For a second he just looks at you, like he’s deciding how far he’s willing to go.
“Prove it?” he repeats quietly.
You nod once, barely, your fingers still threaded in his hair. “You’re the one who dragged me into a room, Robs. I’m just trying to understand the sudden personality shift.”
A slow breath leaves him, controlled but strained. His hand slides from your hip to your lower back, fingers splaying there as he presses you more firmly against him.
“You think I don’t have it in me,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth along your jaw instead of claiming your lips. “You think I’ve been immune to you walking around in those scrubs all day.”
“I did not say immune,” you counter softly, though your pulse is racing now. “I said you’ve been very disciplined.”
His lips twitch, but there’s no real humor in it. Just heat. “Fuck discipline.”
The words land like a spark on kindling. You blink. Robby: methodical, disciplined Robby, doesn’t swear like that. Not unless he’s already halfway to losing it. And the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the last drink of water in a desert… yeah. He’s gone.
You tilt your head, playing at innocence even as your body reacts, nipples tightening under your shirt, heat pooling between your thighs. “You’ve turned me down plenty of times when I’ve suggested the on-call room. Since when do you break your own rules?”
“Since you,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear. “Since you walked out of the bedroom this morning in those fucking scrubs that hug your ass like a second skin. Since you bent over to grab your bag and I nearly came in my pants like a goddamn teenager.” His other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to force your gaze to his. “Baby, I’ve spent months telling myself no. Not here. Not at work. But you’re a fucking drug, and today… Well today I’m done pretending I can resist.”
A laugh bubbles up in your throat, breathless and disbelieving. “So this is my fault?”
“Damn right it is.” His mouth crashes onto yours before you can retort, his kiss all teeth and tongue, desperate and filthy. You moan into it, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in through the thin fabric of his scrubs. He tastes like black coffee and something darker, something feral, and when his tongue sweeps against yours, you melt into him, your body already aching, already his.
His hands are everywhere; gripping your waist, sliding down to cup your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. Then they’re at your jeans, fumbling with the button, the zipper, his fingers rough with urgency. You break the kiss just long enough to suck in a breath, but before you can tease him again, he’s shoving your jeans down your thighs, taking your panties with them in one sharp tug. The cool air of the abandoned wing hits your bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Robby’s gaze as he drops to his knees in front of you.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just beneath your ass. “Look at you. Already wet for me.” His fingers glide through your folds, parting you, and you whimper, your hips jerking forward involuntarily. “My girl… always so ready for me.”
You should protest. You should tell him to slow down, to at least let you catch your breath. But the words die in your throat when he leans in, his breath ghosting over your soaked lips before his tongue drags up your slit, slow and deliberate. Your knees nearly buckle. “Robby! fuck…”
“Shh.” His voice is a dark chuckle against your skin. “You’re gonna have to be quiet, baby. Wouldn’t want anyone hearing how badly you need my cock, would we?”
You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, but it does nothing to stifle the moan that tears out of you when his mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, grinding against his face like the desperate slut he always seems to turn you into. He groans, the vibration making your toes curl, and then his fingers are inside you, two of them, curling up to hit that spot that makes your vision white out.
“You’re dripping,” he murmurs against your thigh, pumping his fingers in and out, his beard scraping deliciously against your inner thighs. “Have you been thinking about this all day, baby? About my cock stretching this tight little pussy open?” Another sharp thrust of his fingers, and you cry out, your free hand slapping over your mouth to muffle the sound.
“Yes, yes,” You’re babbling, your hips rolling in time with his fingers, chasing the orgasm that’s coiling tight in your belly. “Please, Robby, I need…”
“I know what you need, honey.” He stands abruptly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark with lust. Before you can process the loss of his touch, he’s lifting you, his hands under your ass, and pinning you against the wall. The cold press of the tiles against your bare back does nothing to cool the fire burning through you. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer.
His mouth is on yours again, his kiss bruising, his tongue claiming you like he owns you. And right now, he does. You can feel the hard ridge of his cock through his scrubs, pressing against your bare pussy, the friction maddening. You rock against him, needing more, needing everything.
“Patience,” he murmurs against your lips, but his voice is strained, his control fraying. His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up, and then he’s tugging your bra down, freeing your breasts. The cool air hits your nipples, making them pebble even harder, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his mouth when he latches onto one, sucking hard.
“Oh god!” Your head falls back against the wall with a thud, your fingers tangling in his hair again, holding him to you. He switches to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud before soothing it with his tongue. You’re a mess of need, your pussy clenching around nothing, your thighs trembling where they’re locked around him.
“Robby, please.” You’re begging now, and you don’t even care. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He groans, the sound vibrating against your skin, and then he’s reaching between you, fumbling with his scrubs, and then his cock is free, thick and heavy in his hand. You barely have time to register the sight of him, veiny, flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum, before he’s lining himself up, the broad head pressing against your entrance.
“You sure?” His voice is a rough growl, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in sharp pants.
You don’t hesitate. “Do it.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
In one sharp thrust, he’s inside you, stretching you open, filling you so completely you see stars. You cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he buries his face in your neck, his teeth sinking into the tender skin just below your ear. “Fuck, always so tight for me.” His voice is a guttural groan, his hips already snapping forward, driving into you with a rhythm that’s anything but gentle.
You cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him. He’s always been big, but like this; pinned against a wall, his cock hitting depths you didn’t know you had, it’s overwhelming. In the best possible way.
“More,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper. “Harder, Robby, fuck me.”
He groans, his grip on your hips tightening bruisingly as he pulls back and slams into you again, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin on skin fills the abandoned hallway, obscene and perfect, and you can feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter with every punishing stroke.
He starts to rut into you, hard and deep, each thrust deliberate and unforgiving. The wall presses cool against your back while his body pins you in place, the impact of him driving into you knocking the breath from your lungs in broken little pulls. You try to rock against him, to meet him halfway, but his grip is iron at your hips, fingers digging in just enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. You barely move at all. He controls the pace, the angle, the depth, every snap of his hips measured and claiming. He is in charge right now, utterly and completely, and the surrender of it makes heat curl low in your stomach as you let him take what he needs.
“That’s it,” he growls, his lips finding yours again, his kiss just as brutal as his fucking. “Take my cock, baby. Take all of it.” His hips piston against you, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You’re so close, so fucking close.
“Robby, I’m gonna…”
“Come for me.” His voice is a command, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip as his thumb finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure. “Now, fucking now.”
Your orgasm hits you so suddenly, your body locking up as pleasure tears through you, your pussy clenching around his cock so hard you see stars. You cry out, the sound torn from your throat, your nails raking down his back as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you. Robby groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own release barreling toward him.
“Fuck, fuck,” His voice is a broken growl, his cock swelling inside you as he buries himself to the hilt, his cum spilling into you in hot, thick pulses. You can feel it, feel him filling you, and the sensation sends another aftershock of pleasure rippling through you, your inner walls milking him for every last drop.
He collapses against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Jesus Christ,” he pants, his cock still twitching inside you.
You laugh breathlessly, your body still humming with the aftermath of your orgasm, your pussy throbbing around him. “Worth it?”
He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and satisfied, a smirk playing at his lips. “Every fucking second.”
He stays there for a second longer, forehead resting against yours, breath still uneven. Then reality starts to settle back in. The hum of the hospital.
Robby exhales slowly and carefully pulls back, his hands sliding to your hips as he lowers you back down to the floor. The shift is subtle but unmistakable. The urgency drains from his expression, replaced by something softer, more grounded. The familiar man you know so well.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.
You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. I’m good.”
He studies you for another second like he is double checking, then bends to retrieve your panties from where they ended up. He helps you step into them without a word, steadying you with one hand at your waist. There is nothing rushed about him now. He smooths the fabric up your thighs, adjusts it gently, then reaches for your jeans.
You brace a hand on his shoulder as you step into them, and he guides them up your legs, fingers careful, almost reverent. Once they are buttoned, he tugs your shirt back into place and straightens it like he is resetting the world.
The contrast makes you smile.
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips, nothing heated, just warm and lingering. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your mouth. “For indulging me.”
You laugh softly, cupping his jaw. “Anytime, baby.”
That earns you a faint, embarrassed huff and a shake of his head, but his hand finds yours immediately.
He checks the hallway through the narrow window in the door before opening it, instinctively protective as always. The older wing is still quiet. No footsteps. No voices.
Together, you slip back into the corridor, fingers laced, walking side by side toward the locker room like nothing at all happened. If anyone passes you, they will see two doctors heading out after shift, tired and composed.
Only the small, secret smile tugging at Robby’s mouth gives anything away.
You grab your bags from the lockers, exchange one last knowing look, and head for the exit together.
The apartment might not have been close enough earlier.
Now, though, it is exactly where you both want to be.
Kinda need robby to manhandle me around the ER by the back of my neck…
GOD stopping you mid stride with a solid grab, like you're just a puppy being carried around by the scruff, his little "ah, ah, where do you think you're going?" or a "nuh uh- need you with me" theres something almost tyrannical about the way he does it and then smiles about it too, he leads you away and you don't even question it, you just let yourself be moved around like a doll until he's happy with your position and even then if he passes behind you or so much as finds you even slightly in his way? hes gonna put his hands on your shoulders, arms or waist and do what he pleases knowing you wont protest because you want to be good for him, he knows you crave his validation that bad so hes getting evil about it 🤭
Summary- Michael overhears you complaining about your love life. All he wants is to help.
Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI, fingering (f receiving) oral (f receiving), age gap relationship, attending x nurse relationship, hooking up at work greys anatomy style, public(ish?) sex (foreplay on da rooooof), crazy sexual tension, Robby with a 'sir' kink let's gooo
A/N- so it turns out i have need to fuck that old man disease and it’s incurable | divider from @uzmacchiato | very briefly proofread as always <3
The fluorescent hum of the ER lights beat down on linoleum tile. Your head pounds, hour seven of twelve of your shift settling in with its typical symptoms- headaches, exhaustion, feet pain. The harsh glide of something canned slides its way over to you, and you look up to see Santos, offering one of the Alanis you keep stored in the staff fridge.
"Drink up, you still got a long shift ahead," she remarks, eyebrows quirking.
Relief washes over you, your eyes falling closed in gratitude as you crack the can open. The tangy, fizzy liquid slides down your throat, the caffeine flooding your veins, electrifying you from the inside out.
"Thank you," you mutter, rubbing your eyes. "I was up late, another horrible date," you admit this shamefully, your coworker knowing full well how long you've struggled with dating.
"Oh shit," you hear another voice approach from your left, Javadi resting her elbows on the desk you and Santos occupy.
"Yeah," you grumble, downing another sip like it's a shot. You wish it was. "Just another asshole wanting to get in my pants, only for him to care just about himself when I so stupidly let him."
You roll your eyes at yourself, your need for validation, any sort of affection taking over and picking these clowns against your better judgement.
"Classic," Javadi says, her own eyes rolling back, knowing all too well what you've been going through.
You've been able to bond with the newer staff in the past year over this, the trials and tribulations of your love lives. Whitaker joins in too sometimes, albeit against his will.
"You could always follow my lead," Santos suggests sarcastically. "Y'know, hook up with someone you work with in secret."
You stifle a chuckle, tipping your can back to your lips. You shake your head incredulously. "I can't believe those are my only options," you groan, your forehead falling to your hands.
"I just feel like there's nobody for me, you know?" You ponder aloud. "Like, if this is all that's out there, then I don't even know if it's even worth it? Ugh, that sounds so stupid and melodramatic," you massage your temples with your fingers, embarrassed by your out-flux of emotion.
"No, it's not," Javadi says in comfort. "I feel the same way sometimes. It's exhausting. These men- sorry, boys- have no idea what they're doing. All they care about is getting their dick wet."
You nod in agreement, another sardonic laugh escaping your lips. "Seriously," you mutter. "I don't even know why I keep trying. I have my vibrator, I might as well just use that for the rest of my life. At least those actually get me to finish."
Your heart stops, regretting your words immediately as you watch Santos' eyes widen, her posture stiff, a telltale sign that one of your superiors is behind you. You can only pray it's someone understanding, like Mohan or McKay.
Of course, you're not so lucky. You turn to find an achingly familiar navy hoodie, paired strong, veiny arms sticking out of the pockets.
Your face burns, your heart beating against your chest as you try to process that your boss, the senior attending partially responsible for your employment, just heard you talk about vibrators and orgasms.
"Sir," you breathe, unsure of what else to say.
His gaze flits to the ground the second yours finds him, and you swear you can make out just a bit of red on the apples of his cheeks.
He clears his throat, a hand coming up to the back of his neck before saying, "I can only assume this is not work related."
The look on his face is pointed, an awkward tension filling the space between you, the girls, and your boss. You shake your head, a pathetic, "sorrysir" spilling out of your mouth.
You watch him adjust on his feet, once again avoiding your gaze. He runs his finger in a circle, referencing the busy ER in which you stand.
"Get back to it," he huffs out, and the three of you scatter like he'd just dropped a bomb.
You flee with Javadi, your arm linking through hers as you keep your heads down, stifling giggles like school children.
"Oh. My. God," you breathe, embarrassment flooding through you like a tsunami.
You part ways when you make it to a turn in the hallway, splitting up to check on your respective patients, eager to run away from whatever just happened.
Hour eight comes and goes, as busy as ever. The only difference, though, is in the way Robby is treating you. Each bark of an order, every harsh correction like tiny needles pricking at the back of your neck.
It starts in triage, where you pop out to spot any incoming traffic. It feels nice, the fresh summer air wafting through the ambulence bay, a welcome contrast to the stuffiness of the ER.
You jump when the door opens behind you, Robby rubbing hand sanitizer into his skin. You avert your gaze, anywhere but the manipulation of his large hands. Santos' words from earlier ring in your head, 'just date someone you work with in secret.'
It feels ridiculous, thoughts of your senior attending ping ponging around your head. You feel dizzy at the consuming thoughts, unwilling to believe that this is where your disastrous dating life has led you- fantasizing about your senior attending while he's standing a foot away from you.
His closeness brings you back to life, the sharp exhale he exudes making you flinch. His eyes widen at your reaction, brows raising like he's waiting on you.
"Well? Did you hear me?" He asks, crossing his veiny forearms over his chest.
You will yourself to look away, your heart picking up speed at the flex of his muscles.
"I'm sorry, what was it?" You ask, your voice flighty and airy.
You fiddle with your hands, desperate to outrun this Molotov cocktail of embarrassment and desire. He's going to kill you by the end of this shift, you're convinced.
"I said," he starts, pointedly, "that you're staying with me for the rest of the day. Word on the street is that Pittsburgh Memorial is at max capacity. Something to do with a pile up on the service drive. So, you're on my team until you clock out," he grumbles into your ear.
His proximity stuns you, the deep growl of his voice crawling down your spine, settling low in your belly. A certain realization dawns on you, then, a chilling reality that settles deep in your bones.
Is this because of what he overheard earlier? Does he feel the need to keep an eye on you, so you don't go off embarrassing the team with your loud mouth? The possibility straightens your posture, tightens your jaw.
"Okay," you mumble, unable to meet his gaze. "We're on the first patient that comes through?"
You work up the courage to actually look at him, your gaze dragging along the scruff of his beard, the tint of gray weaknening your knees. An unsettling frustration rests at the base of your throat, threatening to burst through, to demand he says what's on his mind.
He just nods, though, his eyes trained on the entrance of the bay. Your breath comes out in short puffs, a fuzziness taking over as Robby's forearm grazes yours. The tickle of the hair on his body unzips a chill down your spine, so overpowering you have to close your eyes, to shake yourself out of this feeling.
He sees. You know he does. His gaze is peripheral, catching the way you react to him out of the corner of his eye. Though it's just a glance, it's enough to set your veins on fire, the want to reach out and touch him electrifying.
Silence blankets you, thick and suffocating. You rock on the balls of your feet, he wrings his hands together. You glance over at him again, unable to really keep your eyes off him for long. He doesn't look back, but his cheeks turn pink. You face foward once more, your lips curling into a smile.
The wail of an ambulance slices through the tension wafting through the bay, a wave of relief briefly washing over. You immediately snap into action, assessing the patient rolling in on the stretcher.
Robby is relentless in his questioning, and the world starts to spin around you as you flit from patient to attending, from asking to answering. Regardless of the familiar chaos, your stomach manages to flip at Robby's approval- the validation he gives at each right answer.
It's addictive, the way his brown eyes find yours, the subtle nod of his head. Time stops when he looks at you, you're convinced.
Once the patient is assessed and stabilized, you manage to document the patient's history and current symptoms without interruption.
You turn from the computer, looking over to see Robby, completely engaged with the patient. It's an older woman, a few years more so than Robby, who is putting on the ultimate display of charm. She's eating it up, as they all do.
You can't help but smile at the show, your heart speeding up in your chest. His ability to connect with those that are hurting, in pain, never ceases to amaze you. In moments like these, you remember why it is you decided to stay in emergency medicine. The teaching. The teacher, to be more specific.
A crash from the other side of the hallway pulls your attention away, and you whip your head around to see Langdon's hands full. He maneuvers around a stressed family, trying to care for his patient as best as he possibly can.
Without thinking, you take off to the other side of the room, putting on your best smile as you approach a teary mom, stressed father, and shy little girl.
"Hello!" You chirp, as cheerful as is appropriate when a family is watching their son be assessed in the ER. "I'm going to ask you give Dr. Langdon some space so he can work at the best of his ability. Please follow me and I can show you to our family room."
You start toward the exit, Langdon offering you a nod in thanks as you lead the family away from him. You catch Robby's gaze as you lead the family away, his teeth gritting at your disobedience. His eyes don't leave yours as you walk through the hospital, his cheeks glowing red like the human embodiment of anger.
You lead them through to the family room, your smile never leaving your face.
"Can I get you guys anything? Water, coffee, a snack?" You ask in the doorway. The gaunt father shakes his head, unable to look away from the tiled floors. You know this feeling, seen it many times in this room alone.
You turn to leave, when the mom speaks up, a tiny "uhm" leaving her lips. You stop on your heel, turning to her, your smile still there.
"Would you be willing to take Leah here for a snack?" She asks, referring to her daughter.
Your eyes find the little girl, a bunny stuffie clutched to her chest, a nervous thumb between her lips. Your heart softens at the sight, so you nod gently, offering your hand.
She only takes it when her mom gives her the okay, and she waddles to you dubiously. You take her hand in yours, offering her a soft greeting.
"Hello! It's so nice to meet you, Leah. Want to come see what snacks we have?" You ask, and can't help but giggle at her eager nod. "Okay, let's go, honeybun."
You lead her back into the ER, wavering through the chaos to get to the kitchen. You see Robby again on your way there, his eyes flitting to your new friend as you pass. His jaw does that tick again, though the rest of his face softens at the sight.
Annoyance flashes through his big brown eyes, frustration taking over his features. Your heart starts beating again, a rapid pitter pat against your ribcage. You keep your eyes forward, picking up your pace just slightly, as if you're escaping the flame of his gaze.
You shut the door once you're in the kitchen, and you stand on your tip toes to grab the kids' snacks that are stored in the top shelf. You lay out an array of goodies, from fruit snacks to Goldfish to Teddy Grahams.
Her eyes widen at the selection, the first smile you've seen from her curling her lips. You smile back, and she points at the fruit snacks.
"Good pick," you nod, opening the packet for her. "Here you go!"
She accepts the snack gratefully, munching on the gummy snack as she rests her head on the table. Poor thing, you think. Who knows how long she's been up.
The silence is cut by a tap on the glass window. You startle, causing Leah to sit up abruptly. You see that it's Dana, relaxing just slightly. You walk over to the door and pop your head out.
"Hey, what's up?" You ask.
"I'm takin' over with sweet girl over here. Get back to the boss man, he's not happy with ya," she tells you, and your heart sinks.
"Oh, okay," you open the door wider to let her in. "Hey, Leah," you start, and she looks up, her eyes widening at the new guest. "This is my friend Dana. She's going to be staying with you, okay? She's really nice. You guys will have fun with each other." You smile, turning to exit the kitchen.
"Mmph!" You muffle against cotton as you collide against a broad, rigid chest. "Jesus, Robby," you breathe out, taking a step to the side. Anything to escape the woody smell of his cologne.
He scoffs, the incredulous smile on his face flipping your stomach like a pancake. "Yeah, Jesus," he repeats, annoyance lacing his tone. "Find me in Exam Room 2 in five," he orders before stalking off.
You watch him walk, studying his frame as he saunters through the ER, using his broad shoulders to maneuver the crowd. It's pathetic, the way even his walk causes sweat to prick at your brow, your face heating with nerves. Curiosity pokes at your gut, Exam Room 2? It's a bizarre request from a senior attending, and you can only imagine how much trouble you've gotten yourself in.
You make your way to the exam rooms, your heart pounding louder with every step. You wring your hands together, the sweat accumulating there creating a slippery resistance. You let out a sigh as you reach the second room of the exam hallway, a green light indicating it's free usage.
You turn the knob, cracking it slightly to find Robby, hands on his head, facing the back wall. The door creaks as you push it open, and you clear your throat lightly to announce your presence. You press yourself against the door when it shuts, nerves so palpable you're surprised Robby can't feel it, can't taste it.
"Dr. Robby," you start, voice shaky, knowing he's about to hand you your ass. "I'm sorry I disobeyed your instruction-"
"Damn right you did," he cuts you off, arms crossed over his heaving chest. "You had a direct order to stay with me, so why did I find you with Langdon?" He stalks closer to you, just a step or two, though it feels like more.
"I-I just-" you fumble over your words, that damn cologne wafting through your nose again. "I saw a family, I thought I could help." It's a weak answer, but at least it's honest.
He nods, lips pursing together in thought.
"Guess I can't stay too mad about that," he admits, though his tone is clipped. He runs his palms over his forehead, his glasses pinched between his thumb and pointer finger as he rubs at his eyes.
You're not sure what to say next, treading carefully in the small, tense room. His silence eats at you, each second passing in agony. You watch your boss take deep, heavy breaths, committing the rise and fall of his chest to memory.
God, you wish you could rewind to a time where you weren't completely enthralled with Michael Robinavitch. Not being locked in a confine space with him would be helpful, too.
You shove your hands in your pockets, about to turn and leave when he stops you.
"Wait," he orders. You do as he says.
"I-about what I heard earlier…" he starts, and the breath is stolen from your lungs.
Your jaw drops, white hot embarrassment boiling deep in your stomach. This is what this is all about? Your cheeks burn, and you cover your face with your hands to escape his upending glare. You wish the ground would swallow you whole.
"Dr. Robby, I am so, so sorry about that," you stress, your eyes turning glassy. "It was entirely unprofessional, any patient could have heard me, and we shouldn't have been talking about that on the clock. I sincerely apologize, Sir-"
He cuts off your rambling with a sharp inhale, squeezing his eyes shut, almost as if your words pain him. He holds a hand up, glasses still in his grip. You take a moment, study the way his long, thick digits wrap around the metal.
"You can't- you can't call me that," he breathes out, a sarcastic laugh escaping his lips.
Your brows knit together in confusion, your mouth partially opened, unsure how to respond.
"I'm sorry?" You say, dumbly. It's all you can manage, shock at this new side of your boss taking over.
"You can't call me Sir. Not anymore," he avoids eye contact with you, the vein in his neck bulging.
"I'm sorry, did I do something to offend you, Dr. Robby? I promise I had no intention-"
"No-dammit," he cuts you off again, sweat starting to form at his brow. "Of course you didn't. You're one of my best nurses," he gruffs, almost annoyed at that.
"Thank you?" You respond, and he chuckles. It's a real one this time, a glint in his eye as he takes you in. Your own lips turn up in a smile.
"I just- I know it was a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear. It's just-" he plows five fingers through his hair as he struggles for the words. "All I've been able to think about since then is how I want to- you don't-you deserve so much better than that."
The last few words come out a whisper, and the world stops on its axis. Your mouth fully drops open, shock electrocuting your veins. The past few hours play back as a montage in your brain, his hesitation in the ambulance bay, the need to have you near him, his anger that you went to help Langdon.
Then, another realization dawns on you. A knowing laugh escapes your throat, and you palm your mouth closed. His brow quirks at you, red tinting his cheeks.
"Is that why I can't call you 'Sir'?" You ask, flirtation lacing your tone. "Because you want to help me out so badly?"
He pulls the collar of his sweatshirt away from his neck, fanning himself some as he once again avoids your gaze.
"Fuck!" He exclaims, ten fingers now raking their way through his mussed hair. "I can't- this is ridiculous, you're my nurse. This is entirely inappropriate-"
He rushes to the door, if only you weren't in the way. You stop him, a gentle hand on his forearm. The proximity is lethal, now. He's so close, you can hear his small pants, the tapping of his foot against linoleum.
"I mean, it would be inappropriate, yes," you start, allowing your fingers to graze his skin lightly. He shudders, and your smile is sinful. "If only I wasn't thinking about you all day, too."
His eyes snap to yours at the admission, and you can't help but flit your gaze to his lips. They're slightly chapped, the nippy fall air starting to mark its territory on his skin. They're plump all the same, though, and you wish you could brand the way he licks them onto your skin.
"Robinavitch!" Dana shouts, and you two flinch against each other.
The reality of this situation dawns on both of you, panic now taking place of the tension rumbling between you. Robby presses his fingers to his temples, eyes falling shut for a brief moment.
He pushes you toward the corner of the room, where you'd be hidden once the door opens.
"Stay here," he whispers, and the shoulder where he grips you may as well be on fire. "Give it five minutes. Then go. We can't-I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…" he murmurs under his breath as he swings the door open, his quick gait finding Dana at the end of the hallway.
Silence settles over you like a winter's chill. You roll your shoulders, attempting to shake out any remnants of Michael Robinavitch. You take your hair out of its clip, mussing it lightly to try to at least appear like you've been working.
You take a deep breath in, pushing it out before swinging the door open yourself, finding Robby once again delighting a patient in his special way. Your stomach churns with desire at the sight. Now that you know he wants you, too, all bets are off.
The rest of your shift is a blur, darkness soon settling over PTMC like a blanket. Your tasks feel menial, painfully routine when Robby looks at you the way he is. He's living in the back of your mind until hour twelve blissfully arrives.
It all replays in your head as you walk to the lockers, the glimmer in his eye when he looks at you, the way his knees buckle when you continuously call him 'Sir'. You swing the door open, nodding to the night shift nurses while you collect your things.
You're halfway through the vestibule, the parking lot in near distance, the sweet freedom of home calling your name. Something calls louder, though, and your head swings to the noise.
It's the door to the roof, shutting abruptly. You hear heavy footsteps clunking up the staircase, and you know all too well who it is. You stand there, the angel and devil on your shoulder debating whether or not to follow him.
You think back to the moment you guys had in the exam room, his breathlessness when you called him sir, his knees buckling when you grazed his arm with your fingers. Hell, the man blushed. More than once. You follow him.
You take a moment to appreciate the view once you're up there. The colorful leaves paint a beautiful autumnal skyline. You huff out a breath, a small puff wafting through the crisp air.
You set your bag down, slinking your arms through your pink sweatshirt. It's cold up here. Sobering. You can tell why Robby likes it up here.
"Hey," you start, and he jumps.
It makes you giggle, the pressure of being on the clock no longer pushing down on the two of you.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, rubbing his forehead with his palm. "How'd you find me up here, huh?" He asks, a playful glint in his eye.
"Just a hunch," you smile sinfully, eyes trained on the October sky in front of you. "It's beautiful up here," you remark, as if the tension isn't suffocating.
"Yeah," he remarks, his eyes burning a hole through your cheek. "Yeah, it is."
You have a feeling he's not talking about the view.
"Robby-" you start, but it's not long before his lips are on yours.
The kiss takes your breath away, the firm press of his soft lips is a delicious contrast, enough to make you dizzy. You grip his biceps, your fingers squeezing the tough muscle there. He grunts against your lips and you ease up a little, rubbing soothing circles in apology.
"Do you know," he mutters between kisses, his hands finding your skin under your sweatshirt and scrubs, "how much," he kisses down your cheek, your neck, "I want you?" He pulls away at this question, his eyes finding yours, bewildered at his confession. He presses a kiss to your nose before pulling you closer to him again.
Your head buries into his chest, his hands relentless, exploring every square inch of your body he can reach, his lips following suit. It's you that kisses him this time, gripping his jaw and pulling him to you with a whine.
"You taste so fucking good," he groans, tongue peeking out, testing the waters.
The slide of his tongue against yours is delectable, butterflies flooding your stomach in record speed. You grip the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing him even closer to you. Your knees buckle, falling further into him as he wraps more of himself around you.
He sighs into the kiss as he hoists you around his waist, pulling you out of sight behind a wall lining the roof. Your back hits the hard cement, and Robby's hand resting on the area beside your head. His forehead presses into yours, his breathing coming out quick and shallow. Yours matches his, and you can't help but rake your nails up his stomach to his chest, reveling in the way he shivers at the contact.
"I want you so fucking bad," he grumbles, rocking his hips into yours against the wall.
"You have me," you mutter, "I'm yours."
He groans at that, a loud, pained sound that rumbles somewhere deep in your stomach. He shakes his head, then, and your heart drops.
"Not here," he pants, pressing his body further into you. You moan at the contact, his hips jerking in response. "Fuck."
He kisses you once more, then again, and again. "After what I heard today…" he trails off, pressing kisses all over your face, "about how you're only satisfied with your vibrator…" more kisses, "it made me crazy. Can't believe these idiots your age don't know what to do with a woman like you."
Heat rushes through your veins at his words, desire burning at dangerous temperatures. His kisses grow more frantic as you feel him plumping up through his pants. Your knees buckle around him, and you thrust your own hips up to meet his.
"Robby, please. I need you to at least touch me," you whisper, not above begging for this man.
Your heart clutches when he shakes his head no, though his brows are knit together in pleasure, his lips parted in a perfect 'o'. He's on the brink of snapping, you can tell. You think you know exactly what'll get him, too.
"Sir, please. I need it," you plead, widening your eyes and jutting out your bottom lip.
A groan rips out of Robby's throat, his frantic hands pushing your scrubs down just below your ass. His fingers find your folds in record time, slowly sliding up and down, collecting your wetness. You bite your lip at the contact, your eyes never leaving his.
His brows jump at your pained expression, fingers stopping for a brief moment. "This okay?" He ensures, and you nod, whining and desperate for him to move again.
"Nuh-uh," he swats your thigh and you yelp. "Is this okay? Yes or no," he demands, and you fall even limper in his arms.
"Yes, it's okay Robby," you breathe out, your hands gripping his wrist, guiding him back to you. He smiles sardonically as he finds your clit, his index finger rubbing slightly.
"Oh God," you moan, arching your back off the wall. "Faster, please faster ohmygod," you whimper out, keening when his speed picks up.
"Yeah?" He asks, a faux pity lacing his tone. "This where you use your vibrator?"
You moan in response, and he chuckles.
"Yeaahh," he draws out, a teasing gasp leaving his lips at the jerk of your hips. "You press it on this pretty clit? Make yourself cum after some asshole can't do it for you?"
You nod shamelessly, hands reaching for his biceps once again. "Please Robby, make me cum, please Sir."
A finger enters you at that, pushing a squeal out of you. He breathes another chuckle, moving his middle finger in and out slowly, trying to find a rhythm. It's hard, given your lack of space, and you wiggle your hips to try and give him a better angle.
He huffs out a breath, muttering "fuck it," before dropping to his knees, pulling your scrubs down to your ankles. You squeal at the sudden movement, his arms scooping under your legs and ass, holding you upright as his tongue finds your clit.
Heat boils in your stomach as he swirls circles into your clit. His spit and your arousal create a tantalizing friction against your most sensitive spot. You bury your hands in his hair, gripping and tugging, the vibrations of his groan against your pussy like a reward.
"So fucking delicious, holy shit," he mutters against your skin, his middle finger able to slide in easier now at this angle. He sucks your clit into his mouth, letting it go with a wet pop.
"God, Robby. Feels so good, never been this good," you whine, scraping your nails through his scalp. He shudders at this.
"Yeah? These fucking boys don't deserve you. I don't even fucking deserve you, shit-" he palms at his pants, pressing a kiss to your clit as he adds his ring finger. "Least I can do is make you cum."
Your eyes squeeze shut as white hot pressure builds in your stomach, almost too much to take. Your legs flail involuntarily, and he shushes you with sweet kisses to your clit.
"Shh, shh," he soothes, lessening his assault on your pussy. "You're okay, you can let go, I love the taste of you. So fucking delicious, can't wait to taste you."
You snap, intense waves of pleasure relentless as you writhe in his grasp, a high pitched moan wrestling its way out of your throat.
"Oh God Sir, I'm coming," you exclaim, his own groan vibrates against you, pushing you farther off the edge.
Your vision is spotty as you come down, taking advantage of the cool night air you breathe in. It takes a moment for you to set yourself back down on the ground, shaky legs beneath you like a baby deer.
Tension settles over you two once more as you take each other in. He's gorgeous- hair mussed, lips puffy, nose shining from your wetness. You can't help but smile, prompting his own in return. You take a small step forward, eyeing the obvious bulge in his pants. You raise your brows once, twice.
"Well," you start, reaching for him, "can I return the favor?"
"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but no," Robby says, and it stops you dead in your tracks.
Tears spring to your eyes, and he's quick to the damage control.
"No, no, no, it's not like that," he reassures, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders.
"I just-" he shakes his head, eyes finding his feet, then flitting back to you, "if I get my dick out in any way tonight, I'm going to end up fucking you."
You throw your hands up, unsure what the problem is there. He chuckles again.
"We're not fucking until I can treat you to a proper date. I'm not going to be one of those assholes that's just trying to get their dick wet. Can I take you out?" He asks, and it's almost bashful.
Butterflies erupt in your stomach again, your cheeks heating at his loving gaze. You nod your head, lips pursed together.
"Yeah," you mutter, "yeah. That sounds nice."
He leans in to kiss you gently on the lips. You pull him back for one more, which turns into two, three, four.
"Can I pick you up Friday? Are you working then?" He asks, and you shake your head no. He smiles, pressing another kiss to your lips.
He slips a piece of paper out of his pocket and places it in your hands, wrapping your fist closed around it.
"Text me your address. I'll be there at 7. Don't be late," he punctuates this with a kiss on the cheek before walking off.
You breathe out a sigh of disbelief, your heart racing as you unfold the number of Michael Robinavitch in your palm. This is, by far, the most unexpected outcome of your boss overhearing your conversation about vibrators. You can't complain
eleven years ago, robby had a fling with a first year medical student, only for her to drop out and disappear without even a note. forward to present day, and a precocious 10 year old has shown up in the pitt demanding to see her dad, a photo of a familiar face gracing her phone screen.
series cw: mdni. kidfic, fem!reader, age gap (early 20s/30s, early 40s/50s), miscommunication, exes to idiots in love, romcom nonsense, medical/legal/scholastic/child-rearing inaccuracies, overuse of the word puppy, all lowercase. no physical reader description other than shorter than robby, no physical child description other than having curly hair (unspecified from whose side) and robby’s eyes. additional cw on each chapter. pics just for vibes.
✧ coming soon ✧
@still-listens-to-the-script - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
izzy806
romaincrisis
