[strangunddurm]

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ADCU Universe

The Pitt | coming soon

[evansbby]

“𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚’𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪…” 𝟐

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈 ~ “𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬…”

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, coercion, unhinged inner monologue from rafe continues, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, mentions of smut, MAJORR size kink, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, forced kissing, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe tries to win you back, no matter at what cost.

𝘼/𝙉: It's finally here! Final word count: 19.5k. READ CHAPTER ONE HERE. Enjoy :)

“You have any more, Rafe?”

She sounds so whiny. They all sound so fucking whiney to him. He wishes they’d just shut up. Let him use them and then leave. He’s got two of them in his bed now, and for a while he’d watched listlessly as they’d kissed, played around, snorted coke off each other’s naked bodies like the desperate whores they were. He’d called them as a distraction, but now he didn’t even have the heart. Fucking pathetic.

“Bottom drawer.” He mutters, picking up his phone for the tenth time. One of the girls crawls over him, rummaging around in his drawers and brushing her naked body enticingly against him. He couldn’t give less of a shit though. His thumb hovers over your name saved on his phone, and for the hundredth time since the whole fiasco last week, he considers calling or texting you.

Rafe hadn’t run after you that day, when you’d overheard him talking all types of shit about you to his dumb fucking friends. When he’d lied about fucking you, when he’d proclaimed you were no different from any other Pogue slut who’d spread her legs for him. All with a straight face like some type of robot, and you’d cried and run, leaving your books on the ground behind you.

And he’d wanted to run after you. He hates to admit it, but there was a part of him that wanted to chase after you, gather you in his arms and wipe your tears and tell you you’d heard wrong, that he didn’t mean any of it. That he’d just acted up in front of his friends for some stupid reason or the other. That he was sorry.

But he hadn’t. Because he was Rafe fucking Cameron and he never ran after anyone. Especially not a Pogue.

He had picked up your books, though. Once everyone was done laughing at the whole ridiculous spectacle and moved on, he’d grabbed your discarded books from the floor. A fat textbook and your cute binder with all the flower stickers and shit. Your name spelled out in swirly cursive pink pen on the front. So fucking cute, it made his insides hurt. Why the fuck did you have that effect on him?

“Is that your girlfriend?” One of the girls asks, looking at your name on his phone screen.

“You’re not getting paid to talk,” he growls, pushing her head down to his crotch. And he pretends it’s you, of course he pretends it’s you. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, crying and choking because he’s so big and you’ve never sucked cock before. And he’d coax you gently, stroke your hair back and tap your cheek condescendingly, tell you what a good girl you are for taking him like this. So brave and pretty, his good little girl. And you’d cry and cry, looking up at him with scared, devoted eyes…

He kicks the girls out the moment he’s finished with them. Tucks the cash into their underwear and sends them packing without another word. One of Ward’s friends had a high-end escort service. Rafe never really felt the need to indulge in it before, since he didn’t really have a problem hooking up with girls. But he’d been on edge and wanted a quiet distraction, a quick fix. It had not worked.

Rafe: Hey. I’m sorry about what happened the other day. I think we should talk.

His thumb hovers over the send button. He wonders if he’d be able to sweet-talk you into forgiving him. Because yes, he wants you to forgive him. He wants you to be his in every way possible, and to achieve that, he needs you to like him again. Fuck his friends and the stupid bet.

He sucks in his breath and presses down on send before he can stop himself. Waits one second, two, three, four, five. Heart lurches to his throat when an error message comes up:

Your message is unable to be delivered to the recipient.

White hot anger chokes him like a vice. You had blocked him. Fuck. Motherfucking shit.

Rafe’s always had issues with his anger. He couldn’t control it most times, and as a result he’d explode like a fucking volcano. He’d try to contain it, but the rage always found its way out. And he throws his phone across the room, where it crashes against the wall with a loud smack. How dare you fucking block him? How dare you? Who the motherfuck did you think you were?

Blindly, he searches his drawer for his coke. Hands shaking, he pours it out into a small heap and snorts it straight up, his heart already racing with an all-consuming rage. Fuck you for blocking him. Didn’t you know Rafe owned you? You were his property, and he had to have access to you whenever he wanted, however he wanted… He had to.

He makes a snap decision. Grabs your books and his keys, his actions fuelled by pure rage and drug-induced adrenaline. Stuffs his phone – now with a shattered screen – into his pocket and wipes any white residue from his nose. He was losing control of the situation. And that just wouldn’t do. He had to fix it. Now.

And Rafe wasn’t anything if not proactive.

Unfortunately, he runs into Ward on the way out.

“Rafe. We need to talk.”

“Not now, dad. I’ve got shit to deal with.”

Ward’s got a newspaper in his hands which he’s undoubtedly reading performatively, and he takes a moment before he folds it down on the kitchen island. “Shit to deal with, huh? Like trying to fuck every girl on the island?”

Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not doing this right now.”

“I’ve got business partners, investors coming in and out of here. Doesn’t look great when there’s coked out hookers limping out of my son’s bedroom every other day.”

“Your business buddies all do the same shit, dad–”

“Yeah? Well I don’t give a fuck what they do. I’m talking about you. I’m trying to push a clean, family-man image here–”

Rafe snorts. Ward ignores him.

“You’re getting too old for this shit, Rafe. You’re graduating soon, then you’ll take over the family business. You need to get your shit together, find a nice girl and settle down.”

Rafe rolls his eyes. He knows what’s expected of him. Knows his father wants him married sooner rather than later. Probably to some spoilt kook princess that he wouldn’t give two fucks about, a marriage built on connections and maximising power for the Cameron business. He figures being married wouldn’t be much different from being single. He’d still sleep around with the Pogue girls like he always did. But his mind’s too occupied by other things to really focus on this redundant conversation with his father.

“Look, dad, I have to be somewhere right now, so…”

“Who was that one girl you had over the other day? In the cute dress?”

Rafe stops short, feeling like he’s been injected with a dark, poisonous, all-consuming dose of sudden, icy-cold jealousy that winds him from the inside out. “What?”

“I was looking over the security footage. You had her on the patio. Cute, innocent looking girl. Now someone like that would be much better for your image, Rafe.”

Rafe’s jaw tenses, his fists clenched to his sides. He doesn’t want to react in front of his father, but it’s hard. The mere mention of you by another man – even if it was just his fucking dad – was making his blood boil. Boil in a way it never had before. He feels like choking someone the fuck out. Nobody was allowed to look at you. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck had you done to him? Now he’s even more determined to fix things with you, have you safely under his wing again so he could protect you from the lecherous gazes of other men.

He leaves without another word.

He takes his motorbike. It’s his preferred method of transport anyways. Quicker, less attention drawn to him than when he’s in one of his big cars. And he deliberately leaves his helmet behind, needing to feel the air whip on his face. Maybe it would snap him out of whatever crazed spell you’d put him under. He feels like ripping his fucking hair out – how dare you fucking block him? He was your only friend.

Rafe’s feeling no less crazy when he finally pulls up to your street. If anything, he’s even more incensed. His girl. His property. And he’d lost you? All because of some stupid shit he’d said to his dumb idiot fucking friend group? Fuck them – it was all their fault for making up that bet. All their fault for badgering him for private pictures of you. Fuck them.

He’s still reeling with rage when he knocks harshly on your front door. Which is why he’s caught off guard when someone opens it immediately.

At first, he thinks it’s you. No, this woman looks older. Not much older, though. It’s your mother.

“Is everything alright? Can I help you?”

He forces himself to calm down, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Switches on the charm, smiles down at the woman who gazes at him with an unreadable expression.

“Hi. I’m Y/N’s friend from school. Is she at home?”

Your mother blinks, doing that thing that he knows people from The Cut do. Takes in his expensive clothes, the Rolex on his wrist, his signet ring that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. People like her looked at him often with clear disdain simply because of his family’s wealth and where he came from. It was a good thing Rafe did not care much for what a Pogue thought about him.

He tries again when she doesn’t immediately respond; “I’m very sorry to show up unannounced, ma’am. She left her books on campus and I thought I’d return them.”

Your mother clears her throat, “I’m sorry, she’s not at home right now. But you can give her books to me.”

Rafe hesitates, not wanting to give up your things just yet. “Where is she? When will she be back?”

“Who are you?”

He tells her his name, watching as her eyes widen slightly. That was the usual reaction he got. The Cameron name was well known in Kildare. His dad’s company – soon to be his – was global, but notoriously well known around the Outer Banks.

“Thank you for bringing my daughter’s things back, Mr. Cameron.” There’s an air of formality in her tone as she takes your books.

“That’s okay. When did you say she’d be back?”

There’s a long pause.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be seeing you.”

It takes him aback, the frank way in which your mother speaks. He feels shock, and then a wave of anger.

“Well, I think that’s up to her, isn’t it?”

Your mother’s jaw twitches, and she steps back slightly, inching the door closed as if shutting him out. He gets the message but does not care.

“Look. My daughter hasn’t been the same for the last few days and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s because she got involved with the likes of you.” She sounds cold, distant, almost resigned. “I don’t know you personally, Mr. Cameron, but I know people like you. And I know my daughter is sweet and unassuming. So please, leave her alone.”

It takes everything in him not to lose it. He knows it’s best not to get into it with your mother of all people, and yet he hates when people assume shit about him. Nobody knew him, least of all some nobody-Pogue from the Cut. He wasn’t like Topper and them, but he couldn’t expect this woman to know that.

He forces a smile, “Just returning her books, ma’am. I’m her only friend.”

“As I said, thank you for bringing her things back.” She sniffs, closing the door till it’s only open a crack, “But please stay away from my daughter. It would be best for you both.”

The door slams in his face.

He has to physically retreat before he kicks your fucking door in. Her fucking audacity. As if she didn’t fully understand who the fuck he was. One meeting and a deal is all it would take for Cameron Development to buy this fucking dump of a street where your house was situated in. He’d like to see her slam her fucking door on his face then.

He does that thing his therapist taught him, breathes in and out but it doesn’t calm him down in the slightest. Instead, he clenches his fists by his side, his blunt nails digging into his palms till he knows he’s drawn blood.

Before he really knows what’s doing, he makes his way to the back of your house where he knows your bedroom window is. But the curtains are drawn. Fuck. Were you actually not at home? Or was your mother lying? He bets she was lying. If only he could get to you–

“What are you doing here?”

Rafe whips around, heart lurching to his fucking throat because it’s you. Standing right there in front of him. And he almost can’t believe it. Out here in this seedy little street on the Cut, dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a tank top. Face devoid of any emotion, stripped of any kind of makeup. Lips downturned and pouty, eyes narrowed yet still so big and pretty.

For a moment, you take his breath away.

“Go away, Rafe.”

Promptly, you turn on your heel. Well, you turn in your scuffed white converse, speed walking away from him faster than he can even wrap his head around what’s happening. You’ve got your earphones in, your arms crossed in front of your chest, going as fast as your legs can carry you. Down this dangerous fucking street, dressed like that.

Rafe catches up to you in two strides.

“Wait, I came to talk to you–”

“There’s nothing left to say… LET GO OF ME!”

You scream it so loud, he drops your hand like a hot coal. Taken aback by your fire, but he recovers quickly. Walks around till he’s facing you and blocking your path. Tries to catch your gaze but you look anywhere but at him. Your chest rises and falls, your lips pressed into a thin line as if your emotions are getting the better of you. He’s always seen you as pristine and perfect, but now you’re dishevelled, upset, won’t even look at him. Still so fucking beautiful though.

“I didn’t mean all those things I said, okay?”

You swallow harshly, “I’m not stupid, Rafe.”

“It’s my fuckin’ friends – hey, listen, it was my friends, okay?! They kept goading me about you. I had to say something to get them off my back.”

Finally, you meet his eyes. A look of incredulity on your face.

“You… You told everyone that you slept with me, Rafe! You lied! About everything!”

He sighs impatiently, running his hands through his hair, “I know, fuck, I know I lied, okay? But they kept asking. You need to understand that I only said those things to protect you.”

Silence. You just stare at him. He thinks he sees something break behind your eyes. That same look you’d had on your face when he’d locked eyes with you the last time he’d seen you on the campus courtyard. As if you’re looking at a stranger, and he hates it.

“I had to protect you, okay?” He repeats, trying to ignore how hollow and wooden his words sound, “they all want to sleep with you. I had to tell them I had, so that they knew that they couldn’t–”

You shake your head slowly, “Y-You can’t even accept responsibility for what you did…”

“Fuck, this is me accepting responsibility, don’t you get it?!”

He lowers his voice when you flinch. But he’s so fucking desperate, wants you to understand what he’s trying to say although even he doesn’t understand it. He feels fucking insane right now, and you’re seeing it all unfold first hand. “Look, I didn’t mean any of it. You need to understand that. Hey, hey don’t walk away from me!”

“I feel disgusting, Rafe!” You burst out. And he really sees you then, sees your face crumple up and yet you try to keep this false bravado, chin up, eyes blazing. “I-I trusted you. I did things with you that I… that I’ve never done before. And to think this whole time, it was all just a joke for you. I told you about my dad, and I told you all those things because this whole time I thought you genuinely wanted to be friends, and I trusted you.”

“You can still trust me–”

“No, I can’t! You were lying the whole time.” You swallow again, and through your glasses, he can see the tears welling in your eyes, “I was nothing more than a bet for you. And I… I can’t believe I fell for it, that I let you…”

Your voice breaks, and you wrap your arms around yourself, almost like you’re hiding your body from him. Like you can’t bear the thought of him even looking at you now, can’t bear the thought that you ever let him look at you. Makes him feel like a goddamned monster.

“I wish I’d never called you that night,” you whisper, “I wish I’d never let you see me like that. I wish I could… I wish…”

“You don’t mean that,” he reaches out, doesn’t know why but just wants to hold your arm, but stops himself when you flinch once more. You’re far away, lost in your own broken thoughts, and yet you step back when he tries to touch you. Like you’re scared of him, and it kills him, because you were the only one who wasn’t.

“I feel dirty,” you say, voice thick yet pitiful, “I-I feel like… Like I can’t get myself clean no matter how hard I try.”

It’s Rafe’s turn to swallow, and he’s got a huge lump in his throat, and it makes it harder for him to speak. Like there’s a boulder on top of his heart, weighing it down to the fucking pits of his stomach. Guilt and frustration like flames licking and growing inside him.

“You’re not dirty,” he says softly, wanting, willing you to look at him but you don’t. And he wants you to say something, anything. But you don’t. Like you’re done. And he can’t have that, he fucking can’t. The control is slipping out from under his fingertips, and it’s an all-consuming feeling that he hates.

“I like you,” he tries again, but he’s never been good with his fucking words. His mind’s screaming ten different things for him to say, brain feels like it’s about to explode with frustration because he knows no matter what he says, it won’t be the right thing. How could it be? When he’d done what he’d done and there was no way around it? “I never lied about that. It started out as a bet but I always liked you.”

“You don’t speak about someone like that if you like them.” You look defiant and deflated all at once, angry yet upset, those fucking lips of yours downturned in this crestfallen way that hits him straight in the chest. “I hate myself for being so stupid. Trusting you when all this time, you were probably just laughing behind my back, thinking I was beneath you because I’m just a Pogue.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t you just understand that I’m telling the goddamned truth?!”

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice. It just happens. It happens a lot with him, and he regrets it instantly when he sees your face morph in fear. Again, you flinch away from him, and he wishes to God you’d stop doing that. Stop being afraid of him because couldn’t you fucking see how insane you made him?

“S-Stay away from me,” you back away towards your house.

“Wait! Shit, I’m sorry, I– hey! Come back! Please, come back!”

You ignore him. Don’t even look back. In fact, you break into a run, as if you can’t stand being near him. And he can tell you’re crying in earnest now, with how your hands reach up and snatch your glasses off your face to blindly wipe away your tears. He calls out again, but his voice is lost in the wind. Fists clench to his sides again, and he hates how helpless he feels. The control he had, it’s dissipated like a cloud of fucking smoke and he hates it.

“Fine! Don’t fuckin’ listen!” He wants to punch something. The frustration of being unable to explain himself is slowly morphing into rage like how it often did. And he doesn’t know what to fucking do, and he’s trying to control his breathing, and he’s itching for a line, anything that’ll make him stop feeling whatever it is he’s feeling right now. “You think I can’t walk away from this shit too? Well, fuck you! I’m done too.”

Your front door slams shut. You don’t even look back once.

***

It’s a whole week before Rafe sees you on campus again. And in those seven days, he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t care. That you didn’t matter. That this was it. Whatever the fuck he’d thought he’d felt for you was clearly not real. And it never had been. He was just a fucking idiot who’d had a lapse in his judgement. Let a stupid Pogue fuck around with his feelings. Never again. Never fucking again.

And yet his heart skips a beat when he sees you. It’s been a whole week of you not showing up to classes, and a part of him had thought you’d transferred out. But there you are, bright and early on a fucking Monday morning. Books and binder clutched to your chest. In a blue top and matching skirt, looking every bit as cute as you always did.

For some reason, he’d half expected you to show up sad and forlorn, in a big hoodie or some other equally unflattering item that chicks wore when they felt depressed. Clearly not.

Rafe himself feels like shit and has all week. He’s got bags under his eyes and stubble he can’t be bothered to shave off. And he hates it, hates how he’s spent the past seven days at home, listlessly staring at his chat with you on his phone. Reading over your old messages again and again. Back when he still had control over what you thought of him. He also keeps staring at the pictures he took of you. He knows he should delete them but he can’t. You were his after all. He had every right to have those pictures on his phone. And you were so fucking hot…

“Look, it’s your little girlfriend,” Kelce snickers, and his entire group turn their heads in your direction. You’re trying your best not to make eye contact, quickening your pace as you speed-walk across the field.

It takes everything in him to keep his cool. “Change the fucking subject, man. If you know what’s best for you.”

They all straighten up, cough, look away. Like fucking clockwork robots responding to their puppet-master. They’d calmed down about the whole debacle, stopped begging for the pictures of you after Rafe had made it clear he wasn’t going to show them. Now, he just wanted to move on. Forget about it all. Pretend like he didn’t know you, just like he did with every other girl he fucked.

It was difficult, though. When you looked so fucking beautiful.

Rafe can’t help but try to meet your gaze, but you don’t look at him even once. And it incenses him. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you, discard and move on like he did with all the other girls he’d been with. And yet…

“Hey man, did you hear what I said? What do you think?”

Rafe blinks, forcibly peeling his eyes away, and trying his best to suppress the wild, innate desire to follow you, keep tabs on you, make sure he knows what you’re doing at all times.

Topper waves his hand in front of his face, “Rafe?”

His eyes narrow in irritation, “What?”

“The party. Saturday night. It’s at this abandoned beach house in the Cut. I’m pretty sure Sarah’s gonna be there, and–”

“No.”

Topper sighs, “I mean, I think you should go, man. There’ll be plenty of other Pogue girls there if you’re looking to hook up.”

The thought of that makes him sick.

“I’m not going to some Pogue-infested crack house on the Cut, Topper.”

“But I think the best way for you to get over her is to find someone else–”

“Get it through your thick fucking skull,” Rafe grabs him by the collar, a sudden rage coursing through his veins and he can’t even pinpoint why, “I’m not trying to get over shit, okay? There’s nothing to get over. Don’t fuckin’ project your shit on me just ‘cause you can’t get over my bitch of a sister.”

“Jesus Christ, alright!” Topper shakes him off, backing away and raising his hands in the air, “You shouldn’t speak about Sarah like that.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Everyone’s staring at him again. Like he’s the crazy one or some shit like that. Fuck them all. His nose twitches, and he wishes he’d brought some coke with him. But the last time he’d been caught on campus with drugs, Ward had to pay a shit ton of money for the faculty to forget it ever happened. Doesn’t help now, when he feels like he’s gonna implode. A part of him wishes he could go to you, because you’d make him feel calm and in control again. But that isn’t an option, and so he tries to control his breathing. He can’t.

Fuck.

Get you back or forget about you. Something had to give.

***

It’s on impulse, really. He doesn’t even remember doing it till it’s done. It’s after he’s spent a good twenty minutes lying on his bed and staring at your pictures on his phone. Fuck, you were so sweet and hot. He still remembers it, waking up next to you on your tiny pink bed, an assorted range of your stuffed animals surrounding you both. You, naked and in his arms. Right where you belonged. Sucking his thumb like you were his baby, and you trusted him with everything.

Before he realises what he’s doing, he orders a Chanel bag. A light pink one with a gold chain. Puts in your address so it can be delivered straight to you. He’d grown up with two sisters and a stepmother obsessed with shopping and designer labels, so he has an idea of what women like. And he’s used to girls from Figure 8, who’s love language was gifts and money. You were different, though, but he still can’t help himself.

He imagines you dripping from head to toe in gifts bought by him. Cute little designer dresses, all in pink or light blue or yellow or some pretty girly colour like that. Fur jackets and dainty, expensive jewellery. And he’d give you an allowance, hell he’d make you save his credit card details on your phone. And he’d pay for you to get your nails done, and your toes too. Pretty, gleaming white polished toes.

He’s jacking off now, picturing it so clearly in his head. He’d move you into his house, and you’d look at him with glowing eyes, so thankful that he’d saved you from the poverty you’d been so used to. And you’d be his little princess, draped in the gifts he’d shower you with. And in return, you’d let him do anything to you. Because you were his. Only ever his.

And he’d push you onto his bed, press your legs up against his chest while he fucked you so good and hard. Came inside you, filled you up till the brim, till his cum was leaking out of you. And even then, he’d push it back inside, stuff you so fucking full of him that you wouldn’t know how to act, and you’d cry and be confused. You’d beg him not to, but he’d do it anyways because he owned you. And if he knocked you up? Fuck, he wouldn’t even care because it would mean you’d be bound to him forever.

He cums at that last thought, the visual of it too fucking hot for him to even fully wrap his head around. High off the fact he’s bought something for you. It gives him a fucking power trip like no other. You were his. Completely and utterly his. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you but fuck it. Maybe, just maybe, he could buy his way back into your life.

It’s only two days later when he’s leaving his car in the campus parking lot that he feels a little tap on his shoulder.

“You can’t do things like this.”

It’s you. Looking all tiny and cute as ever, a fiery look on your face that’s about as intimidating as one of your stuffed animals. Your face that’s half hidden by the big Chanel box you’re carrying in your arms.

“Hello to you too.”

“You… You need to take this back.”

Rafe squints down at you, running a hand through his hair and trying to act nonchalant, “It’s rude to return gifts.”

You look genuinely upset. Distraught, even. It confuses him.

“I don’t want any gifts from you, Rafe. Why can’t you understand that I want nothing to do with you?”

Didn’t he know this would happen? He knew you weren’t materialistic like the girls he was used to. And yet he’d still done it. But at least you were speaking to him again.

“I thought you should have it,” he says. “I was thinking about you.”

“Stop. Don’t.” You swallow harshly, your chest rising up and down as if you have so much you want to say. “Please. Just take this back and leave me alone.”

I CAN’T! He wants to scream, but he knows he can’t risk scaring you away again.

“Take it as an apology,” he says, take a step closer to you except you instantly take a step back, a fearful look in your eye that he hates. “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, “You lied, and now everyone thinks that we…” You gulp, pressing your lips together and trying to push the box into his arms, “My mom saw the bag. She-She thinks I’m sleeping with you in exchange for gifts.”

Rafe blinks, “Why would she think that?”

You gape at him incredulously, and he can’t help but think how cute and hot you look. All weepy and indignant, acting all upset but all it does is get him hard. The Chanel box is almost as big as you, and it makes you look even tinier. And you’re wearing this little buttercup yellow top trimmed with white lace. So fucking hot. He wants to grab you and push you into the backseat of his car. Lock the doors and have his way with you. Fuck you dumb, fuck that indignance straight out of you, till all you can say is thank you daddy for the pretty purse and the orgasm while you cuddle and cry into his chest.

When he doesn’t take the box back, you huff and drop it at his feet.

“I…I don’t care about expensive gifts, Rafe. And if you think you can just throw money at me and expect things to go back to how they were, then I guess we never really knew each other to begin with.”

Rafe sighs, reaches out to grab your wrist, “Look, wait–”

“D-Don’t touch me!”

There it is again. Don’t touch me. It’s the second time you’ve said that to him, and he watches as you flinch away from him again. Like you’re scared. Of him. And he fucking hates it so much, it’s like he can’t breathe.

“Wait–”

You scurry away without looking back at him even once. When all he can do is look at you. Like you’re a drug and he’s an addict. He can’t rip his gaze away. He feels so out of control of the situation, it makes his palms itch and his head hurt. He feels like throwing up. Like fucking punching someone. He wishes you’d just understand him, and he hates himself for not being able to explain himself to you. He’s so fucking obsessed with you, it’s insane.

How the fuck was he supposed to get over you?

***

His eyes follow you wherever you go. He memorises your schedule, your classes, everything. He doesn’t mean to, exactly. It just kind of happens. It’s like he has this innate need to know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re his property after all, so it was only natural.

And Rafe watches you all the time. Whenever he can. He knows it’s unhealthy as shit, this growing obsession he has with you. But he’s been like this as long as he can remember. Hyper focusing on one thing until it consumed him completely. His dad’s approval. Drugs. Alcohol. You.

And you’re putting on a brave front, walking around campus acting like everything between you and him never even happened. But Rafe likes to think he knows you, despite only interacting with you for a week. He knows it’s all an act, and on the inside you’re feeling just as shitty as he is. He watches you smile, nod, hang around the outskirts of some Pogue girl group who barely pays you any attention. And it’s sick of him, but he likes how you don’t have any true friends. All you had was him, and he was hell bent on getting you back no matter what it took.

Which is why he feels this cold, numbing feeling of pure rage when he sees you leaving your last class of the day walking side-by-side next to a boy. Talking to him. Laughing with him.

Rafe’s hands curl into fists.

He doesn’t want you speaking to any other man. Even what looks to be some sorry ass Pogue nerd who’s in your class. No, you were his. You weren’t allowed to even look at another man unless he approved of it. What the fuck could this clown give you that Rafe couldn’t? Nothing. What the fuck.

He waits till you part ways with the boy and make your way out of the building. That’s when he grabs him by the shirt and slams him into a locker, not giving a fuck who sees.

“What the fuck?!” The boy struggles, but it’s extremely easy to overpower him. Rafe’s used to being bigger than most people.

“Shut the fuck up, Pogue. I just want to talk.” Rafe shoots him a wooden ass smile, although it’s taking everything in him not to punch the shit out of this fucking guy. As quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets him go, straightening him up and smoothening his shirt while the boy stares at him like he’s insane. He’s used to that too.

“Why were you speaking to her?” He asks softly, keeping his tone cold and calculated.

“I don’t know what you’re taking about– OUCH!”

Rafe slams him against the metal lockers again before smirking, “Try again.”

The Pogue scrunches his eyes shut for a second before exhaling loudly through his nose. When he speaks, his voice shakes, “She’s in my class, man. We were put together for a project.”

“Mm,” Rafe’s thoughtful for a second, “You know who I am?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Who am I?”

When the kid doesn’t respond immediately, Rafe takes his head and slams it against the hard metal behind him. He cries out in pain, coughing with a stricken look on his face like he’s about to piss himself.

“You’re Rafe, OK?! R-Rafe Cameron! Please don’t hit me again!”

Rafe smiles, patting his cheek, “Relax, Pogue. You know who my friends are?”

“Yes!”

“Then you know you won’t speak to her again. You won’t even look at her again. Or else I’ll personally come after you. And my friends will too.”

“Look, I don’t know what this is about! We were just discussing our project, it’s worth a lot of credits–”

“You’ll do it yourself,” Rafe fixes the boy’s collar slowly, “You’re not going to say another word to her. If you do, I’ll know.”

The boy gulps, “O-Okay.”

Rafe smirks, patting the boy’s cheek again, “Good boy. And you let your pathetic little Pogue friends know too. She’s off limits to all of you. If any of you so much as look at her, I’ll personally break your fuckin’ legs myself. Got it?”

“Yes, I-I understand.”

Rafe lets the boy go before he pisses himself in fear. He knows the threat will be enough, and yet he still feels so fucking angry. Like he can’t believe you’ve found another man to talk to. He was supposed to be your only friend.

He hates this feeling of desperation that’s only heightening within him as the days go by. A pretty girl like you were bound to find someone else unless Rafe took action.

But what the fuck could he do?

***

He’s still stewing over it when he gets home that day. He’d threatened the kid but would it be enough to keep him away from you? Rafe bets that dumb fucking Pogue had requested to be partnered up with you, thought it’d be an easy way to get in your pants. He thinks back to you in all your cute, sexy outfits, flouncing around campus like you were a free piece of ass. Suddenly acutely aware of just how many men probably wanted to fuck you just like he did…

Over his dead fucking body.

In frustration, he whips out his phone and opens to your chat. He was still blocked. A wave of pure rage completely throttles him, and he throws his phone against his bedroom wall. Again. He’s surprised the damn screen doesn’t completely shatter from the impact.

You’re fucking losing it, he thinks to himself.

After snorting a few lines to calm his nerves (it doesn’t work) as well as downing half the bottle of Gray Goose that he’s got stashed under his bed, Rafe decides to pay you another visit.

“Rafe, we need to talk.”

He’s about to leave the house when Ward’s booming voice halts him. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Not now, Dad,” Rafe mumbles, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Yes, now. Come here, son.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, entering his father’s study. “Look, Dad. I need to be somewhere.”

“Yes, Rafe. You always need to be somewhere.” Ward is unperturbed as usual, stoic as he sits behind the grand desk of his study, barely even looking up from the papers he’s sifting through. “I don’t care where you’re going. But I need you to be here Sunday. I’ve got someone coming over to talk business.”

His ears perk up, “I get to sit in on a deal?”

“If you want. But he’s bringing his family over for brunch. He’s got a daughter your age whom I’d like for you to meet.”

Rafe loses interest immediately, not giving a fuck about whatever spoilt Kook slut his father was trying to set him up with this time. Instead, his mind wanders back to you again. He wonders what that slimy little dweeb in your class had said to you. Had you been impressed by him? Surely not, he couldn’t offer you what Rafe could. Why the fuck had you been talking to him? Laughing with him? God, he needs to see you now. Set the rules straight: you weren’t allowed to talk to any other man. He doesn’t give a shit if you’re mad at him, you’d still need to follow his rules, and–

“Are you listening to me, Rafe?”

“Mm.”

“I said it’s about time you settled down and got serious about your future. Cameron Development has always been a family-orientated business. There’s a certain image you need to build up and maintain, son.”

Ward drones on and on about “settling down” and “eventually starting a family” and some other bullshit along those lines. Rafe’s too busy thinking about you to listen. What if that stupid Pogue fuck didn’t listen to him? What if he was at your house right now? Using the excuse of “project work” to get close to you? In your bedroom? When the only one who’d been in your bedroom was Rafe, and he intended to keep it that way.

“Sure, Dad. Look, I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

He leaves, ignoring Ward shouting his name and calling him back. Usually, he’s pretty good with listening to his father but right now he couldn’t be fucked with it. He has bigger priorities to deal with.

And he knows he probably shouldn’t drive after he’s just inhaled half a bag of coke and chased it down with half a bottle of vodka. Which is why he takes his motorbike again, hoping the roads would be empty at this time of night.

He gets to your house in record time. He’s got the route memorised at this point.

He doesn’t bother with the front door. Knows if your mother answers, she’d probably call the cops on him or some shit like that. When really, she should be calling the cops on that dumb fucking pervert Pogue from your class.

He makes a beeline for your bedroom window at the back of the house. Luckily, your curtains aren’t drawn, and he can see inside. Your bed’s all made, pristine pink sheets with the same stupid stuffed animals arranged meticulously on your pillow. The memory of him on top of your naked body while you quivered underneath him is fast fading, which he hates. He can’t believe you still haven’t forgiven him. He’d give anything to have you look at him like that again, look at him with stars in your eyes as if he’s your saviour, your hero, your god.

“Leave me alone, okay?! Stop telling me what to do all the time!”

For a moment, Rafe thinks you’re talking to him. He steps back, allowing the sidewall to conceal him yet still having a perfect view through your window. You’ve got your back to him, dressed in this fucking insane pair of pink pyjama shorts that make your ass pop. You’ve got your hands on your hips, facing out your bedroom door.

“It’s that boy, isn’t it? Didn’t I warn you not to get mixed up with people like him?” Your mother’s voice.

“Why can’t you just trust me, mom? I’ve always done what you’ve asked, but it’s never good enough!”

You look so petulantly pretty, and it’s a side to you he’s never seen before. Sure, he’s seen you angry, hurt, upset. At him. But this is different. You seem… frustrated almost.

“You can’t afford to get distracted by boys who will just hurt you. You need to keep your head down and mind your own business.”

“That’s all I ever do!” You cry, stomping into your room and he gets a flash of your face, indignant and upset. “I just want to be normal, mom! I just want that normal college experience that everyone else talks about! And I want friends, I want freedom–”

“You’re too naïve.” Your mother appears in your doorway looking grim, “I don’t know what that boy did to you, but maybe now you’ll learn your lesson. Most people at that school are not your friends. You need to remember that, and be smart, and–”

“This isn’t about him!” You look helpless, as if you know whatever you’ll say won’t have any type of effect on your mother’s view. Rafe gets it, has that same problem with Ward. “I’m just so sick of being so good all the time. I hate that everyone thinks I’m so naïve, I-I wish I could show them I’m not.”

“You are.” Your mother says impassively. “And you will stay that way. I forbid you from talking to that boy or anyone like him.”

An incredulous pause, and then:

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

You slam your door shut and throw yourself on your bed, crying your little eyes out into your pillow. And admittedly, it touches him a little bit. How sweet and soft you look, crying like that with such abandon. Thinking no one’s watching you, thinking no one understands you. Well, Rafe does. And ironically enough, he feels like he’s the only one who could comfort you when you’re like this.

And, despite how sick it sounds, a part of him likes how you’ve fought with your mother. If anything, that distance would only make you more likely to fall back into Rafe’s arms. As long as he was patient and bided his time.

Patience, however, has never been his strong suit. But even in his drunk and high current state, he knows that making his presence known to you right now probably wouldn’t be the best idea. You look equal parts upset and angry, if he added himself to that mix you’d definitely bite his head off. He’d find it hot though, but nevertheless…

He leaves, feeling slightly better. He doesn’t even fully understand why. Maybe it’s because he’s seen you now, and you’re not doing project work with that worm from your class. In fact, he’s not on your mind at all, which was reassuring. Or maybe it’s because the fight with your mother meant you’d slowly come back to him.

Maybe.

***

“Hey Rafe, you spoken to your girl lately?” Topper asks him the following day on campus.

Rafe frowns, “Why are you asking me that?”

Topper shrugs, looking oblivious and gormless as usual, “I don’t know, just asking.”

“Well, don’t.” He doesn’t like when other men talk about you, including Topper. Lately, he’s gotten a lot more paranoid about who’s watching you, who wants to fuck you. Which, he guesses, is most likely every male at this college. Makes him even more eager to publicly claim you, make it be known that you weren’t up for grabs. Sure, his friends knew better than to talk to you or look at you, but he wanted everyone to know. And he didn’t have time to go around personally threatening any man who looked at you.

“Look, there she is now.”

Topper cleanly points at you. Rafe slaps the back of his head and shoots him a dirty look.

“Don’t fucking do that.”

You’re standing on the fringes of that one Pogue girl group that you hang around with sometimes, pretending like they’re your friends. The same ones you were standing with the first time he’d ever seen you. And that was weeks ago, and yet your friendship with them hasn’t seemed to progress. They still ignore you, and you still stand there like you know you don’t fit in, but you try your hardest anyways.

“So anyways, it’s gonna be at this abandoned beach house.”

“Yeah, and Brittney, it’s still OK if we all get ready at your place, right?”

Their stupid chatter doesn’t interest him. But then you speak up.

“What’s happening at the abandoned beach house?” You ask politely, like you’ve rehearsed the line a million times in your head to make sure it comes out right. Tinged with nervousness, afraid they might ignore you as if you hadn’t even spoken.

There’s silence for a beat or two, and Rafe doesn’t miss how some of the girls smirk and exchange looks before one of them answers.

“It’s a party. We would’ve told you but… well, we know you probably wouldn’t be allowed to go.”

“Oh.” Hurt clouds your features for a moment before you force a smile, “I-I’d be allowed to go.”

One of the girls raises an eyebrow, “Really? You? Have you ever even been to a party before?”

They all burst into giggles. You join in too, despite the fact they’re all laughing at you and he bets you know it.

“I have.” You say, sticking your chin up so cutely. And Rafe knows you’re lying through your teeth, and wonders why you feel the need to impress these stupid Pogue sluts who were clearly being mean to you because they were jealous. Couldn’t you see that?

“Okay, well, then you should come too,” one of the girls says, her lips quirking up into a smirk, “Although I doubt Rafe Cameron’s gonna be there, if that’s why you want to go.”

Your face morphs in disgust, “I…I… No, I don’t care about him. I should’ve listened to you guys, you were all right about him.”

Stupid Pogue whores, spreading lies about him to you as per usual.

“Well, we warned you.” One of the girls says, looking like she’s about to burst into a fit of laughter, “But I guess you got a bit overexcited, and thought he was giving you attention because he actually cared about you.”

“Which he doesn’t,” another one chimes in, “I mean, let’s make that clear.”

You giggle nervously, but he can tell you’re hurt.

“Yeah, I mean no offence to you, you’re just so sweet and innocent,” one girl pats you on the shoulder condescendingly, “He probably went for you because he knew you’d be an easy target.”

“No offence,” another one emphasises, although the smirks they all exchange say otherwise. “But yeah, you should totally come to the party on Saturday. We’ll take care of you.”

It’s when they’ve all dispersed and you’re on your own, that he corners you before he can stop himself.

“You shouldn’t go to that party.”

You stare up at him in disbelief, “Get away from me, Rafe.”

“It’s not the type of place for someone like you.”

“Someone like me,” you echo, a cloud of hurt crossing your features for a split second before you cover it up with a brave attempt at a glare, “Y-You don’t know me.”

“I do. And those girls are not your friends.”

“Stop.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“They didn’t lie to me and pretend to be my friend,” you hug your books close to your chest like they’re a fucking shield against him or something, “that was you.”

You say it so quietly, in such a resigned way that it kills him. And then you turn and leave, and again you don’t even look back once. And he can’t take his eyes off of you.

He doesn’t waste time in texting Topper after that.

Rafe: Send me the location of that party.

***

Rafe fucking hates the Cut. Disgusting place filled to the brim with disgusting people. For the life of him, he doesn’t understand how Sarah had chosen this life over Figure 8. The beach house – if it could even be called that – is all rotting wood and peeling floorboards. And yet the Pogues here were acting like it was some kind of VIP beach club and the party of the century. Fucking losers.

Topper is all smiles, though. Scanning the crowd for Sarah and her little Pogue group. Rafe’s already surveyed the whole sorry property for you, but you weren’t here. And a part of him is relieved, because maybe you’d taken his advice after all. He’d give it another fifteen minutes before leaving.

“You think Sarah decided not to come or something?” Topper asks, plopping down on the couch next to Rafe and handing him a beer.

“Do I look like I know what goes on in her head?”

“Jesus, man. It was just a question.”

“You both need to get a grip,” Kelce leans forward, a scantily clad girl already in his lap and a drink in his hand, “There’s too much fresh meat here for you to still be hung up on anyone else.”

“I’m not hung up on shit,” Rafe seethes.

“Prove it, bro.”

“Shut up before I knock you the fuck out.” He’s not in the fucking mood for this bullshit. The girls here all looked like typical Pogue sluts. Of course, you wouldn’t be here. Either you’d come to your senses, or he’d gotten through to you, or hell, your mother probably didn’t give you permission.

The music is loud and pulsating, making the creaking floorboards vibrate. This beach house might have been considered luxurious once upon a time – by 1960s standards probably – but now it lies in complete desolate disrepair. With way too many sweaty bodies filled to the brim inside. Rafe can’t believe he made the mistake of coming here.

He’s getting up to get the fuck out of here, and that’s when he spots you at the entrance.

And he almost doesn’t recognise you. Yet at the same time, it’s like his heart does because it does this weird fluttery shit the moment he sees you. Walking through the door with that Pogue girl group, except you stand out from them in so many ways, and he knows he’s not the only man in the room who notices.

You’ve got some smoky black shit on your eyes. That’s the first thing he sees, because you’ve never done that kind of makeup before, and you’re not wearing your glasses either. It looks… different. Still so fucking hot, though. Like black eyeshadow smeared over your eyes in the sluttiest way, and your cheeks tinted this sexy, flushed pink with glitter. Lips glossy and berry-coloured, lined with something darker – something else you’ve never done before.

And your dress. It makes him clench his beer so hard he’s surprised the bottle doesn’t shatter. It’s the sluttiest thing he’s ever fucking seen, and it’s almost like the sluttiness of it is amplified because you’re the one who’s wearing it. And he’d never pictured you dressing like this, he didn’t think you could or ever would. In his head, you were the perfect picture of innocence in your cute pastels and flowery prints.

But this. It’s like you’ve taken a dress from your mother’s closet and cut it as short as you possibly could, and he can tell that’s what you’ve most likely done, because the bottom looks slightly frayed, like it’s been cut last second with a pair of kitchen scissors. Barely reaches the bottom of your ass, and it makes him want to audibly growl. Make his way over to you and tug it the fuck down, and then drag you out of here for daring to look so slutty.

You look like you’re cosplaying as a goddamned whore.

But it’s still you. And he can’t tear his eyes away. Like you’re so fucking compelling, so different from any other girl in here. Like there’s a spotlight on you and just you, and you look so deliciously uncomfortable. Like you know you don’t belong here, like you know this dress and that makeup just isn’t you, and yet you smile and try and act confident. But he knows you. He knows you better than anyone here.

“Who the fuck is that?” Some guy Rafe doesn’t know whistles loudly, “Never seen her before.”

And suddenly, it’s all around him. The whole fucking room buzzing as if they all see you like how he sees you. Like every man in here has his eyes on you and solely you. Like you’re some type of fresh meat, a beautiful girl who looks innocent enough to manipulate into hooking up with, despite what you’re wearing.

He’d beat the shit out of anyone who tried.

For a moment, he just watches. Watches as you follow your little girlfriends into the kitchen. To the counter where all the booze is. He notes how your eyes widen, how you take a deep breath before smiling and accepting a drink some fucker offers you. And Rafe’s hands are shaking with rage.Half of him wants to cause a scene right the fuck now, let everyone know who the fuck it is you belong to.

But he knows it would be best if he kept his cool. Figured out what to do in a calm and calculated manner.

“Sarah’s still not here,” Topper’s whining snaps him out of his rageful thoughts.

Kelce groans, “Man, stop talking about Sarah for just two seconds. There’s so many other options here, you know how easy these Pogue sluts are.” He snickers, “Rafe definitely knows.”

“Shut up.” Rafe says warningly, his eyes still locked on you.

“Bro, just get on top of another one to get over the first one. They’re all the same anyways–”

“Shut the fuck up, there’s nothing for me to get over.” He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell his friends that.

Kelce shrugs, “If you say so.”

He knew so. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from making his way over to you, pushing past the crowd and not missing how he’s definitely not the only one staring at you right now.

“That’s some dress.”

He comes up behind you, and you jump despite him making a conscious effort not to touch you. Your eyes widen, but he thinks he detects a brief flicker of relief, as if you’re happy to see a familiar face.

“R-Rafe, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I came with my friends.” You gesture loosely, but it’s clear as day your little girl group has already dispersed without a trace, all but throwing you to the wolves. “Uh, I think they went to the bathroom or something.”

Rafe snorts, but the look on your face pulls at something inside of him, makes him want to just grab your hand and take you back home and keep you happy in a way he knows only he could. If you’d let him. But then it’s like he can’t stop himself:

“Well, homeschool, I barely recognised you in this little outfit. Maybe your friends don’t either.”

You blink up at him with black-rimmed eyes, and he sees a flash of hurt glimmer within them. And he wishes he hadn’t said it, sees how you shrink in within yourself, step back and cross your arms over your chest protectively. Tug your dress down except it’s so short it didn’t even matter.

“Homeschool,” you repeat softly “I used to think you called me that as like a cute nickname. Now I know you were just making fun of me.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. Look, I–”

“Please, just leave me alone.” You try to push past him.

“I’m surprised you were allowed out of the house in that. You’re a walking target here with a dress that short,” He moves to block your path.

“Well, it’s a good thing I can take care of myself!”

“Yeah? How’re you gonna do that when you can’t even see? With all that black shit smeared all over your eyes?”

He wants to kick when he sees the hurt on your face. It’s like he’s so used to being the asshole version of himself that everyone knew him as, like it’s so easy to slip that mask back on now that things aren’t going his way. Fuck, why couldn’t you just give in and stop fighting him?

“I can take care of myself.” You repeat, although your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers.

“You can’t do shit dressed like that,” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “Look, trust me, this party sucks. Just let me take you home.”

You push past him without another word, and it fucking angers him so bad he wants to punch the goddamned wall. Instead, he watches you with dark eyes as you weave through the crowd. How naïve of you to think you could take care of yourself. When every single man in here was staring at you like you were some hot fucking commodity. Well, he was officially done trying to help you out.

“What’re you doing here, Rafe? Thought this was beneath your country club ass.”

Rafe watches you join back up with your girl group before forcibly turning away, “Barry. Tell me you got some shit on you right now.”

“Is that how you say hello to all your friends?” Barry grins, “You look like shit by the way.”

“You obviously do have some, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“You sound like an addict, country club.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, looking beyond Barry’s shoulder at you sipping on another drink. Who’d given you this one? How many had you had? Jesus fucking Christ, was he going to keep tabs on you all night? He felt like he had to, and it’s putting him on edge.

“Who’re you lookin’ at?”

“None of your business,” Rafe snaps, “Just…Please, if you have anything on you.” He wants to snatch the drink from your hand, scold you for accepting drinks from anyone that wasn’t him. Instead, he watches helplessly as you sip it, scrunching up your nose all cutely because he bets it tastes awful. Like cheap liquor and dollar store soda.

“She’s cute,” Barry says.

“Shut up.”

“Her brothers would kick her ass if they knew she was here.”

That catches his attention, “You know her?”

“I know her brothers.” Barry snickers, patting him on the shoulder, “You might be a little out of your depth with this one, country club.”

Rafe doubts it. Pogues did not intimidate him in the slightest, and he doubts your brothers would be any different. Hell, they could be military-trained mercenaries and it wouldn’t stop him from making you his.

“I wasn’t out of my depth when I fucked her.” It comes out before he can stop himself. He just needs Barry to know. Hell, he needs everyone here to know. Even though it’s technically a lie, but he may as well have fucked you with how close he got.

Barry whistles lowly, “And yet here she is, clearly unclaimed.”

Rafe clenches his fists, eyes trained on you once more. He’d looked away for barely a minute and now you’re surrounded by men. Like a bunch of sorry ass losers vying for your attention, and it’s like you don’t even know how to react to it. You keep looking down, opening your phone, sipping your drink, pulling at your dress. Smiling awkwardly. Reaching up to adjust your glasses before realising you’re not wearing them. Fuck, you were so cute. So different from all the other girls and so fucking cute.

“Hey country club, do all the girls you fuck act like they don’t know you?”

“Don’t fuck around with me, man. I’m not in the mood.”

He runs a hand through his hair, watching like a hawk as you tug your dress down again. God, the way it hugged your ass was insane. You look so fucking hot, and despite the less than stellar interaction he’s just had with you, he still can’t help but think of fucking you. In that slutty fucking dress, but he’d push it up to your waist, rip your panties off and pocket them before jackhammering his cock inside you with such force just so you’d know never to wear something like that in public again. Maybe he’d drag you to his car, maybe one of the rooms upstairs. Or maybe right here in front of everyone while you cried because you were shy but he wouldn’t give a fuck because he’d be showing you who you belong to.

Maybe that’s what you wanted, maybe that’s why you’d dressed like this.

Barry pulls out a baggie, “You wanna push this to your preppy crowd?”

Rafe snatches it up quickly, “Sure, whatever.”

Just then, he sees you being cornered by some idiot who’s talking all animatedly with you, pushing you away from your friends, clearly trying to get you alone. Rafe sees red, pushing Barry aside and making a beeline for you.

“Hands off, asshole.” He seethes, physically putting himself between you and the guy.

The guy raises an eyebrow, “What are you, her bodyguard?”

“Meet me outside and I’ll show you exactly who the fuck I am.” Rafe grabs the guy’s shoulder when he tries to leave, “No, no, where you going, pussy? Come outside with me.”

“Rafe, stop! You’re acting insane.”

Your voice cuts through all the other noise, and the guy takes that moment to scurry away into the crowd like a little rat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckin’ pussy ass bitch.” Rafe barks out a hollow laugh before turning back to you. “Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that, Rafe?!.”

He scoffs, “Are you kidding me? He had his hands all over you.”

“No, he didn’t! And even if he did, I could’ve handled it.”

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Were you deliberately being obtuse just to make him out to be the bad guy again?

“Just stick with your girlfriends. You shouldn’t be talking to these kinds of men anyways.”

You look up at him indignantly with engorged pupils, clearly already half tipsy when you’d barely had a drink or two, “Stop it. Please. You’re not my dad!”

That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed, he wants to shoot back spitefully. Instead, he rolls his eyes, “I’m the only one here looking out for you.”

“And I’m telling you; I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself so just leave me alone, okay?”

“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Rafe hears himself say, gesturing loosely at your body, “This… This shit isn’t you.” 

Again, hurt flashes across your face. 

“You don’t know me, Rafe. You never did and you never will.”

You push past him and rejoin your girlfriends and whatever group of men they’re talking to. Making him look like a gormless fucking chump when he’s the one who was trying to save you. Well, fuck you too then.

That’s how he finds himself back with his friends, at a table snorting up line after line like it’s his fucking job. It’s a distraction really, from all the conflicting thoughts swimming around in his head. Fuck you, protect you, forget about you. You, you, you. He needs this escape. He needs to stop thinking completely.

“Some for me?” a girl sinks down on his lap, her cleavage right in his face. He feels numb to everything, barely even registers her. But nods anyways, pours out a neat line for her. She’s all over him after that, but it’s like a blur to him. The music, lights, this girl’s lips on his, his friends cheering him on. He bets this slut would let him fuck her right here on this couch in front of everyone. And what was stopping him?

She’s pressing kisses down his neck, her hands up his shirt when he opens his eyes almost on intuition. Looks straight across the room and locks gaze with you. The shock is frozen on your face for just a moment or two, before you quickly look away.

The mask was truly off now. You knew who he really was.

Forcibly, you turn away from him. And he wants to look away too, just fuck this girl to forget all about you. But then he sees you bump straight into the chest of someone else. Some stupid fucking punk ass Pogue, different from the other one. More intimidating, larger too. He grins at you, his hand pressing down on your lower back. And it plays like slow motion in front of Rafe’s eyes, and he feels like someone’s put his heart through a fucking shredder.

He pushes the girl off him, gets to his feet. The guy’s talking to you now, talking to you like he knows you. Rafe’s hands shake; he balls them into fists. Shoves his way through the crowd of bodies, keeping his eyes glued on you. The drugs in his system have made him a bit sluggish, but he can still make out the two of you, how the guy’s got you cornered against the wall now. He sees you laugh nervously, and the punk tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

That’s when Rafe sees him start moving you. Towards the stairs. And he sees your face twist in fear; sees you swallow and try to act brave. Sees you looking around for your friends but they’ve ditched you again. The guy’s gripping you tightly by the arm, no doubt sweet talking as he pulls you up the stairs. Rafe sees your chest rise and fall rapidly; sees you try and talk your way out of it. But he also knows how men think, knows how much stronger they are, and the guy keeps pushing you up the stairs.

Rafe feels like he’s a million miles away. By the time he gets to the stairs, the two of you are long gone. There’s this tightness in his chest, and it won’t go away. He pushes people out of the way, takes the stairs two at a time. Gets to the first-floor landing and grabs some fucker by the shirt.

“Where’d they go? The girl in the black dress and the guy?”

“What the hell!? I don’t know!”

He throws the guy aside, stumbles into the first door that opens. Empty. Then the second. Not them. Fuck.

He finds you behind the fourth or fifth door he throws open. And it’s almost like an out of body experience. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such visceral rage before. The guy’s got you up against the wall, trying to kiss you. His hands all over you. Your tiny fists trying to push him off, and for a split-second Rafe feels like his chest is about to explode.

He doesn’t think before he throws him off you.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Get out.”

The guy snorts, “How about you get out? We were in the middle of something.”

Rafe’s not in the mood to fuck around. He looks at you, sees you sniffle, readjust your dress. Your face is usually expressive, but he can’t read it now. And usually, beating up on Pogues like this guy is an amusing pastime for him, maybe even a hobby. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes with it, a certain rush of adrenaline. But one look at you, and he knows now isn’t the time for that.

“Get out. I won’t ask you again.”

The guy – all tattoos and burly chest – chuckles, tries to grab you again, “I ain’t leaving bro. Hell, you can stay too if you wanna watch.”

That’s when Rafe pulls his gun out.

You gasp. The guy stops short. Holds his hands up.

“Hey, c’mon man, it’s never that serious–”

“You don’t want me to ask again.” Rafe points the barrel straight at him. The coke’s coursing through his veins, pumping through his blood. He’s never entered the Cut without his gun, and in the state he’s in right now, he’d risk getting thrown in fucking jail because he can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t shoot this fucking pervert right now.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” The fucking pussy leaves quickly after that. Once he’s gone, Rafe tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. He feels completely calm in the moment. Eerily so, but he knows it’s that certain type of calm that only comes before a storm.

He locks eyes with you, and there’s a moment of absolute silence. All he can hear is your shallow breathing, short and rapid. Glistening eyes looking up at him in what he could only describe as fear. Or reverence. He can’t tell, and it bothers him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s trying so hard to keep his voice level, but it almost shakes with anger. Anger at the situation, at what he’s just seen. Anger at that punk that he knows, he knows, he’s gonna take out on you.

You swallow, “I…I…”

“You realise what the fuck would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here?” He takes one step towards you, for once not giving a fuck when you flinch. “I know you’re innocent but you can’t be that fucking stupid.”

Hurt flashes across your face, “I could’ve taken care of myself–”

“You wouldn’t have been able to do shit.”

You shake your head, “Yes, I could! I can handle myself just fine, and my friends knew I was up here, they saw me, so they would’ve come–”

He stares, incredulous as it dawns on him just how naïve you actually were, “they’re not your fucking friends.”

“Neither are you!”

“I saved you.”

Your face crumples up like a piece of paper, your chest rising up and down. Like you’re trying your hardest not to burst into tears, “I’m not some naïve little girl who needs saving, Rafe.”

“Yeah? Is that what you were trying to prove tonight?”

“No! I wasn’t trying to prove anything, I just… I just…” your lower lip quivers, and yet you still will yourself not to cry, “I’m just… I’m not naïve, okay? I’m not some stupid little girl that men just... take advantage of.”

He runs his hand through his hair, “Do you even realise what you’re saying? He was going to take advantage of you.”

“I wouldn’t have let him!” Your eyes are wet with tears, and it’s smudging the black makeup, making it smear and run and you look so hauntingly beautiful like this, “Not how I let you.”

And there it was. It all came back down to Rafe. He was always the bad guy in everyone’s eyes, even yours. Even after he’d saved you. He was evil, through and through – isn’t that what he always knew deep down? Isn’t that what his father saw when he looked at him? And his stepmother? And Sarah? Even now, you look scared like a little fucking mouse. Scared of him, and not the fucker who’d just tried to force himself on you. It was always Rafe who was the villain in everyone’s story, no matter how hard he tried to protect them.

“I stopped.” Rafe steps closer, knowing you’ve got the wall behind you and nowhere to run, “I stopped when you asked me to. He wouldn’t have.”

“You lied about everything.”

He remains silent, not wanting to rehash this shit with you right now. Instead, he closes the gap between you both, pressing you against the wall. You push against his chest, but it’s ineffectual. He needs to touch you, lay claim on you. It’s like an innate, animalistic desire to mark his territory after that fucker’s had his hands all over you.

“G-Get away from me.”

“No.”

“Rafe. Don’t.”

You’d already made up your mind that he was the bad guy, no matter what he said or did. And it would be so easy to be the villain you clearly thought he was.

Gently, he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You gulp, half-heartedly attempt to bat his hand away when it lands on your hip.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

“I could’ve gotten away–”

“Nobody else is allowed to touch you.” He says it quietly, but he knows you’ve heard him.

Your eyes widen, “R-Rafe–”

“Only me.”

His lips press against yours in a kiss so possessive, it almost knocks you off your feet. But he’s got you, holding you steady and pressing you against the wall with all his weight. And he’s dreamed of this moment, dreamed of kissing you again. And your lips are so soft, so perfect, exactly how he remembered. Yet all he can think of is making you forget that other man had ever even touched you. His tongue is in your mouth, claiming you like he’s swallowing you whole from the inside out. And he’s so much bigger than you, so much stronger that he doesn’t even notice or register if you’re trying to push him off. It’s ineffectual, irrelevant. He needs this. Needs you to know you’re his.

“Stop!” You finally manage to push him off you, and your lips already looked bruise from his kiss. Bruised and so fucking pretty. Another mark of him on you.

He’s staring at your lips when you slap him hard across the face.

Immediately, your face crumbles, like you’re horrified at what you’ve done.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m… I’m–”

You burst into tears. Like waterfalls flowing down your cheeks. You reach up to blindly wipe at your face, smearing your black eyeliner all over your eyes. And he just watches you, the sting of your ineffectual little slap already fading. Watches how you sob, how your whole body shakes. Watches as your wild eyes look somewhere beyond him. At the mirror in the corner side of the bedroom. Watches you stare at your reflection like you’re looking at a stranger.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper like it’s a confession, but more to yourself than to him. “I-I don’t know who I am, I don’t… I don’t…”

In that moment, he sees something broken inside you. Something he’d never seen before. Maybe it wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s only here now. Maybe he was the one who’d broke you. The thought makes him sick to his fucking stomach.

Rafe hoists you up, slings you over his shoulder without another word. You pound against his back.

“No, no, let me go! Let me go!”

He ignores your cries. All he knows is that he needs to get you out of here. You didn’t belong in a place like this. You were too soft, too sweet to be corrupted. He had to save you again, even if he was the villain in your eyes.

He carries you out the bedroom, past the landing, down the stairs. Everyone stares; he doesn’t give a fuck. He weaves through the crowd of writhing bodies, the pulsating music drowning out your cries. One of his hands firmly holding your dress down over your ass while you wiggled and squirm against him.

He only puts you down when he’s got you outside in the back where his car’s parked. It’s a hot summer night, sticky and humid. The stars look huge, almost like they’re weighing down on his shoulders. And reflecting in your eyes, making them shine with indignance and that fierceness he’s only recently learnt you possess.

“Get in the car.”

Incredulously, you shake your head, “I’m going back to my friends.”

“Don’t fuck with me right now. Get in the car.”

You try to storm past him, but he’s already so much quicker than you. The copious amounts of coke he’s snorted tonight paired with the pure adrenaline and determination of wanting to get you out of here makes you no match for him. You, in your heels which you weren’t used to walking in, and that tiny, tight fucking dress. Fuck, he needed you out of here. Now.

Your lips press into a thin line, and your eyes look so big as you stare up at him pleadingly, “I can’t, Rafe. Please. I can’t go with you.”

His face softens, “I’m gonna take you home.”

“I don’t trust you.”

His jaw tenses. I FUCKING SAVED YOU! He wants to scream. Instead, his features grow stoic, the mask slipping back on.

“I don’t care if you don’t trust me. You’re not going back in there. You should’ve never gone to a party like this to begin with.”

“I can handle myself–”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, don’t start with that again. You can’t handle shit, okay? I handled shit back there. God knows what would’ve happened to you if it weren’t for me.” He grabs your wrist, ignoring your sharp intake of breath and yanking you back towards his car. He opens the door, tries to push you inside.

It’s when you’re fighting against him that he realises how drunk you are. God knew how many cheap drinks you’d been given tonight, and you’d been polite enough to accept all of them. Probably thought drinking them would help you fit in better, socialise easier. And now your movements are sluggish, slow, erratic.

He easily throws you into the backseat of his car, child locking the doors so you don’t escape.

He half expects you to launch yourself at him the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. But surprisingly, you’ve gone quiet. Gathered yourself in the corner at the back, hugging your legs with your face buried between your knees as you sobbed to yourself.

And there are so many things he wants to say, now that he’s finally got you alone. But it’s like there’s something lodged in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to say or how to even speak. He’s angry, concerned, buzzing from everything that’s just happened. Silence ensues, with just the gentle hum of the car as he drives into the night.

He pulls up to the now familiar dirt road that is your street and unlocks the doors. Waits a handful of seconds, surprised you don’t immediately jump out of his car. Instead, he watches silently through the rearview mirror as you rummage drunkenly through your little purse.

“I, uh, I don’t have my keys.”

“What?”

“I must’ve dropped them at the party… your voice trails off before you clear your throat, “It’s okay, I’ll just–”

“Your mom can’t let you in?” Although Rafe bets your mother would have a fucking heart attack if she saw you being dropped off in his car.

 You swallow, “She’s not at home. She’s… working.”

For the whole night? This was the second time your mother was away from home for the entire night. He wonders what exactly she does for work.

You sit up and open the door, jumping out of the car and immediately teetering in your heels. You were still very drunk, and it shows. Rafe sighs, getting out too.

“You got a spare key under the doormat or something?”

You hold on to the side of his car to regain your balance, blinking rapidly. Your pupils are so dilated, he can see his own reflection in them. And in that moment, it’s like all the frustration and anger he’s feeling at you for how stupid and naïve you’d been tonight, it’s it all dissipates because of how cute and lovely you look in the moonlight. Drunk and fumbling and innocent and away from that party.

“I… I think I’ll just camp out on the porch. The sun should rise soon…”

Rafe stares at you as if you’re deluded. It was only a little past midnight; the sun wasn’t going to rise for a while. And even if it was, there was no way he was leaving you out here in the open on this seedy little street on the Cut.

 “Get back in the car.”

Of course, you choose now to be stubborn again, “N-No! I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah? I know the kind of people that crawl around out here at night. Get in the car.”

You stick your chin out, “Stop trying to help me, Rafe! I’ve lived here all my life, I know what I’m doing–”

He hauls you back into the car. It isn’t too hard, considering how much smaller you are than him. Weaker. Drunk, too. You try to fight against him again, but not too much. Like you know making a scene right now wouldn’t be the best thing to do.

“Where are we going?” You ask timidly once he’s revved the car back up and driven off your street.

“My house.”

You don’t say anything and for once, he’s glad.

*

Tannyhill looms big and shadowy in the moonlight. Rafe watches you gape drunkenly, probably drinking in how big it is just like you had the first time he’d brought you here. You’d remained quiet for most of the drive here, just staring sorrowfully down at your shoes. Once or twice, he’d caught your eye through the rearview mirror, but you’d looked away every time.

“Wait.” He orders before getting out of the car. He opens the door for you and hoists you up into his arms. He means to put you down on your feet, but decides to just carry you. And by some miracle, you let him. And he can’t make sense of this hot and cold behaviour, how all night you’ve been switching between two different characters. Loud, outspoken, angry, not letting him touch you, to then soft, docile, weepy and innocent.  

“I’m scared,” you confess quietly, your pupils dark, glassy and shining in the moonlight. You’re just laying limply in his arms now, as he carries you down the cobblestone driveway of Tannyhill.

“You’re just drunk.”

“No I…” You twist your face to look up at him, and he feels it, so he meets your gaze, “I’m scared of you, Rafe.”

It hits him like a bullet, but he ignores it. Buries it down, deep down in the recesses of his mind where he buried all the other shit. Like his dad not loving him, like the memories of his mother. Buried deep down and abandoned, because he couldn’t deal with that shit. He can’t. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of him. He had saved you.

He doesn’t say anything, expects you to fall back into whatever drunk stupor you’ve been drifting in and out of.

“I didn’t know you had a gun.”

Hadn’t he known you were going to bring that up? He’s surprised it’s taken this long, but he can still remember the frozen shock and fear on your face when you’d seen him point his gun at that guy.  

“You don’t know a lot of things.”

He waits for you to bring up the other things you’d seen him do tonight. All the drugs, or maybe the girl he’d been kissing in front of you. In fact, he half hopes you bring up the second part because it would show that you’d cared, that it had affected you.

But you don’t say anything else, just stare off into the distance. And yet you’re still allowing him to carry you, you’re not trying to get away from him despite being scared. He doesn’t want to cling to that, but a part of him does.

He’s somehow able to fish his keys out of his pocket and unlock the front doors, all while holding you steady with one arm. You’re just so small, and slot perfectly into him, like you were made for him. He’s glad it’s gone well past midnight; means he doesn’t have to deal with his family and their questions. Not that they’d even bother questioning him – they no longer cared enough to.

It’s when he’s carrying you up the marble staircase that you start struggling against him again.

“Not your bedroom–”

“Where the fuck else do you want me to take you? The couch?” Rose would damn near have a heart attack if she woke up to you sleeping on her precious antique furniture imported straight from Paris or wherever the fuck. Not that Rafe cared, but he’d rather have you in his room.

You keep protesting softly, but he takes you to his bedroom anyways. Closes the door and locks it. Places you gently on his bed. And he’s dreamt of this moment for a while, and would’ve savoured it had it been under different circumstances. But he feels a weird mix of leftover anger and a sort of bittersweet sadness. You didn’t want to be here at all. Like any feelings you may have developed for him in that one week had so easily been switched off, and yet he couldn’t switch anything off no matter how hard he tried.

“You should, uh, get some sleep,” he says, quickly turning away lest you think he’s trying to get into bed with you. Rummages through his closet, tosses you one of his shirts, “Here.”

“I’m okay, thank you.” You’ve pulled yourself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of his king-sized bed. You look even smaller than usual, and you’re doing that thing again – hugging your arms protectively around yourself as if he’s some fucking predator who’s kidnapped you, instead of the guy who’d just saved you from sexual assault.

“Just put it on.”

“I’m fine in this.”

Rafe sighs, pacing the room for a second to get his thoughts straight. Then he makes a beeline for you, kneels down in front of you before thinking. Reaches out to touch your legs before he sees you flinch and pulls back.

“Look, I’m not gonna try anything, okay? I know I lied and manipulated you before, but I’m not doing that right now.”

You stare at him for a long few seconds before swallowing, “I can’t tell when someone’s lying.”

He nods, “I remember. And I told you I’d be straight up with you.”

“But you weren’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know, but I’m not doing that shit anymore now, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you so just put it on.”

Your dress looks uncomfortably tight now, the straps digging into your shoulders and the bottom riding up. Again, you tug it down, and bite your lip before sighing, accepting the soft shirt.

“O-Okay. But you need to turn around and close your eyes.”

He huffs, but he does it. Stares at the wall for a good ten seconds. Then fifteen. Twenty. Huffs again. “You done?”

He turns back around when you don’t respond, only to find you struggling with the zipper. The dress is so goddamned tight, it may as well have been painted on. And you’re drunk, can barely locate the zip to begin with, and it’s pathetic how you keep tugging at it. And so fucking cute.

“Stand still,” he orders gently, and by the grace of whatever the fuck, you obey for once. Breathing shallow as he comes up behind you, and then your breath hitches with a cute little squeak when he places a hand on your hip to steady you. Easily undoes your zipper, and he likes how he’s the one who’s done it. He likes taking care of you, wants to help you out of it and put his shirt on you himself.

But all too quickly, you pull away, holding the dress taut against your body. He rolls his eyes and turns around again, listens to you shuffle around as you change.

When he turns back the second time, his heart almost leaps up into his throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so pretty, so precious, so innocent. His shirt is huge on you; makes you look so small and cute. Eyes so big as they blink up at him, and you look so vulnerable. Like you were done playing the part of a whore for the night and you were yourself again.

He finds himself swallowing hard, “You look…”

“Don’t.” You cover yourself with your arms again. Words can’t explain how much he hates when you do that.

He clears his throat, eyes trailing down your bare legs. Somehow, you’ve managed to change out of your dress without even taking your shoes off. And now you’re standing there teetering in your heels, looking at him with those big eyes of yours.

“Sit.” He orders you again, gently pushing you down to the edge of his bed. Again, he kneels in front of you. His hand on your smooth calf, stroking down before he can stop himself. You squeak again, but this time you don’t stop him. He doesn’t know why sometimes you let him touch you, and other times you don’t. But he’s not one to question it.

Your heels have ribbons that criss-cross around your calves, and he works to untie them. Deliberately slowly. And it’s getting him so hard, despite everything, to be the one taking care of you like this. How you’d huffed and puffed and gone to this party, pretended to be an attention-seeking little slut, all for you to end up in his bedroom anyways.

“You really had to wear these?” He murmurs, although he’s secretly glad you wore such complicated shoes because you’re letting him help you take them off.

“I… I thought I looked pretty in them.”

He feels a growl emanate from somewhere in his throat, remembering all the men who’d been staring at you so brazenly tonight, “You do. That’s the problem.”

Silence. And then:

“Why do you care?” It comes out like a genuine question, rather than a spiteful remark, “I…I saw you kissing that other girl tonight.”

“That was nothing.”

“I see.” 

He wants you to ask him more, maybe show that you’re jealous, that you wished he’d been kissing you instead. But you don’t. 

“She came onto me,” he feels the need to explain, “and she didn’t mean anything to me.”

You nod, “Okay.”

It irritates him, how you’re not at all fazed. When every time he’d seen a man approach you at the party, he’d wanted to throttle them with his bare hands. As for the guy who’d taken you upstairs? He deserved to be shot. Point blank. Maybe the only reason Rafe hadn’t done it was because he didn’t want to traumatise you.

And yet… you don’t seem to care at all. Or maybe you’re too drunk to care. You look so fucking adorable, sitting on his bed in his shirt, letting him undo your heels for you like a good little girl. 

“I didn’t mean anything to you either.” You say it so softly, he almost misses it.

Rafe flinches, “That’s not true.”

“But you said it. You said I was just another Pogue who spread her legs for you.” 

“Yeah? Well, I say a lot of shit I don’t mean.” He slips your heel off, and he can’t help but stroke your dainty, bare foot before moving on to your other shoe.

“That’s what I’ve realised,” you stare somewhere beyond his shoulder, “Everyone keeps saying things they don’t mean. And I keep believing them.”

He glances up at you, “Who are you talking about?”

“My friends. They said they wanted to be friends with me, but they… they haven’t even asked if I’m okay.”

He almost snorts out loud, but stops himself just in time.

“And it’s not just them, or you, it’s everyone. Even this guy I was supposed to do my project with. I thought we were getting along fine, but now he won’t even look at me. He asked to join someone else’s group, so now I have to do it alone.” Your voice breaks, “I don’t even know what I did to make him hate me…”

Rafe clears his throat and looks away for a second, “You can’t count on everyone, baby.” The pet name just slips out naturally, but you don’t even notice.

“I know. I wish college came with a manual, because I keep messing up and trusting the wrong people.”

“You can trust me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He takes his chance, sits up on the bed next to you and grabs your hand, and hurriedly keeps talking, “I know I fucked up but I saved you tonight. That should count for something.”

Your lower lip trembles as you look at your tiny hand in his much larger one, and yet you don’t pull away.

“Y-You confuse me so much, Rafe.”

He could say the same thing about you. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t do words and all that shit. He’s never been good at it and he’d just mess things up even more than he already has. He knows what he is good at. And he knows he shouldn’t do it. And yet...

Rafe presses his lips against yours. Softly. Cautiously. Yet with determination. You don’t respond, and it’s like he wants you to so bad. He can’t stand it. His hand goes up to cup your jaw, thumb gently stroking your cheek. He thinks he feels you sigh, or he could just be imagining it.

“Stop,” you beg against his lips, but you don’t push him away.

“Just let me,”

“Rafe, no–”

“Please.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. And he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he promised you he wouldn’t try anything tonight and he’s going back on his fucking word but he doesn’t care. He needs this. Needs this more than you know. More than he himself knows. Because kissing you feels like he’s been parched his whole life and you’re the only thing that can quench his goddamned thirst. He can’t let you go. He doesn’t know why but he just can’t.

He pulls you into his lap, and you squeak into his mouth, your little hands grabbing on to his shoulders and it feels so familiar. He increases the pace of the kiss, slowly slipping his tongue into your mouth, and you taste so fucking sweet. He’s missed this so much, despite how he’s only kissed you a handful of times before this but you fit so perfectly on him. Like you were made for him and him only. And he deserves this. He’d saved you.

“I can’t,” you whisper brokenly, “I can’t let you take advantage of me again.”

“I’m not,” he says between desperate kisses, “I promise you I’m not.”

“You-You’ll tell all your friends. And you’ll laugh like how you did before.”

He kisses down your jaw, your neck, your skin so sweet, “I won’t, baby.”

“You’re just using me. Y-You’ve probably made another bet.”

Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he tell you that all he can ever think about anymore is you? That it makes him sick, the fact that he’d hurt you? That he’d do anything to take that stupid bet back, to get you to look at him how you used to. What the fuck was stopping him from saying it?

But he can’t, so he just keeps kissing you, and hopes you’ll accept it. Hopes you’ll get him, which was wishful thinking, because nobody got him. His hands curl into your hair, pressing you closer to him, and it feels visceral, it feels desperate. And yet, it almost feels unreal, like he’s kissing you on borrowed time, and it would be over soon and he wouldn’t get his fill.

Sure enough, you pull away, “Why are you doing this, Rafe?”

“Because I want to.” He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “And I think you do too.”

You press your lips together, words coming out hushed and shaky, “No one would respect me if I went back to you, knowing how much you lied and everything you said about me.”

“Fuck what everyone else thinks.”

You slip off his lap, “I wouldn’t respect myself.”

He wills himself to say something, anything to reassure you. But nothing comes out. It’s like his mind is frozen, betraying him once again because he’s shitty with words and can’t think of the right thing to say. And it’s getting too much for him… Too emotional, too vulnerable. He can’t.

“You’re thinking about this too much,” he says finally, and his bedroom’s dark except for the dull lamplight, and you look so fucking pretty that he’s in awe.

You sniffle, “M-My mom said I’m not allowed to see you.”

He exhales, “And yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” you echo weakly. “She doesn’t even know I was at the party tonight. I snuck out.” 

He’d figured as much, “She’s kept you in a cage for long enough, don’t you think?”

You shrug, but he can tell you’re mulling over what he’s said.

Rafe pulls you back into his lap, “I don’t care what your mom says. I don’t care what anyone says.” He pauses, the words I like you, I want you to be my girlfriend on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t be vulnerable like that, he just can’t, “You’re mine. And you need to understand that.” 

“I don’t wanna be yours. I want to be my own person.” 

“Shhh,” he kisses you again, “Remember how I said I’d take care of you? It’s because you’re someone who needs taking care of. Your mom’s coddled you all your life, so you have no idea how the real world works. That’s why you need someone like me.”

You swallow, looking up at him with those shining, imploring eyes. You’re so sweet and naive, you don’t even realise how much, “I want to figure out how to take care of myself.” 

“But you can’t. You keep trusting the wrong people and getting yourself hurt.” The irony of his statement isn’t lost on him, but he hopes the alcohol in your system will make you ignore it.

“That’s what my mom says.” 

“Forget about your mother. Let me take care of you. I’ll make all the tough decisions, you won’t even have to think about it.” 

Rafe lays you down on his bed, right in the centre where he knows you won’t scurry away. He hovers on top of you, much like how he did in your tiny bedroom weeks ago. But this time, you’re in his territory. And he has complete control. And maybe, just maybe, you’re drunk enough to trust him again.

He grabs your hand, pressing his much bigger palm against yours, “Look how little you are. You really think you could’ve protected yourself tonight without me?”

You blink up at him with big, dark, sad eyes. Bite your lip like you’re unsure but he thinks it’s so sexy. 

“Mm, that’s what I thought.” He strokes your hand, his thumb grazing his initials on your palm over and over again, “You’re so small and cute, and completely out of your depth. You need me.”

“N-No…”

“Yes.”  He kisses the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands knotting into your hair. You whimper, but you lie there and let him do it. It’s because you want him too. He knows it. And he allows himself to imagine it again. You under his wing, quietly allowing him to make all your decisions for you. Chanel bag on your arm, a dozen more in your closet. All gifts from him, to let everyone know who exactly was taking care of you.

And there’d be no more parties, especially not in the Cut. He wouldn’t allow you to attend them because you were simply too naïve and sweet. He’d take you to drinks at the country club, or maybe to a game of golf. You’d sit pretty in his lap, like a cute little ornament. His little girlfriend that he’d rescued from poverty, his little doll, that he’d dote on and dress up. All his.

“I don’t want that, Rafe. Please stop.” 

YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT! He wants to scream. Sure, he’d wronged you but you were too fucking naïve to understand how he was your best bet right now. That he would take care of you, and no one would ever fuck with you again when you were under his wing, because he’d kill them.

“Just kiss me back,” he whispers against your lips, his hands itching to slip under his shirt you’re wearing. He kisses you again, hoping you sense his urgency, sense how badly he wants you.

“Please stop, I can’t let you, I can’t…”

Rafe huffs in frustration, a few choice words on the tip of his tongue. Stop being such a tease, or you owe me for tonight, or you wouldn’t have agreed to come to my house if you didn’t want this.

But he realises you’re the only girl in the world he doesn’t want to say those things to. He can’t say them, can’t bring himself to utter a single spiteful word despite the fact had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated even for a second.

He’s about to pull away when:

“R-Rafe? I… I think I’m gonna…”

He draws back at your abrupt shift in tone. The room’s dark, but he can see you’ve suddenly gone a shade of green. Your chest heaves underneath him, your eyes widening. Realisation dawns on him in a millisecond and he scrambles off you. Pulls you upright, debating whether to point out the bathroom to you. That’s when your whole upper body lurches, your hand going to cover your mouth. Without another thought, he picks you up and carries you into his bathroom himself.

He barely gets you to the toilet in time before you start throwing up. Hunched over the toilet bowl, barely holding your hair back. Letting it all out. And he just stands there and watches, never having been in such a situation before.

“I’m sorry,” you sob drunkenly between heaves, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, this is so rude of me.”

Despite everything that had happened tonight, despite how mad you were at him, here you were apologising to him. It makes him feel it again, that weird feeling in his chest. It comes in waves so strong he’s almost knocked off his feet. Instead, he crouches down behind you, gently holds your hair back.

And it feels so alien, because Rafe hasn’t done this for anyone ever. He wasn’t some pussy ass bitch who went soft on the girls he dated. But this… you… it was different.

“It’s alright,” he hears himself say softly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back. And it almost feels like he’s no longer himself, like he’s someone else. Affection had always felt unnatural to him, like he was putting on an act any time he tried to show it. And so he never did. It was easier to just to have everyone be scared of him.

But this right here, sitting on the gleaming floor of his bathroom with you, it felt… it just felt like something. Something he can’t quite put his finger on, except he likes the feeling. And you look so sweet, so vulnerable. He feels almost a sense of pride, because he’s the one taking care of you right now.

You keep apologising. Even once you’re done throwing up, and he helps you to your feet. Takes you to the sink, lets you clean yourself up. Hell, a part of him wants to sit you down on the marble countertop and clean you up himself. But it seems too… intimate. And Rafe doesn’t really know how to be like that.

“I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup once he places you back down on his bed. You make a move to get back up, “Just let me go clean it up, I can’t bear that I left your bathroom in such a state–”

“No, don’t.” Rafe gently pushes you back down, and you’re so little and cute and tipsy that you fall right back on your butt, “The maid will clean it tomorrow.”

You blink as if you don’t understand, “But it’s my mess.”

Rafe rubs his temple, “It’s her job. Now get back into bed.” He goes over to his mini-fridge, thanking his lucky stars there’s a bottle of water in there amongst all the beer and other bullshit. “Here.”

Obediently, you gulp the water down like a good girl before carefully setting the bottle on his bedside table. Your makeup’s almost all washed off now, face scrubbed clean and you look so innocent it makes his head hurt. Like there’s so much he wants to say to you but he can’t figure out how to get you to understand him.

He sighs, “You should get some sleep.”

“Where’re you gonna–?”

He nods at his leather armchair on the other end of the room. You look over and swallow.

“Oh, uh, I could sleep on the chair. It’s not right that you have to–”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It’s your bed…”

Drunkenly, you try to get to your feet again. It’s amusing, and he gently pushes you back down a second time before grabbing the duvet cover and throwing it over you.

“Go to sleep,” he repeats, ignoring how his heart thrums and that feeling manifests again. That weird, bubbling feeling under the surface of his chest that seemed to appear every time you did something cute or enamouring or sweet. “I’ll drop you home in the morning.”

You’re too inebriated to argue any further, which he’s thankful for. His thoughts feel all jumbled up, like he can’t understand for the life of him how this is the second time he’s had you alone in a bedroom and he hasn’t fucked you. But now, he settles down on his armchair and watches you slowly make yourself comfortable on his sheets. Shuffle around a bit before tucking the covers till your chin.

It doesn’t take you long to knock out. And he just keeps watching you, how sweet you look, how perfectly you fit into his room, his house, his life. And he hates how he can’t completely read you – can’t tell how you feel because you didn’t want him to touch you and yet you’re sleeping on his bed, and not anyone else’s. How you kept saying you wanted to take care of yourself and yet you’d let him take you home tonight, let him change you and tuck you in. Take care of you.

Rafe decides you have no idea what you want. You’re too naïve. Which means it’s his job to teach you. Teach you that you belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let you go.

He tries to sleep after that. He really does. But the armchair is fucking uncomfortable, and it’s his room. And he’d saved you tonight.

It doesn’t take him long to get back into bed next to you. Gently, he pulls the covers back over you both, his heart skipping a beat when you immediately cuddle into him. It only further affirms that you wanted this — you just don’t know it yet. He runs his hands up and down your body, from your waist, to your ribcage, to your arms. You mumble, shuffle around sleepily, and somehow end up with your head on his chest. 

He kisses the top of your forehead, before allowing himself to fall asleep too.

***

It’s all too soon that he’s woken up to loud, incessant knocking. Rafe swears under his breath, rubbing his eyes and immediately checking his phone. Fuck. It was past noon. The sunlight streams in through the large windows, landing perfectly across your face. It scrunches cutely as the knocking continues, but you’re still asleep.

So fuckin’ pretty, he thinks as he gazes at you, all serene and adorable and still very much in his arms. Slowly, he detangles himself from you, sits on the edge of his bed. His phone’s filled up with texts he’d ignored from the night before.

Topper: Bro, are you okay? People are saying you tried to shoot someone.

Topper: Everyone saw you leaving with the homeschool girl.

Barry: You pull a gun on a guy??? You can’t fucking do that shit.

Barry: You don’t know how dangerous these people can be.

Barry: ??? You’re fucked.

If pulling guns on Pogues meant he was fucked, then Rafe would’ve been fucked a long time ago. But most Pogues were stupid and inept, and so he was not worried. In fact, he fucking dares that punk from yesterday to show his face now. Rafe would murder him for real, and he wouldn’t even need a fucking gun.

The knocking increases, growing louder and more rapid. Rafe swears again, glancing back at you. You shuffle and turn on your side, lips all pouty as you cuddle into his pillow.

He makes his way over to the door, unlocking it only to see Ward staring back at him in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you’re just waking up now.”

Rafe yawns, but straightens up at the same time, “I was out late.”

Ward blinks, does that think where he exhales loudly through his nose. He does that whenever he feels disappointed, which was all the time whenever Rafe was around him.

“Everyone’s waiting downstairs for you, Rafe.”

Rafe blinks before it dawns on him. The brunch. The business meeting. The random girl he was being set up with.

“Shit, that’s today?”

A beat of silence. Ward looks like he’s about to choke him out, “Well, son, you’ve proven again how you can’t fucking be trusted. With anything.”

Rafe rubs his forehead before running a hand through his hair and looking back at you. He can’t be fucked with this shit right now, not with his headache and the fact you’re in his bed and all this yelling would wake you up.

“I’m sorry.”

“You get your ass down there in five fucking minutes, you hear me?”

Rafe doesn’t think he has it in him, to sit through some fuck ass brunch right now. He glances back at you again. This time, Ward sees and narrows his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got another hooker in there. Jesus Christ, Rafe. It’s like me talking about this family’s image means nothing to you, the way you bring these hookers into my house in fucking droves.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“No?” Ward looks fucking livid, Rafe wonders how he has the energy to be like this so early in the day, “You think I’m stupid?”

“No.”

“Does it go over your fucking head every time I tell you it’s time for you to stop this bullshit and settle down? People are watching us, Rafe. Potential investors, business partners. They see all this shit, okay? And yet you insist on going around and–”

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“What?”

Rafe coughs, again looking back at you to make sure you’re still sleeping, “Uh, she’s my girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend? Since when?”

Rafe doesn’t quite know why he’s just thrown this lie out in his father’s face. Maybe because in his mind, it’s not really even a lie. You weren’t just some random girl, you were his girl – even if you didn’t realise it just yet. Or maybe he’s lied because he wants his father to just take him seriously for once.

“Since a while now.” He clears his throat, “She was out late last night and I went to pick her up.”

“How come I’ve never seen her before?”

“It’s serious so I was trying to keep it under wraps,” lying has always come easily to Rafe, and so he speaks smoothly, quickly gaining traction, “And you’ve seen her. On the security footage. She’s the one I had on the patio.”

Ward nods thoughtfully, “The one in that dress? The cute one?”

A strong wave of irritation courses through Rafe’s body, he takes a few quick, deep breaths to keep it at bay, “Yes.”

There’s another long pause as Ward takes it all in. At one point, he looks beyond Rafe’s shoulder and into the bedroom as if to get a glimpse of you. Rafe’s quick to subtly shut the door and step outside of it. Fuck if anyone else saw you right now.

“Fine. You can skip the brunch. We have a business meeting afterwards though. Join us for that, if you can clean yourself up in time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Rafe? I expect a formal introduction with her. If she’s to be a part of this family then you can’t keep her a secret for too long.”

“Okay.”

Rafe breathes a sigh of relief when his father leaves, and he returns to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

You’re still lying there, in the middle of his king-sized bed with sunlight dappled all over your face. Completely asleep and so serenely sweet. It makes his heart lurch, but he swallows that feeling quickly.

Your phone’s glowing dimly beside you. He doesn’t hesitate at all, whipping it up to see who exactly was texting you. It’s your mother. Multiple messages. He can’t see what they say without unlocking your phone first, but he can guess she probably wouldn’t be too happy with you right now. In a sick way, the idea of that makes him glad.

And Rafe just sits there on his bed, watching you sleep. Strokes your cheek with his thumb, watches as you lean into his touch. That’s when he consolidates it in his head. After last night, you were his. Completely. And now everyone would know. His family. His friends. Your mother. The whole of fucking Kildare would know you belonged to him. You’d know too. And you’d accept it. He’d make sure of it.

Even if that meant turning you against your mother completely.

A/N: Okay. There we go. Rafe's lie counter is through the roof lmfao - how many times did this man lie throughout this chapter???

Anyways, please PLEASE let me know what you thought of this chapter. Any opinions/predictions/thoughts/ANYTHING. Feedback means the world to me. I'll be honest, I am very very nervous about posting this chapter bc I don't know what people will think of it. Like genuinely. And it's a bit scary. I really did try my best to get this out for you guys as quickly as I possibly could write it. Your feedback would mean the world - so please, if you read this and like it, do also consider dropping a comment or reblog or sending me an ask on what you think!

Also, some questions! You don't have to answer, these are just for fun!

Do YOU think reader could've protected herself at the party if Rafe hadn't been there?

What exactly does Rafe feel for reader after this chapter?

What do you think Ward will think of reader?

Do you think reader will go along with Rafe's plans or keep fighting against him?

ANYWAYS. that's it. i'll try to sleep now. please please let me know what you think. thank you so much for your patience and ily <3

[loves-alibi]

Retired!Robby who always wanted kids but never settled down. You who wants kids, but can't find a man who’s willing to support your career by supporting the family.

I mean… it’s a no-brainer, right?

Sure, you’re a lot younger than Robby and having kids with a man you’re not married to isn't ideal, but you just don’t want to put off starting a family until it’s too late. Plus, you know Robby, having been his resident for four years and his attending for another two before his early retirement. He’s proven himself time and time again that he’s a good and honest man.

You come to an agreement at a barbeque he was hosting. With only minimal alcohol in your respective systems, you shake on it: co-parenting. The next morning you meet at a café to talk more logistically.

Public or private school? Robby insists on private.

Living together or separately? Together, of course. It wouldn’t be fair to either of you or the baby to separate the family. Plus, Robby already owns a spacious (and gorgeous) home.

College funds? Set it up early and make sure it’s plentiful.

iPads? Fuck no.

Artificial insemination or the old-fashioned way? Robby respectfully left this question up to you, to which you said in your best impression of an I-don’t-find-you-fucking-me-raw-hot voice, “We might as well…”

When your next ovulation rolls around, you schedule time off of work to have what you coined baby making time, much to Robby’s chagrin.

During those five days, Robby goes through more little blue pills than he’d like to admit, and you get bent over in more positions than you thought possible.

Robby is endearingly methodical. He checks your temperature every morning and evening. He ensures you're well fed and hydrated. And after he fills you with his cum, Robby props your hips up with a pillow, even when you remind him that it won’t make it stick.

Robby is also incredibly intimate. Between rounds, when you’re wrapped up in his arms, he's hand-feeding you some fancy granola bars from Whole Foods. The pillow talk is sparse, but meaningful. At almost every step, Robby is thanking you, reminding you how big of a step it is that you're taking. Yet, somehow, you're not worried.

Your heart aches when the final day of baby making time rolls around. Robby has you with your face pressed in the crook of his neck. He rubs a once-calloused hand up and down the length of your bare back. Every now and then he whispers to you praises and gratitudes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

It nearly tears you apart on your walk to work the next morning when Robby texts you: Keep me updated. Don’t be a stranger.

Stranger you are not, texting him almost anything you think would warrant a response. He gets up to date on workplace gossip, your patients, to even pictures of your lunches. It goes like this for the better part of a month. One Sunday, Robby wakes to two words from you on his phone.

I’m late.

He shows up to your house with three different pregnancy tests, a bouquet of flowers, and a box of chocolates to give you to calm your nerves while the tests develop. He holds you during those 15 minutes, reassuring you that things would be okay no matter what the test says.

If you kiss him when all three tests turn up positive, that's nobody business but your own.

When Robby leaves you that night, he already has a plan to get you moved into his home by the end of the month. Very quickly do you realize how involved Robby's idea of co-parenting is.

During your first trimester, Robby is stocking up. Almost every day you come home to a new stuffed animal or onesie waiting in the nursery he's building. You're allowed to help with easy things, folding clothes or painting, while Robby builds the furniture, everything, from the crib to the matching pair of rocking chairs.

He comes to every appointment from day one. Even insists on picking you up for them. Except, his idea of “picking you up” is showing up to the Pitt and taking the elevator with you up to the obstetrics wing. It’s nice to have him there. Plus, Robby always makes sure to bring you Thai food as a treat.

In the mornings before you leave for work, he has breakfast waiting for you. Pancakes. Bacon. A bagel if you so desire. Or, if you spent the morning with your head in the toilet (with Robby holding back your hair, thank you very much), just a ginger tea to settle your stomach.

Sometime around the six-month mark, Robby convinces you to go down to city hall and get married. It’ll be easier for you three to be under one medical insurance plan, he said. Plus, the all three of you can share a last name. That’s all. You don't even let him talk you into a ceremony. And even if you wear his ring, you insist on sleeping in different beds most nights.

So it isn’t all that big of a deal when your libido spikes in your third trimester. Robby’s already your husband, and it’s not like you haven’t fucked before. If you could help it, neither of you would be doing this, but you’re just so damn needy it makes you cry.

In the weeks leading up to your due date, Robby insists on sleeping in the same bed as you. God forbid something happened in the middle of the night, say you going into labor, he wanted to be there.

When you do go into labor, he's there. You need to hold his hand? Which one. You're feeling gross and sweaty? He has a towel to your forehead and is telling you how beautiful you are. Angry? Curse at him, he is the one who got you into this mess. Sad? He's crying with you. Anxious? He's whispering reassurances with every breath.

When the baby does come, the splitting image of her father, Robby cries. As your daughter latches to your breast for the first time, Robby kisses you and says I love you.

When within a year you and Robby end up with another kid to complete your set of brown-eyed Irish twins, well... maybe then do you let Robby talk you into a more formal wedding ceremony.

[strangunddurm]

Why did you repost 'devout' under a new fic name 'mine'?

Hahahahaha because I thought I hadn’t posted it 😂😂😂😂 thanks for spotting that!

[butyoudidthis4what]

Prefer AO3? Find me here!

Each tag list is separate, so be sure to interact with each post for each character you’d like to be tagged for! Keep in mind that if you change your username you’ll need to re-interact with each post if you’d still like to be tagged!

Interact with this post to get on my Jack Abbot tag list!

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One shots

You’re Okay

Would You Believe Me If…

You could do it with me.

It’s planned.

Use Me

Two shots

Perfumer || Something Else

Tepid || Lukewarm

Your med school ex. || Your Jack.

A nice bonus AU

A nice bonus.

Where you belong.

No Man’s Land (Series Complete)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

Quiet (Series In Progress)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

One shots

Do you?

It’s snowing.

You have me.

She’s Here (Series In Progress)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

One shots

I hear you.

Safe

Coming Soon!

Older (non-Pitt/AK) writing below the cut!

Keep reading

[lovemeanercowboy]

The Man in Me Masterlist | Jack Abbot

Summary: When Dr. Adamson switches Dr. Jenna Robinavitch to night shift during her last year of residency to get more hands-on trauma experience after noticing her older brother hovering over her on day shift. Nobody expects newly hired brooding ER cowboy Jack Abbot to fall in love with her.

🎧 Jack Abbot’s Spotify playlist

chapter I — August 14, 2017

chapter II — August 15, 2017

chapter III — August 17, 2017

chapter IV — August 18, 2017

chapter V — August 18, 2017

chapter VI — August 19, 2017

chapter VII — September 18, 2003

chapter VIII — August 20, 2017

chapter IX — August 21-22, 2017

chapter X — August 23, 2017

chapter XI — August 23-24, 2017

[rr-after-dark]

guard dog - andrew "pope" cody x reader

chapter ten of ten

Series Summary: When you move in down the street from the Cody family, you definitely aren't expecting romance. But Andrew gradually becomes a fixture in your life, for better or for worse.

Chapter Summary: You realize that Andrew Cody is your forever.

Tags/Notes: andrew "pope" cody x reader, afab/fem reader, established relationship, happy endings, fluff, proposals (teehee)

Content Warnings: none!

A/N: just a short and sweet lil happy ending

Word Count: 1.3k

“It’s gotta be big,” Cath tells Andrew with her arms crossed over her chest.

Renn nods and agrees, “Huge. Like at a Padres game or something.”

Andrew's nose wrinkles and he shakes his head. “But she hates sports. And crowds. And being the center of attention in general.”

Andrew’s still turning the ring over in his hands, eyebrows pinched together, brain short-circuiting as he tries to parse the opinions of the council of women who gathered around him as soon as he mentioned wanting to propose.

Smurf huffs from the kitchen, “I don’t see why you’d marry someone who wouldn’t want a big flashy proposal; you need a woman who can-”

“Smurf,” Andrew says flatly, “I don’t like attention, either, and I absolutely hate the idea of a proposal at-” he practically shudders “-a baseball game. I know how stupid it sounds, but she's my other half.” Then he turns to his niece, who seems to be taking the whole thing the most seriously and, in his experience, is usually right. “Lena, what do you think?”

“Well,” she starts with an intense look on her sweet features, “she likes gardening and swimming and crafts and cooking. I think you should make her something. With glitter.” Then an idea dawns like a lightbulb over her head and she stands up, yanking her uncle’s hand. “I’ll help! Then she’ll say yes for sure.”

Andrew softens. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard so far.”

Four whole agonizing weeks later, it’s just the two of you on the back deck of the Cody house. Smurf and the boys are on a trip somewhere cold, so the pool is all yours as summer winds down. It’s been a glorious afternoon of swimming and fucking and laughing.

Now, you’re between Andrew’s legs on one of the oversized loungers, leaning your head back on his chest. His arms are wrapped around you and, every once in a while, his hands lazily caress your hips and arms and stomach through your sheer coverup. It’s quiet and perfectly peaceful, a cozy lull in the waning sunlight before he takes you out to dinner and a show for your weekly date night.

Andrew nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his curls tickling your cheek, and murmurs, “I want you to marry me.”

You flip around, sunglasses nearly flinging off your face. “What?”

Flirting with a smirk, Andrew repeats, “Marry me.”

“Is- is this a proposal?”

“Wait a second.”

While your head spins, Andrew stands up from behind you and slips through the sliding door to his bedroom. It’s not like you’ve never talked about getting married – you live together and you want a family with him, after all – but you’d figured his proposal would be some huge bash thrown together by Cath and Renn and Smurf, not a quiet moment between just the two of you.

But Andrew returns with a ring box. He doesn’t drop to one knee; he sits on the edge of the lounger and faces you. The little wooden box has clearly been decorated by Lena with glitter glue in your favorite colors and hearts painted around its perimeter.

Andrew pops the box open and says simply, “Now it’s a proposal.”

You have to clean your jaw up from the floor. The marquise-cut diamond has to be at least three carats, maybe four, absolutely brilliantly bright as it flings the early sunset’s colors around the charming box. It’s sitting in a subtle setting that really lets the stone sing. The band is delicate and floral, with other smaller diamonds like leaves branching off. It definitely screams ‘expensive,’ but it’s not gaudy. It’s unique and fun and personal.

Before you can manage to speak, to give him the obvious answer, Andrew nervously rattles off, “It’s, ah, it’s an ethically sourced diamond. I thought you’d like that. And I thought the pointy-ness was kind of badass, like you. Then with the leaves and everything it’s, um, it’s sort of all the different parts of you. That’s what I was thinking.”

“Oh, Andrew, this is…” The words die in your throat as you watch the ring catch the orange evening glow, imagining getting to wear it every day. “Jesus Christ.”

With a laugh, Andrew takes the ring from the box and toys with it in his fingers. “I was kinda hoping for a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer, angel.”

“Got distracted by this iceberg,” you tease lightly. Then you rip your eyes from the ring and train them on Andrew. On the way the sun is kissing his freckles and the way he’s looking at you like he actually doubts whether or not you’re going to say yes. “You’re really sure you want a wife and not a girlfriend? You want someone to make you take your vitamins and buy you clothes that aren’t black and insist you come home in time for our daughter’s ballet recital?”

“I don’t just want a wife.” He takes your hand in his and holds the ring at the end of your finger, waiting expectantly. “I want to be your husband. I want to mow the lawn on Saturday mornings and wake you up with sex and always sit in the middle seat on planes so you don’t have to and try really, really hard not to forget our wedding anniversary.”

Wiping a sudden tear from your cheek, you tell him in a wobbly, sincere, gentle voice, “You won’t forget our wedding anniversary. You don’t forget things.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Of course it is.”

As he slides it onto your finger, a perfect fit, Andrew makes sure, “So you like the ring?”

“It’s perfect.” You admire it breathlessly, trying to process how something so beautiful could sit on your skin. “Literally, completely, totally perfect. How did you know what I’d like?”

He shrugs modestly. “I took pictures of all your favorite jewelry and clothes and showed the designer.”

“Smart. Sneaky.” With a proud smile, you ask, “You didn’t get this on a job?”

“No, I knew you wouldn’t be happy with that.” He explains, “A lady at the shop designed it for me; I don’t exactly have an eye for this stuff.”

“What shop?”

“Cath gave me the address. Carter or something, I think?”

You swallow hard. “Cartier?”

“That’s the one.”

You pause for a beat. Despite what he says, Andrew knows plenty about jewelry from stealing so much of it through the years. He knows what designers are expensive. He’s trying to be modest. But, for once, you don’t want him to be, so you probe, “Be honest: How much did it cost?”

Andrew sets the box on the nearby side table and takes your hand in his, looking down like he can’t believe this is real. That you’re actually his and there's concrete proof of the fact. “Am I supposed to tell you? Or is that some fiancé taboo I don’t know about?”

You lean forward to kiss him and giggle, “If I’m going to brag about it to everyone I’ve ever met and ever will meet, I should know how much it was.”

“I don’t remember exactly,” he replies honestly. You know that means it has to be bad. “Sixty or so? I told her there wasn’t really a budget, but I couldn’t swing a hundred unless I had a few months; we have that job in-”

You cut him off with a hand to the middle of his chest. “Sixty…thousand dollars? American dollars?”

He blinks a few times. “Is that…not okay?”

You laugh and shake your head at how Andrew he’s being about all of this. “That’s just a lot of money to be wearing around on my finger all the time.”

He brings your fingers up to his lips, kissing each knuckle soft and slow. His hazel eyes meet yours and he reaches up to cup your cheek in his large hand.“ They don’t make a ring expensive enough to show how much you’re worth to me.”

With tears on your cheeks, you kiss him hard and reply, “When did you get so sappy?”

Andrew stands and guides you to your feet to join him. Leading you toward his bedroom with a cocky smile, he says, “Well, a gorgeous girl showed up on my doorstep with cookies a while back. I’ve been screwed ever since.”

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[oldermenfucker]

Holding you, Holding me / M. Robinavitch

masterlist / next

ONE: I can see you

Summary: your parents’ wedding anniversary brings you and your mom’s friend closer to each other, closer than it should be, but there is no harm if no one finds out, right?

Warnings: fluff, Mom’s best friend trope, kissing, tension, alcohol consumption, age gap (Robby’s 50, Reader is 26)<3

Word count: 6.5k+

an: i SUCK at writing first chapters so excuse me if this isn’t my usual style lol but hopefully i can get you excited enough to read the rest of this fic cause WE ARE JUST GETTING STARTED TEHEEEE

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Post layout is inspired by the lovely @robbyology ‘s posts<3

Idk who this dividers belongs to if you know please tell me<:

Then we kiss, and you know I won't ever tell, yeah And I could see you being my addiction You can see me as a secret mission Hide away and I will start behaving myself

“Honey,” Dana knocks on the door, slowly pushing it open when you reply with a quick ‘come in’ and pin your hair up, “The guests are here, would you mind helping me for a bit?”

“‘Course, Mom!” You nod, fixing the end of your dress before you walk up to her, hugging her tightly, feeling her arms wrapping around you as well, “Happy wedding anniversary.”

“Thanks, baby,” she kisses the side of your head pulling back to look at you again, beaming as she tells you to give her a twirl, “You look so beautiful, especially in this room. It’s like you’ve never moved out.”

“I moved out five years ago,” you raise your eyebrows at her, chuckling when she groans and rubs her palms up and down on your arms. 

“I know, I know!” She squeezes your shoulders, her hands gliding down to grab yours, “I’m so grateful for this marriage cause you were born from it— I swear if you say that word!”

“I didn’t say anything!” You laugh, threading your fingers through hers, leading her out of the room slowly, “But you know, I wasn’t exactly born from it, kind of bought into—“

“Thank god you moved out,” Dana pinches your arm playfully, pulling you to her side as she walks towards the staircase, “Cause I can’t deal with your constant reminder, as if you aren’t my first child.”

“Hey, Mom, look at me,” you turn her to face you, snaking your arms around her waist and resting your head on her shoulders, “I’m just teasing you, you are the best mother ever and I’m so fucking glad that I’m a part of this family.”

“Don’t make me cry,” she whines and hugs you back, pressing you close as she holds you in her embrace, “I love you so much, honey. You made me a mother, I’m forever grateful for you.”

“I love you too,” you kiss her cheek, slowly moving away from her before looping your arm through hers, “C’mon, we’ve got some guests to talk to! Who is here already?”

“Heather came in early to help despite telling her specifically not to do such a thing. Mel and Frank just arrived, a few of your father’s friends and their wives,” she explains, her hand moving as she talks, “There are still a few people left, but we gotta start early.”

“Let’s get some alcohol in their system,” you say, moving toward the kitchen with Dana on the toe, finding Heather sipping on a glass of water while she leans back on the counter before she spots you, “Hey!”

“Hey, sweetie!” She pulls you in for a hug, rubbing her hand on your back as she asks how you have been doing, leaning back to her previous position as you mimic her and rest your elbows on the counter.

“How you managed to come here with a baby at home is beyond me,” you lean into her side when she chuckles and wraps her arm around your shoulders, “Especially with how attached your little boy is. I’d call in sick and snuggle all day.”

“Believe me I’ve done that lots of times,” Heather chuckles, “But this time I couldn’t resist. I had to be here to watch your mom handle everyone like she is in the ER.”

“Fuck off, you two,” Dana rolls her eyes, handing you a tray of cocktails to take to the table she has set up in the backyard, “I’m not the charge nurse here, I’m just a happy wife—“

“Right, that’s why you’ve cooked ten thousand meals,” Heather snorts when you say that, “A happy wife in charge of her circus.”

“Stop it— go get the door,” Dana laughs, grabbing the tray from your hands before she and Heather start talking and moving the drinks and plates outside.

“Yes, Ma’am!” You walk to the front door, reaching for the doorknob to open it as the ring goes off again, “Coming!”

“Hi!” Samira greets you, throwing herself into your arms as soon as you pull the door open, wrapping her arms around you, hugging you tightly, “I missed you! Where have you been?”

“I missed you too, ‘Mira,” you hug her back, grinning when she squeezes you in her embrace, “Work’s been so busy lately but— oh, Jack?” 

“Hello,” he gives you an awkward smile, raising his hand to give a little wave while holding a large bouquet of roses with his other arm, “How are you?”

“Did you two—“

“No! No, no—“

“Samira—“

You pull away from her, looking at her with wide eyes, a devilish smile threatening to take over your face as you stare at her, waiting for an explanation.

“We arrived here together by accident! I swear—“She shakes her head frantically, but you can notice the subtle hint of a smile on her face, she knows she is caught, but that is a discussion for later.

“Alright, alright,” you squeeze her arms, stepping to the side so Jack can come in as well, “Welcome, Jack.”

“Thank you,” he nods, giving you a pat on the shoulder as he passes you to put the flowers down next to the other gifts, “Where’s your mom, Slugger?”

“Giving me my mom’s nickname now?” You laugh, pointing at the hallway leading to the backyard, “Outside with Dad and his friends, probably talking about some boring stuff.”

“Stop acting like a teenage girl,” he raises his eyebrow at you before he walks past you, putting his hand on Samira’s waist to lead her to where the group is drinking and he catches the way your jaw hits the floor, “Not a word—“

“Accident my ass, you guys are dating—“

“Not. A. Word.” 

You chuckle in disbelief as you watch Jack wait for Samira to walk out first, waiting a few minutes before he also joins everyone outside. You linger back, sighing softly as you go back to the kitchen, picking up a piece of cheese from the plate you are sure your mom has put for the wine she wants to open later. 

The doorbell rings again, this time catching you off guard. You are sure everyone is already here given how loud the group is, even your little sister is there with your parents, enjoying her time with all the attention she must be receiving.

You walk to open the door again, turning the doorknob before you are met with the sight of Robby; he looks just as handsome as you remember, with his signature blue shirt that he has rolled up his sleeves and his quite worn-out jeans. 

He looks casual, like he has done this ten times already, and knows nothing serious is going on. And he has; you remember how exactly last year he showed up on time to chat with your mom, or the year before that with a box of pastries that you and him sat down to devour on the stairs leading to the backyard.

You didn’t think he would show up, it had slipped your mind completely. But now, seeing him here with another box of pastries that he has cherry-picked himself for the two of you, you are glad he has decided to come.

“Hi,” you smile at him, leaning on the door as you wait for him to say something instead of just beaming at you, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening, “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I can never miss Dana’s parties,” he shrugs, stepping inside when you open the door further, and he easily towers over you, his smile widening when he sees you beaming up at him, “Besides, I had to bring my yearly payment. Napoleon and Paris Brest for you, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t have to!” You take the box from him, giving him a sheepish smile before leading him to the kitchen to put the pastries in the fridge, “Thanks, Mom’s gonna be happy that you are here.”

“Only Dana?” He teases you, leaning on the countertop with his hands in his pockets, watching as you reach for two glasses from the cabinet with a flustered smile, pulling out your father’s Kentucky Bourbon to pour for him, “Does he know you drink from his secret stash?”

“Of course, he does,” you hand him his glass, clinking them together before you take a sip from your drink, face twisting at the burning feeling down your throat, “How can you drink this shit? I can barely handle it.”

“Years of practice with Abbot on the rooftop.”

“You drink bourbon on the hospital’s roof? You’re insane, I’d rather get my hand chopped off than be your patient,” you turn around, resting your back on the edge of the counter, your arm brushing against his as you look up at him.

“You were my patient a few times, be grateful I wasn’t drunk when I was treating you,” he smiles sarcastically, the lines on his face deepening so beautifully it almost makes you stutter.

“Thank you for not killing me and getting a lawsuit, doc,” you roll eyes, looking down at the amber liquid in your glass when you hear his warm chuckle, followed by a clicking of his tongue, “You’re not gonna go out there?”

“I will, eventually,” he explains with mild indifference, “I see half of these people every day, I just need a break from Langdon jumping around me even if it’s for ten seconds.”

“Understandable,” you nod, watching through the glass door how your sister engages with Heather and Mel, “Wish I could be as comfortable as she is around people. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong there, you know? Not because I’m adopted, but…”

“I get it,” he nudges your arm by his elbow, looking at you softly, “I feel the same sometimes. You are not alone in this, not at all, sweetheart.”

“I love them but I feel outcasted because I can’t join their conversations easily,” you say, nudging him back before you rest your head on his arm, “Good thing we have each other in these parties, huh?”

“Yeah, cheers to that,” you raise your glass but look at it with a frown, really not wanting to drink the horribly warm and bitter liquor. He sees how you hesitate, shoulders moving as he chuckles and shakes his head, drowning the last of his glass before he grabs yours, rough fingers brushing over your soft ones briefly.

“I’ll have that, go get yourself something else,” he smiles, “Dana’s Gin and Tonic is always the best, maybe you can have her make one for you.”

“Not when Dad’s got all her attention, and I’m supposed to be the host tonight and let her enjoy her anniversary. Though a beer sounds very tempting right now, you can get me a Gin Tonic later,” you push yourself away from the counter, walking to the fridge and opening the door, finding the cans already on the coolest shelves.

“You’ve already planned our next meeting, have you?” Robby asks, crossing his arms over his belly, making his biceps bulge under his sleeves, “Gonna give me a run for my money?”

“My mom’s friends are doctors, you bet I’d make you spend money on me,” you watch as he puts the glass down next to his hand on the counter, reaching for the can in your hand silently, opening it up without you asking him for it, “You have a lot to making up to do.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he smiles, wrinkles deepening around his eyes when you snort, thanking him softly when he hands you your drink, “I’ve been doing doubles lately, can’t even remember the last time I had a night off.”

“You’re doing double shifts? With Abbot? C’mon, Robby, you are much better than that,” you stand in front of him, giving him a teasing look when he leans down with a surprised smile on his face, “You should take a break.”

“Abbot is much nicer at night, trust me. But you’re right, I need a break, and I definitely should make it up to you. I’ve been… busy.”

“Nope, I know you,” you point at him, pressing your finger on his chest, “You’ve been thinking, which isn’t a good thing at all, means you’re worried or depressed.”

“‘M not depressed, I’m going to therapy,” he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer gently when he brings your hand to his face, brushing his lips on your pulse point, his beard rubbing against the smooth skin and leaving a delicious burn.

“Both can coexist,” you grin, feeling your cheeks heating up when he doesn’t let go of your hand, “You should take it easy on yourself, I don’t want my uncle to end up in his department.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, rolling his eyes at you playfully, “How many times do I have to tell you to not use that word? I’m not your uncle, I’m anything but your uncle.”

“I know! But it’s worth the reaction every fucking time,” you laugh but it soon dies out when you hear the sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen. You pull away from Robby, walking to a cabinet to make it look like you are busy with your back to him.

“Finally, here’s our sad boy!” Dana waltzes in, pulling Robby for a hug with a gentle pat on his arm, “Where’ve you been? You didn’t even answer my call.” 

“Really? Must have missed it then,” he shrugs, hugging her back, his eyes meeting yours across the kitchen, “Something came up and I had to stop on my way here.”

“What could possibly be more important than my party, Robby?” your mother pulls away, smirking knowingly, thinking she has got him all figured out, “It doesn’t matter cause Heather and everyone is already here.”

You tense slightly at the mention of Heather’s name; you have been there, you saw it all. How they fell in love, how they were so happy, and how it all crashed after Covid. And during all those times, you had to battle the silly childhood crush you had on Robby.

Robby notices the very tiny shift in your attitude, watching as you take a large sip from your beer, smiling when your mom turns around and winks at you with her hand still on Robby’s arm, looking between the two of you before she raises her eyebrows at him.

“Are you keeping my daughter hostage here because you hate socializing?” 

“If anything she is keeping me hostage—“

“What the fuck, Robby! Don’t blame me for your lack of friendly communication skills.” You gasp, hiding your face between your hands when he chuckles and your mom follows his lead, walking towards the fridge to pull out the champagne she put there to cool for the night.

“It’s his trick, honey,” Dana looks at you, pointing at the ice bucket with her head, “When he doesn’t wanna take accountability, he’ll shove it on someone else.”

“That doesn’t sound like him at all!” you glance at Robby, finding him shaking his head and hiding his smile behind the whiskey glass he is bringing to his lips, “You choose when to take accountability or not? That’s so weird.”

“No, Dana’s being mean again,” he grabs the ice bucket from your hands, going to where your mother has opened the freezer to fill the bucket with ice cubes, “After living half a century, you learn a lot and knowing when you are wrong is one of the lessons. And right now, your mother is teasing me for coming late. I am not in the wrong.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should be so grateful that my best friend is here and didn’t ditch me for some boring book he borrowed from my other boring friend,” Dana puts the champagne between the cubes, grinning sarcastically at Robby who only shrugs, “Now get out there, both of you before my dear husband thinks you hate him.”

“I’ll take that,” you grab the cold bucket from Robby’s hands, leading him out of the kitchen, giggling when you see how the heat crawls up his neck to his face, “Don’t be embarrassed, she roasts everyone, dad included.”

“She is like a ghost who’s been haunting me from the first day we’ve known each other,” he pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans, following you through the hallway until you stop and turn to look at him.

“How much will you pay me if I pull you away from the party as soon as possible and put you out of your misery?”

“All you can think about is money, get out of here,” he laughs and opens the door for you, “I’ve already done enough for you today. You ought to pay me back this time.”

“Oh, wow,” you snort, lips parting in surprise, “Just because you bought me some pastries doesn’t mean you get free will under my mom’s roof, uncle.”

“Fuck you,” he groans, urging you to go outside, and when you don’t and only smirk at him, he puts his palm on your waist and pushes you gently out of the door, making sure you carefully step on the stairs.

“Look who’s finally here!” Frank says, making all the heads turn towards you and Robby, “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Hello,” Robby waves awkwardly, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “Is it too late to turn around and disappear?”

“Yup,” you glance at him, grinning without hesitation, knowing he is already regretting stepping out, especially now that he has to greet everyone he sees every day, “Smile and be pleasant enough so they can tolerate you.”

“I’m always pleasant to be around,” he rolls his eyes at you briefly, scoffing when Langdon walks closer, Mel in tow, “Ah, here he is.”

“Where have you been, man? You’re late to the party.”

“The party doesn’t start without a glass of champagne,” you jump in, giving Mel a side hug before putting the ice bucket on the table with all the food your mother has placed, “And the champagne is not opened yet, so technically he is on time.”

“You always have his back,” your father chimes into the conversation, patting Robby’s back when they greet each other, “Glad to see you, Robby.”

“Yeah you, too, congratulations by the way,” Robby smiles at your father, watching how Jack comes forward as well, ready to help Robby if he wants to escape your father’s poor attempt at humor.

“If I don’t have his back, no one else will,” you shrug, looking at Robby over your shoulder who only smiles at you in return, deeply grateful for your presence.

“Well, are you going to open that bottle or not?” Dana strides over to you, grabbing the champagne before handing it to your father, “Let’s get this fucking party started.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

You roll your eyes when your father winks at Dana, reaching for the knife to do some dramatic cork popping, breaking the tip of the glass as your mom holds the glasses under the flowing champagne, laughing when everyone cheers.

You stand next to Langdon, clapping with others when your parents kiss and congratulating them. Everyone grabs their glasses and waits for your father to say something, and you catch a glimpse of Robby moving to stand behind you.

“Fifty bucks he’ll thank you too for existing,” Robby leans down to a whisper, grinning when you glare at him playfully.

“That’s not fair! You’ve heard his speech for at least ten years,” you say, taking a sip of your champagne, “I’ll bet he’ll thank you and Jack too, my wife’s best friends. I’d pay a hundred bucks to him just to say that and embarrass you.”

“You’re evil,” he groans quietly, giving Langdon an awkward smile when he glances at the two of you in confusion, only to get distracted by your father again.

“I learned from the best,” you reply, nudging his elbow with yours, pointing at Frank with your head, “What’s his deal?”

“Dunno,” he whispers back, shrugging as he waits for your father to start his yearly speech, “It’s probably because I kinda ignored him when I got here.”

“Oh, poor baby is upset,” you fake a pout, smirking when he coughs to hide his amusement, “Pay attention, Doctor Robby. The show’s about to begin.”

“My offer still stands, fifty bucks, you in?”

“You owe me a drink, remember? Keep the money, you’ll need it with your three hundred kay yearly check,” you snort when you see him shake his head at your words, drowning his entire glass in one move, “Easy, don’t want you to make a mess and ruin his award-winning performance.”

“Definitely Dana’s daughter, how can I ever forget,” he whispers, lips twitching when he catches you grinning shyly.

There is something so charming about him, the way he effortlessly manages to make you smile and get you all hot and bothered. You do not try to hide it anymore — you do when your mother is around — but it is out in the open, and you try to mask it up with the sort of friendship you have created with him so you don’t make him uncomfortable. 

Maybe he knows or doesn’t, it’s not like anything is going to happen between you, not when he is the textbook definition of a gentleman. Touchy yet respectful, like he does it to anchor you to reality when he is around. 

It’s your dirty secret, the silly crush of yours that makes your heart beat faster when he so much as glances at you. But you have never allowed yourself to dream more, to fantasize about hypothetical scenarios that you might have a chance with him, and you are sure he would shut you down immediately if you say anything.

“Hello, everyone!” your father starts, “I’ve said this speech for… at least ten years give and take and every year I try to come up with something new, but… nothing comes to mind. So, I’ll go ahead and give you whatever is in my head right now.”

“We’re screwed,” one of your father’s friends jokes, earning a playful glare from Dana and your father, and you snort before you see Robby shakes his head, giving you a nudge.

“Yup,” you whisper, pressing your lips to each other so you don’t giggle, “He’s gonna say it.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“What?” You glance at him then look down at your fingers tapping over the rim of your champagne glass, “You were going to bet on it.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to make this harder than it already is for me,” he hisses, straightening his back with his palm on your waist and the way his long fingers spread on your back makes goosebumps rise on your arms.

“I live to make your life harder,” you make the mistake of turning your head to look at him because the grin he gives you meets the corner of his eyes, the lines on his face deepening. With a shake of your head, you look away, “It seems you do the same.”

“You’re cute if you think I’d let Dana’s daughter get away with something.” Cute, right, that’s all he sees you as.

“I’m my own person, not just her daughter—“

“It’d be appreciated if you two paid attention,” Your mother glares at the two of you with her eyebrows raised, “You’re lucky I’m feeling kind tonight or you’d be kicked out of this house by now.”

“Sorry, Mom,” you duck your head, giving her an apologetic smile, looking down at your feet with your lip between your teeth. Robby nods as well, raising his hand in apology so your father can keep going with his speech.

“That was close.”

“She caught us, Robby, it was more than close,” you hiss at him, turning your attention back to your parents, “Don’t talk anymore.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” You can practically hear his smirk, but you know if you turn around the said smirk will turn you into a melting puddle on the grass.

“As I was saying before I got rudely interrupted,” you roll your eyes at your father, “Being with Dana is something only one person is lucky enough to experience, and boy is it an experience!”

“You should see how much of an experience he is,” She runs her fingers through your father’s hair, “Not that I’m complaining, I love a good challenge.”

“I’ve been her challenge for twenty-something years,” he turns his head to look at her, “And I’ve loved every moment of it,” he dips his head to capture Dana’s lips in a soft kiss before he breaks it and looks around, finding you and your sister with ease, “And our daughters, thank you for being the fruit of our love.”

You catch your sister winking at you just in time, and you raise your glass in reply, watching how everyone else mimics you and claps for your parents — so does Robby, nudging you slightly to get your attention, giving you a look that screams ‘Told ya’ before he diverts his attention back to the couple kissing.

“I hate you,” you whisper and drown the rest of your drink, shooting him a small glance, shaking your head when he shrugs as innocently as he can.

“I doubt that,” you snort when he says that —not a lie, you feel so many things when he is around and none of them are hate — and take his empty glass from his hand. 

“Time to socialize, Robby. Your bestie is coming here.”

“You gonna pay for this later, sweetheart,” he walks away toward Jack and Samira after he gives your shoulder a squeeze, meeting them halfway before they start talking

You slowly walk away from the crowd, the noises enveloping your senses in the wrong way. You are not the biggest fan of these gatherings; they are lovely, yes, you get to meet everyone and have a drink and take a break from work, but by the end of it, there is no energy left in you because of how fidgety you were all throughout the night, how you overthink about everything you said and were going to say.

You linger around, popping chips in your mouth a few times so you don’t have to worry about eating dinner with all these people around — you can just skip it and go for the pastries in the fridge. 

Your gaze moves from your parents to your sister and at last falls on Robby. Fuck, he looks good under the bright moonlight and the yellow lights of the backyard, and it makes your heart race. Get it together! You want to scream, shout, and bang your head to the wall when you catch sight of him laughing at something Jack says.

As if he can feel your eyes on him, he turns around slightly just so he can catch sight of you, giving you one of his famous heartwarming grins that never fails to make your fingers twitch in excitement. You smile back, giving him a little wave before you see him moving towards Heather, instantly beginning to talk with a broad smile on his face.

You sigh, not a lie if he has told you himself that he still has feelings for her, and run a hand through your hair, humming softly before you sneak back inside the house. You can feel your surroundings fading away as the warmth of the house hugs your body instantly.

You make a beeline for the fridge, pulling out the box Robby brought earlier, smiling at the cold sensation of the plastic against your fingers before you walk out of the kitchen and upstairs to the balcony on the other side of the house — the little corner reserved for you and your sister. Luckily, she is too busy making everyone laugh to join you up here.

There is a bench with a coffee table in front of it and a visible view of the neighborhood to top it off. The bustle of the party is in the background now, the noises have grown quiet and the cold pastries in the box are tempting you to take them out and eat them alone — might as well do that. 

You put the box on the table and take a seat on the bench, taking off the lid before you bring one of the cream-filled pastries up to your mouth, taking a large bite and closing your eyes at the taste; it feels as if sparks fly on your tongue with how delicious it tastes. 

Robby knows you too well and it’s both maddening and lovely.

You are about to take another bite when you hear the familiar footsteps coming outside, finding Robby there in the doorframe just looking at you.

“Eating those all by yourself? Rude.”

“You were busy, didn’t wanna interrupt your fun time,” you shrug, taking another bite just to tease him, making a loud humming sound as the cold cream fills your mouth cavity, “Y’know? They taste better when I’m the one enjoying it and have no reason to share it with anyone.”

“You’re being mean just like—“

“Just like your mother,” you finish his sentence, giving him a cold look before turning your face back to the view of the balcony — he looks gorgeous and it’s making you sick — and taking another smaller bite, “Will you ever see me as a person and not just an extension of my mother?”

“What do you mean?” He chuckles and rounds the table to sit next to you — wait, was this bench always this small that now his thigh is pressed to yours? — and turns his head to look at you.

“I mean… It’s always ‘You do this just like your mother does’ and ‘You are Dana’s daughter’ and ‘You’re mean just like her’ and it feels like you don’t even see me as a person just my mom’s sidekick. Or, you might have been in love with my mom which then we’d have a bigger problem.”

“I’m not in love with your mom!” His voice grows thin as he laughs at your words, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’ve got no idea why I do this, maybe because I wanna make sure we have clear boundaries…”

“Boundaries? It feels like you wanna avoid something much more complicated than that,” you explain, taking another large bite out of the pastry in your hand, smearing the cream over your nose and lips, “Like you wanna do something but hold yourself back.”

“You are Dana’s daughter—“

“Jesus, Robby,” You groan, turning around in your seat as best as possible, your thigh nearly thrown over his as you try to give him an intense look, “I just told you—“

“I know, I know,” he nods, his hand that was resting on the back of the bench comes up to your head, stroking your hair before tucking a few strands behind your ear, careful not to ruin your hairstyle, “I don’t want to do something that we’ll both regret later. It’s safer to stay as Dana’s daughter than anything else when you’re around me.”

“Is it because of Heather?”

“Fucking hell, of course not!” He gives you a disapproving smile, “‘m not gonna deny that there is an attraction on my end, but we’re done, have been for a while.”

“Then you’re being ridiculous…” you don’t shy away from his touch, not now that you know and trust his words, “How are you so sure that we’ll regret it?”

“Because…” his thumb wipes the cream over the edge of your lips before bringing it to his mouth, holding your gaze as he swipes his tongue over his finger, flushing slightly when he notices how your eyes darken and dart down to his lips, “I can’t do it, if anyone finds out—“

“No one will find out—“

“They might,” he whispers, leaning closer, crowding your space, “and I can’t lose you for something so silly. I don’t do casual—“

“Neither do I but I’m not a pussy like you—“ he shuts you up with his — now wet — thumb over your lips, his face inches away from yours, and the sheer weight of his eyes making you squirm a bit.

“Careful, I’m not your dad. I don’t tolerate mouthy girls.”

“Good thing I don’t want you to be like him,” you say softly, leaning in as well, nudging his nose with yours, feeling the warmth of his breath on your face, “Don’t call me Dana’s daughter anymore.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, sweetheart.”

It sure as hell feels like fireworks exploding in the sky when his lips meet yours in a chaste kiss, his hand threading in your hair as best as possible as he devours the sweetness of the pastry from your teeth and tongue.

You kiss back just as feverish as he does, not backing down at all. It’s not like you, because you have never been bold enough to say something up until tonight or take actions as risky as this, but it’s Robby, and he brings out a version of you that doesn’t shake with nerves.

He is gentle, not with his tongue but with his hands as they wander down to your jaw, tilting your head in a way he likes and kissing you at a pace that has your head spinning. 

You know you have crossed the line, but it doesn’t matter anymore, not that at least you know the feelings aren’t as unrequited as you thought they were. He kisses you like he has been holding back — perhaps he has — and it makes your body warm all over, face heating up and fingers twitching.

You mean to reach for his face as well, but you have forgotten the pastry you were holding in your hand, dropping it on his shirt and jeans when you try to cup his cheek.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m so sorry—“

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he replies breathlessly, picking up and dropping the remaining pastry in the box as he looks down at his now cream-covered shirt, glancing over at you as you reach over to try and take off some of the cream with your fingers, “Don’t worry about it—“

“Fuck, Robby, I’m so fucking sorry! Look what I’ve done, your shirt is ruined—“

“It’s not ruined–hey, sweetheart, look at me,” he cups your face in his hands, leaning down to peck your lips, hoping he can stop the overdrive your brain is probably taking with all the negative thoughts, “It’s okay, I’m gonna go wash it off, yeah? It’s a silly shirt, I have ten other pairs exactly like this.”

“At least let me get you one of my dad’s,” you stand up before he has the chance to say no, “And you take that off and drop it here so I can wash it tomorrow and bring it to you.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I insist,” you give him the best pleading eyes you can muster, grinning when he nods and stands up as well, following you into the house, “You can wash up in my ensuite bathroom while I grab you a shirt.”

“Alright,” he nods and walks through the room toward your bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off, turning on the facet before he starts wiping off the cream.

He hears you knock on the door, waiting for him to let you in and when he does, you step inside slowly, looking down as soon as you get a peek of his nude broad shoulders.

“Don’t get shy now,” he chuckles, handing you the wet shirt before he grabs the clean one from you, glancing at your flustered face as he begins to dress up, “It’s nothing you haven’t already seen.”

“Right, but that was in a pool and you didn’t have your tongue down my throat before getting in the water,” you drop his shirt next to the rest of your laundry, crossing your arms over your chest as you shyly look at how his muscles flex as he tugs on his collar.

“A minor detail, sweetheart,” he turns around, and you smile when you see how red he is, handing him a rag to clean up his jeans as well, “A minor detail that should never see the light of day.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t snitch to my mom about how her best friend was kissing me,” you roll your eyes and look down, fuck him and the effect he has on you. It was one kiss and yet, you already feel like you are about to melt into a puddle.

“Even the thought of it sends me to cardiac arrest,” he hands you his wallet as he wipes the cream off the front pocket of his pants, groaning as he sees the dark wet spot growing, “This all your fault.”

“Shouldn’t have kissed me if you didn’t want me to get you dirty.”

“You looked far too beautiful to resist,” he says so casually like it has been on his mind for a long time, “I’d do it again even if I knew you’d make a mess outta me.”

“Cheesy—“

“Honey, where are you? Have you seen Robby?”

“Fuck—“

“That’s Dana—“

You run out of the bathroom, throwing Robby’s wallet somewhere carelessly before making your way into the hallway, meeting your mom with an uneasy smile.

“Hey! What are you doing up here?”

“I was looking for you and Robby! Where did you two go?” She asks, pinning you down with a curious look, “Has something happened? Are you okay?”

“We were sharing the pastries I brought her. Clumsy me, I dropped the entire thing on myself,” Robby comes out, chuckling awkwardly as he stands in a shirt that doesn’t belong to him — it’s your father’s and Dana notices it immediately.

“At least she found you a clean shirt, you’re lucky it’s not his favorite,” she laughs, and you follow with a chuckle, trying to mask the bubbling anxiety inside you, “Alright, almost everyone’s left. I have no idea why since the night is just starting!”

“I should go too,” Robby says, walking to hug Dana and leave this very uncomfortable moment, “Happy anniversary again, I had a great time.”

“You’re no fun,” your mom hugs him back after she groans out the words, “But yeah, you have a shift tomorrow, get some sleep.”

“I’ll walk you out,” you offer, waiting for him to say his goodbye one last time before you follow him downstairs, making sure your mom is out of sight before you open the door and wait for Robby to step outside.

He grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in for a quick breathtaking kiss, his lips slotting into yours passionately. You brace yourself with your hands on his chest, kissing him back before you have to part as soon as you hear some noises in the house.

“Goodnight,” you say breathlessly, licking your lips in hopes of getting a taste of him again, smiling as he strokes your head and steps away, giving you a quick wave.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

[danidrabbles]

Throw Away The Oars

Michael “Dr. Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader | 6k words | explicit

Summary: You feel like Robby’s distancing himself from you. A slip of the tongue to the wrong person when you visit the pitt feels like it could be the final nail in the coffin of your undefined relationship.

Tags/Warnings: female reader (female anatomy), semi-follow up to Home Again but you can read this as a standalone, semi-established relationship, feelings/angst/fluff, insecurity, miscommunication but like with a fun outcome?, swearing, therapy (mentioned), emergency department horrors (mentioned), blood (mentioned), rats (mentioned), other pitt characters, smut (fingering f receiving, unprotected piv, public sex, dirty talk, creampie, spanking) – let me know if I missed anything!

Notes: Two fics in as many weeks? Unheard of. Genuinely feel like I was possessed when I wrote this, so if it isn’t good or sexy or fun, blame the Demon. I think the song is pretty obvious from the title, but it's mentioned more in the story. Hope you enjoy! Huge thank you to @javier-pena for proofreading, general enthusiasm, and for saying there's a line in this that should get an Academy Award for Hottest Line in a Fic.

– – – – –

Pittsburgh looks sad tonight. It isn’t particularly cold, but it rained all day and there are at least six different dark shades in the sky, like it’s saying, Hey, give me a good enough reason and I’ll have it pouring in no time. 

From the row of red taillights to the left of the sidewalk you’re on, you gather most people are making their way home right now. It’s approaching seven, it makes sense for the time. You find yourself discreetly looking into people’s cars, keeping yourself entertained with all the different characters, imagining what kind of life they have and what plans they made for the night. It’s like the weather knows about yours, because more dark clouds roll in, and you cease your people watching in favour of picking up your pace and getting you to your destination faster. 

You round the corner, the daunting height of that destination appearing in your eyeline. It’s almost like a lighthouse, with nearly every little window having that yellow-white shine to it. A helicopter flies overhead, the sound of the blades whirring making you look up, following it as it approaches the building's roof, and you’re reminded that for some people, the day is only just beginning.

You approach Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center feeling like there’s lead in your shoes for a different reason, and you actually kind of feel like an asshole about it.

This particular feeling should be reserved for people that are genuinely going through something. You know that inside that building, there are patients who are on the brink of death, holding hands with the people they love for the final time. There are patients receiving life altering, devastating diagnosis. Family members gently being guided into quiet rooms, where doctors explain how they did everything they could, but to no avail. It shouldn’t be felt by someone who is borrowing grief from the future over something as trivial as a two month relationship.

Things between you and Robby are different lately - or, well, they feel different anyway.

Admittedly, it’s all circumstantial, in the eye of the beholder, but that’s what’s fucking you up about it the most. First it was the little changes in the inflection in his voice whenever he says your name; last week it was him not wanting to meet up at his place, only yours; two days ago it was him drilling you into the mattress while looking at you like you hung the fucking stars, then leaving afterwards under the bullshit guise of an appointment be had with his fellow attending about rats in the emergency department.

You know Robby’s… complicated. He has his things going on, but who doesn’t? Plus, he’s actually working on it; you never see him on Wednesdays because that’s his therapy day and he’s focussed–dedicated. And you’re proud of him, but every time it's on the tip of your tongue to voice that, it hits you that you don’t know if you have any right to say it, if the role of supportive… whatever you are, is what he wants from you. No matter how patient you want to be, and you have been very patient, very willing to go at this at whichever pace he liked, it’s kind of like he’s freewheeling. Which is unlike him. Which only fucks you up more.

Safe to say, it’s messing with your head more than you care to admit. 

It’s just that you slipped into a sense of familiarity so fast that you never really had a conversation about where this is all going. You know he isn’t seeing other people, he made that clear a few weeks in, when you asked and he laughed, because where would he find the time for that, and yeah, that was a good point. He knows you’re not seeing anyone else thanks to a very in the heat of the moment exchange, with him, on the verge of coming, asking you, because he needed to know. When you said no, he pulled out, ripped off his condom, and finished on your stomach with a rough, “Good.”

(When you mentioned that he should do that inside next time, he made a sound, slid back in, and came a second time, like the admission had given him some sort of feral, possessive second wind.)

So all things considered, mixed signals. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be here, picking him up like you agreed you would a week ago, when you made plans to go to the movies together. Maybe you should have also made up a stupid excuse, let him figure his shit out, and wait for him to call you once he did. But you’re an adult, who realizes manipulation tactics are futile, and childish. Eventually, for better or for worse, you’re going to have to tell him how you feel about him.

Unfortunately for you, you’ve been known to make choices that aren’t the best for your heart.

You enter PTMC with as much confidence as you can muster up, then make a beeline for the elevator. You wait after calling it, and while you do, you study the plaque above the button you just pressed, eyes lingering at the very bottom of it.

Basement. Emergency department.

The pitt.

The high-pitched ding! comes faster than you thought it would, and you step aside as the elevator doors slide open to let a handful of people step off. You give the people still inside a polite, “Evening,” and a nod as you get on, then press the button for the basement.

Naturally, and for no other reason than to fuck with you personally, the elevator slides up first.

You close your eyes, braving the sensation of the semi-gentle start-stop as you pass each floor going up - then again going down. By the time you reach the basement, it’s just you and a doctor - female, red hair, frizzy bangs, looking tired as all hell. She rushes past you, file in hand, and you make your way down the hall after her. 

The waiting room is packed, and you’re taken aback by the sheer volume of the voices echoing off the walls, making you feel a bit disoriented as you try to find a way to get where you need to be. Several registration nurses are seated behind reinforced glass and your chest tightens over the fact that that is protection health care providers need. You approach a window that one of the patients just walked away from, clear your throat, and say,

“Um, excuse me–”

“Please, fill this out,” the woman says, pushing a clipboard through the slot at the bottom of the window, “and bring it back to me when you’re ready.”

Gently, you push the clipboard back. “I don’t need medical treatment,” debatable after the overthinking from earlier–

“Then what can I do for ya, hon?” she asks, briefly looking over her shoulder when another staff member sails through the doors behind her. He’s wearing the same charcoal coloured scrubs Robby always wears, and is struggling to pull off a very bloodied pair of gloves.

“I’m looking for, um… Doctor Robinavitch?” 

“Why?” The doctor pipes up from behind the nurse. He finally pulls the gloves off his hands, tosses them into a clinical waste bin and looks at you expectantly as he brushes his fingers through his silvery curls.

Before you elaborate, you raise an eyebrow at the confrontational tone. “I’m here to pick him up.”

The man looks at you, narrows his eyes, then juts his chin out. “And how do you know Doctor Robinavitch?”

“Robby,” you find yourself saying like you’re proving some sort of point about how well you know him, “is…” You pause, try to think of how to convey that he is the guy you decided to shoot your shot with in a record shop and who you’ve been sleeping with for the better part of two months in a way that’s acceptable for the workplace. But there’s steady beeping, the wailing of a baby behind you, a distant scream coming out of the emergency department, the two sets of expectant eyes on you from people who clearly have something better to do than wait for you to- Are you sweating? It feels like you’re sweating. “He’s my boyfriend.” 

The doctor’s eyebrows shoot up so far it would’ve made you laugh if the weight of your words hadn’t just hit you like a fucking truck. For the past week, you had been questioning everything about your relationship and you cracked under the slightest bit of pressure and labeled Robby your boyfriend like you’re two teenagers. 

And at his workplace.

“Is he now?” the doctor asks, a lopsided grin appearing on his face afterwards.

“Abbot,” the nurse says sharply. 

The warning makes your stomach twist. This is just great. As if your panicked slip of the tongue alone wasn’t bad enough, it had to be in front of frequently mentioned fellow attending slash close friend Jack Abbot.

“You know what,” you begin, swallowing thickly and jutting your thumb over your shoulder. “I’ll just wait outside–”

“Hey, hey, hey, no,” Abbot says, his voice gone gentle, raising his hands and looking more like he’s calming an escaped horse than an embarrassed human being. “He’s just finishing up with some patients, I’ll go get him for ya.” And as quickly as he arrived, he disappears again.

“Just take a seat, doll,” the nurse says. You think she’s aiming for pity, but the words are dripping with delight at this turn of events at what’s no doubt the very end of her shift. “I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute.”

You thank her and turn around, looking for an empty chair, but are once again confronted with the sheer amount of people waiting to be seen - it’s fine, you’ll just settle for a hole in the ground to disappear into. Before you have time to rethink every course of action you had taken to get you to this point, starting with frequenting a record shop, Robby sails through the flap doors with Abbot in tow. 

One looks cautious. The other looks endlessly amused. 

Robby’s eyes find you in the crowd in a flash, and he reaches you so quickly it seems like he’s floating, taking you by the arm and dragging you along with him.

“Hi,” you manage while you stumble to keep up.

“Let’s leave?” He says it like a question, but his voice leaves no room for discussion. Moving his hand to the small of your back, he leads you down a different path than you came, out a security door that he opens with a swipe of his badge, into a stairwell marked ‘A’, and quickly up the first flight of stairs.

The moment you’re alone with him, you can practically feel the words making their way up your throat, and before you can stop it, you begin explaining yourself, “You’re upset, I get it. I’m sorry I said… that in front of Abbot. Shouldn’t have done it, definitely will not happen again.” 

Robby’s hand flexes and your words seem to stop him dead in his tracks, feet coming to a halt in the middle of the landing between the staircases. He says nothing, and aside from the way his frown deepens, he stays very still. 

“Listen,” you begin, trying and failing to keep your voice steady and void of sadness, “if you’re really that upset about it, maybe we should–”

“I’m not upset,” he says, turning to face you while he shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

You scoff, frustrated. Not upset? Sure. In a sweeping manner, you gesture at him from his feet to his crown, and back again, “Then what’s this?”

“I just worked a 12 hour shift in the emergency department, I think I’m allowed to look a little upset,” he scoffs back. “But this…,” he tries to gesture at himself the way you just did, but mostly just gets his face, which, to his credit, does worry you the most, “...is not because I’m upset with you.”

It makes your shoulders slump, but the short-lived sense of relief quickly makes room for guilt. Christ, he’s right. Today alone he’s probably seen things no other human being would see in a lifetime–should see in a lifetime. You should cut him some slack. Another apology is on the tip of your tongue, but Robby speaks first, 

“Saw Abbot’s shit-eating grin and wanted to get you out of there before he started asking you a million annoying que–” His voice dies down, and you can practically see the penny drop. He puts his hands on his hips, narrows his eyes at you, and swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before demanding, “Tell me.”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. 

Didn’t Abbot tell him? Is Robby messing with you?

You could really use that hole to disappear into right about now…

You shuffle your feet. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me…” Robby takes a step closer so you’re standing toe-to-toe and looks at you expectantly, “…what you told Abbot.”

“I just said I was here to pick you up,” you try to save face, but you can recognize it’s a pathetic attempt; you literally can’t even look at him while you say it.

Robby’s arms cross, his shoulders drawing up as he bows his head and shakes it with an amused huff. “Liar.”

You gasp, “Fuck you, I did say that.”

“Fine,” he’s laughing now, “what else did you say?”

You know you have no choice but to be honest; if you don’t tell him, Abbot will. The mirth on his face helps, maybe he’ll take it as a joke and your crisis of relationship will be averted for the time being. 

“He asked how I knew you. And I… I might have said, ‘He’s… my boyfriend’.” You make your voice go up at the end, purposefully formulating it as a semi-question, like even you don’t remember exactly what you said, then throw in a chuckle for good measure, all in an attempt to take more weight off the revelation.

The silence that follows is deafening; even the emergency department waiting room past the door at the foot of the stairs seems to have gone quiet. A myriad of expressions pass Robby’s face, before it settles on something completely new to you–something completely unreadable. But this time, it’s impossible to look away, not when he swallows thickly, not when his defensive pose falls and his hands ball to fists, clenching and unclenching at his side. Your mind is already formulating its third planned apology of the day, but Robby foils it again. 

“You said that?” His voice is so fucking deep it’s more of a rumble, a slight tremble on the word said.

“Yes.”

“In those words?” he presses. “To Abbot?”

You nod with a sigh, realizing you might as well put all your cards on the table, “And the nur–”

“Am I?” 

Dropping your hands by your side, you sigh. “I don’t know, Robby. You tell me.” Your voice sounds so small, “Are you?”

There’s a sound of heavy fabric hitting the floor - his backpack, you realize - and then he surges forward, a hand anchoring itself at your waist while the other slips behind your head to cushion the way he crashes the both of you into the wall. He kisses you like he never has, with utter desperation, and bite, his teeth closing around your bottom lip before letting his tongue map you out like it’s the first time he gets to do it. Stunned, you clutch onto his arms, try to follow along with him, but he doesn’t give you a chance to catch up. 

“Yeah, I am,” the words come out more like a growl, “I’m your fucking boyfriend.” The ball of anxiety that’s been making a home in your gut explodes, melting into arousal so fast you’d think you did hit your head. It takes you another moment to move with him, moaning at the scrape of his beard against your chin and the flick of his tongue behind your teeth. 

Once your brain finds its connection to your body, all you want is more. So you take, with newfound vigor, a swipe of your tongue along his and a palm cupping the side of his neck, applying pressure in a way that makes him grunt. He pushes you back harder, plastering himself to your front. When he tries to wiggle his hand between your bodies and into your pants, it brings you back to reality for a split second. 

“Robby, fuck, wait–”

“No one’s gonna see,” he slurs. He sounds wrecked already, and you haven’t even done anything but kiss. You would be kind of proud of it if your brain wasn’t melting out of your ears with lust. Spreading your legs to give him more room, you– Wait, shit, focus.

Second split second. 

Closing your hand around his wrist, you start again, “Robby–” 

“No one fucking comes here, need a badge and they all take the elevator, I swear.” He kisses your neck, scrapes his teeth along that spot that makes you sigh. He’s playing so incredibly dirty– “Just… let me finger my girlfriend.”

It’s like you go boneless at the word, the hand he’s been wringing into your jeans slipping under your underwear with ease now that you’ve stopped fighting it. The shriek you let out when his fingers roll roughly over your clit echoes through the empty stairwell before you muffle it by clamping a hand over your mouth. It’s a lot, the emotional whiplash so severe that tears spring into your eyes when a finger dips into your entrance to test the waters.

Robby pulls away, hand and mouth, then brings one to the other. You might actually whine at the loss, and the way he sucks two fingers into his mouth, the thick digits coming back shiny and slick when he pulls them out, all without ever breaking eye contact. Then he’s back to frantic, dry hand pulling at your fly and zipper, and you help him with hurried, awkward moves, all but ripping your pants open to give him more room.

“Do you have any fucking idea how hard it is to hold back around you? When you... say stuff like that to people when I’m not around like it’s fucking… easy?” Robby pushes his middle finger into you as far as it’ll go, grunting like he’s enjoying it more than you are. His head tips down, watching how his hand is stuffed beneath the tight, rigid denim; yours falls back, panting up at the spiralling staircases above you, clutching onto the open ends of Robby’s hoodie for dear life when his finger starts pumping inside of you. “When you look so sweet and then get this wet for me?”

You clench around him, leaking into his palm while a groan rumbles from your chest when he adds a second finger. “Then don’t–” he bends them, finds something that makes you quiver, “Fuck, Robby, that’s good. Stop holding back around me.”

His hand curls around your jaw, pulling until your eyes meet; his are wild, pupils blown so wide his irises appear black even in the bright fluorescent hospital lighting.

You take the jump, your stomach flipping in a way that makes it feel like you’re actually in freefall, the admission somehow taking more vulnerability than letting him finger fuck you here of all places. “Stop holding back,” you say, desperately trying to convey that this is bigger than just this moment between you.

And when his hand stills, and he plants a dizzying kiss on your lips, it feels like he does, like he pours everything he can’t say into the simple, long press. You attempt to return the sentiment, slinging your arm around his neck, palming his nape that’s damp with sweat and holding him to you. You stay like this for a long moment, your heart beating so hard and fast that you wonder if Robby can feel it with how tightly you’re pressed together.

You don’t get time to think about if you can feel his, because his fingers slowly start up again between your legs, and he fucks you on his hand, palm grinding up against your clit until you’re crying out into his open mouth, coming hot, and hard, tears of pleasure spilling over your waterline while you tremble in his hold.

There’s nothing but him, his scent, the heat of his body, the stretch of him inside you coming even easier with your orgasm. You can’t breathe but it feels secondary to everything else when he grinds against your thigh, thick and heavy and fucking pulsing with need, trapped behind those cargo pants, and despite the fact that you just came, you feel like you need him more than air.

“Are you gonna put it in?” you ask, voice a little drowsy. “Please?”

The combination of his lazy grin and the flush along his cheeks makes him look somewhat boyish. “Give her one good orgasm and the fear of getting caught is fucked riiiight out, huh?” Robby says - anything but boyish - gently pulling his hand from between your legs while working his own pants open with his free one.

But it sobers you up a little from the lust you had overdosed on from the moment he crashed you into the wall. You go rigid against it now. “Wait. You said–”

“Relax,” he says, and embarrassingly, it’s enough to make you. Enough that you let him spin you around, yank your hips back and pull your pants and underwear down to mid thigh while your palms find the wall. “Wasn’t lying. No one comes here,” you hear him spit, followed by the unmistakably lewd sound of him spreading it around, “except,” he swipes the head of his cock through your messy folds, “for me.” The final word comes out with a punch of air and an oof! from you when he slides all the way inside in one go. He smiles to himself, pauses in consideration, then adds, “Well, and you.”

You laugh at the double entendre–you actually, properly laugh, when you should be focussing on adjusting to the thick spread of his cock. The soft walls of your cunt flutter around him, the plaster under your palms warming under your touch. “Shut up,” you say, but it lacks any bite or threat when your voice is still vibrating with laughter underneath it all. 

“Hmm, no, I– Jesus, your laugh is making it… tight. This isn’t gonna take long.” Something between a chuckle and a grunt comes out when you clench more at his words, and you swear you can feel him shake with it. 

“Then stop laughing,” you beg, a smile of your own spreading across your face when you look at him over your shoulder. “I had something far hotter planned, something like, Please, Robby, I want to walk out of here with your come dripping out of me.”

That gets him, his expression morphing into something a little more concentrated. It definitely breaks his giggles, because he looks down to where you’re connected and groans instead, a little involuntary stutter of his hips making him slide out just a fraction. 

Using your grip on the wall, you arch your back and push against him. “Yeah? Is that doing it for you?” you ask, continuing the gentle ebb and flow of pulling off and pushing back, reveling in the slow drag of him along your sensitive walls, the way his fingers dig into your heated skin.

Robby scoffs. “The mental image of you walking out of here dripping with my come, knowing I’m gonna think about it each time I walk up and down these goddamn stairs, which is only every fucking time I’m at work?” He grunts when you slowly let him fill you again. “Yeah, sweetheart, that’ll… that’ll do it.” 

Well, that shouldn’t make you feel as gooey as it does, but after everything, that might as well happen. 

Biting your lip, you lean your forearms, temple resting where your wrists cross, head twisted back to watch him. There’s a sliver of his belly visible over the swell off your ass, and you can see it tensing as you keep your rhythm steady. 

When he starts meeting you halfway, you wonder briefly if no one else truly comes here, or if at any moment, someone could sail around the corner and find you bouncing your ass off a doctor’s pelvis. It sends a rush of tingles up your body, and maybe you can admit to yourself that at this point, it really wouldn't faze you. The only thing that matters to you now, in this very moment, is the pulse of his cock and the promise of getting filled.

There’s another rush of wetness between your legs at the idea, and Robby inhales sharply through his nose when it makes him slide just a bit deeper, throat bobbing around a heavy swallow… and then he’s right there, with a curse, a groan that rises in volume and a pull of your hips back against his, where he holds you still. You can’t help but whimper at the warm sensation, at how fucking deep he gets as he comes and comes and comes. Heat spreads through your body, something that isn’t exactly an orgasm, but isn’t far off either, and makes your eyes roll back.

It takes a while for both of you to stop pulsing. With a deep sigh, you let your head fall forward, hanging down to observe the squished-together, naked tops of your thighs, your scrunched up pants, and your shoed feet with Robby’s larger ones planted on the outside of them. His hand has drifted up, tracing soft patterns across your back under your shirt that make goosebumps rise across your skin. There is absolutely no fucking reason for this to be so tender right now, but it is, and you kind of don’t want it to end.

But this is a hospital, and not the safe cocoon of either of your apartments, so it has to.

“C’mon,” Robby encourages softly, patting the small of your back, “we should get out of here.” 

Your pussy protests when he pulls out slowly, and you can’t blame her, especially not when you feel achingly empty after. It starts the slow trickle of his spend out of you, the angle you’re bent over at making it slide over your clit. Your body reacts with a lewd squelch, and it only results in more leaking. 

“Fuck, that’s…” Robby lets out a breath that sounds like a whistle, using his thumb and forefinger to spread you open a little more, “...pretty.”

Something disgustingly wrong with him for settling on that word. And with you for enjoying it so much. 

His fingers slide downward, dangerously close to your clit– “God, do not do that if you don’t want it going everywhere,” you warn.

The sound he makes is fond, and he’s quick to listen, letting you go in favour of helping you pull your underwear back up your hips. “Trusting you to keep it right there,” he says, before giving you a flat-handed tap between your legs that covers your entire pussy, the swat landing with the obscene, soppy sound of wet fabric meeting skin. 

A shock of pleasure shoots through your body, making you gasp and rise to your toes. You want to curse him for doing this to you here, where you can’t beg him to do it again until you come a second time - third? - because you could, you absolutely could. Instead, you’re forced to bend down and pull your pants back up your legs with an indignant little wiggle.

When you twist back around, fumbling with the button of your jeans, Robby’s already waiting, ready, safely tucked back into his cargo pants and with his backpack hanging off one of his shoulders. You sniff, hoping-praying that you look even a fraction as composed as he looks so you can leave the place with some dignity at least. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, before he stretches his hand out to you. His comment makes you heat up, your own hand no doubt clammy when you accept. As you let him lead you up the stairs, you try, and fail, to not think about how the fingers he interlocks with yours were deep inside you just minutes ago.

Practiced, routined steps lead you through hallways and corridors, weaving and bobbing through groups of patients, visitors and colleagues alike, until you reach gold-coloured revolving doors and step out into the evening. 

“Will you promise me something?” you ask as you start your trek, joined hands swinging between your bodies. 

You notice that above you, the skies have cleared.

“Just one thing?” Robby asks. “You’re lowballing, I like it.”

You roll your eyes. Your belly flutters. “One thing now.” 

He hums in affirmation.

“I can handle not seeing you on Wednesdays, I don’t mind seeing you at my place more often than at yours, but next time you want to ditch me for Abbot, make up a better excuse than rats.”

Robby lets out a laugh that’s basically just a punch of air. “Oh, I… Yeah. That was not an excuse. Those bad boys are actually down there.”

“What?” It comes out so much more indignant than you want to sound. “No they’re not.”

“Oh, I really do wish they weren’t,” he says, face scrunching up like he suddenly remembers the rats are in the emergency department, and he’s in charge of the emergency department, and this is a problem for tomorrow-Robby.

“Rats? Plural?”

“Plural.”

Immediately, your mind provides you with the mental image of rats in tiny hospital beds. You shake your head with a chuckle, “No wonder your wait times are insane.” Then, looking at him, you ask, “How does that work? Do they come in with wads of cash or do they have a tiny little insurance card? And why do I feel like rats probably have it better, like in general but definitely insurance wise, than we humans do?”

One corner of Robby’s mouth curls up, and he looks at you like he could kiss you. He doesn’t. He doesn’t answer either. Not that you expected him to. Instead, he says, “I didn’t see Jack just for the rat problem. I also talked to him… about you.”

You can feel yourself straightening up. That explains why the good doctor’s eyebrows nearly flew off. The rush of vindication nearly makes you sing, “Ohhhhh-ho-ho, now this I have to hear.” 

Robby closes his eyes, lips pursing slightly with a small shake of his head.

“C’mon, I had to spill,” you tug him against your side, “now you have to spill.”

“I think I spilled plenty.” He leans in, mouth at your ear, “Can you still feel it?”

You groan, your poor cunt clenching around nothing. Yes, you can still feel it. “You never play fair.”

“You like it,” he says.

“I can recognize that my wants and needs in a blindly horny state are not always most beneficial to my well-being once said horny state subsides.”

He snorts. “If it ever does. I think it’s chronic.”

“Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor Robinavitch?”

“‘fraid so. There’s nothing we can feasibly do except for managing the symptoms to make you more comfortable.”

You give him a playful shove, before pressing yourself back against his arm, “You like that I like it. In fact, you like it so much that you didn’t even have the patience to get out of here before–”

“I like you,” he cuts in quietly.

Oh, what the fuck. Case in point, he does not play fair.

Robby trails out a little ahead from where you’re frozen in place, until your arms are stretched out as far as they can go without letting go of each other. The streetlamp just behind him perfectly accentuates the silhouette of his profile as his head tips down: his little quiff, the point of his nose, the scruff around his lips. He retraces his steps until he can face you.

“Told him that I have feelings for someone, but that I was… scared of it. Scared of fucking it up, because that’s what I always do, and that made me actually fuck it up, and I couldn’t stand seeing how I made you feel, but I couldn’t–”

“Robby, stop.” You shake your head, letting go of him to try and find your bearings. “You think I’m not scared?”

“It’s easy for you. You are,” he lets out a bitter laugh, “so much better at this than I am.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you deadpan. Guess he missed the point spectacularly in the stairwell earlier. How someone, someone who is a doctor, can be so smart and so dumb at the same time, you don’t know. “I almost didn’t show up tonight because I was sure you were about to break things off with me because of how you’ve been acting.”

Robby’s head tilts, his jaw ticking as he looks at you with soft, guilty eyes. “Really?”

It takes everything in you to stay focused, because he looks at you as if you’ve wounded him, like you’ve just kicked him while he’s down. 

“It isn’t easy for me,” you redirect the conversation. “None of this ever is, but… when you find something that’s worth it, you try, and… this thing with you makes me want to try.” Satisfied, you nod firmly at your own words, then add, “You like me, I like you, I think we should be together. Like, officially. But if you don’t, you should tell me now.”

The thin line his lips had formed wobbles, before a smile that’s big enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle in that way you love spreads out across his face. “Look at you, giving me a big speech.”

You deflate with disbelief at how smug he looks. This fucking guy. “Wasn’t that big.”

“You are sooooo better at this than me,” he says, cupping your cheeks with both hands to bring your faces together. The kiss he presses to your lips is soft, so fucking tender that it makes your toes curl in your shoes. “I want to be together,” he says, staying close enough that you can feel his lips brush over yours when he says it. With a teasing lilt that mimics your voice, he adds, “Like, officially.”

“Don’t mock me right now or I’ll break up with you,” you threaten, half-heartedly poking him in the chest, unable to keep the sheer happiness that rockets through your body from creeping into your stern expression.

Robby’s eyes narrow, like he’s considering something. Then he says, “Should we ditch the cinema–?”

You scoff, quickly changing gears, “No.”

“–take a hot shower, order some food–” He kisses you.

“I am never ditching the cinema.”

Another kiss. “–let me eat your pussy until you come at least twice.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “But I think I can make an exception just this once.”

Robby throws his head back and barks out a laugh, “See? Chronic.”

You have to twist your face to the side to keep yourself from laughing, too. Your cheeks already hurt too much from the stupid, happy grin that’s been plastered on your face intermittently throughout this rollercoaster of an evening. Turning your nose up to the sky and closing your eyes like you’re dismissing him, you push past him. 

With a little jog, he catches up to you, slinging an arm around your neck, and using it as leverage to press a kiss to your temple. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know someone very capable of managing your symptoms.”

“Pretty sure he’s my enabler,” you grin, reaching for his hand where it hangs off your shoulder. “Hey, so what’s the big plan you and Abbot came up with to solve the rat problem?”

“Exterminator, once they find the time,” Robby sighs. “Until then, Whitaker, one of the medical students on rotation. He caught a couple of them,” he snickers, “Santos calls him the Pied Piper of Pittsburgh.”

You snort, listening as Robby talks more, about his co-workers, about the curious cases that were wheeled into the emergency department today, and you let him lead you into the opposite direction of the cinema and towards his apartment instead. 

In a quieter alley, you pass one of the street-level apartments, music bleeding from one of the windows and into the street. There’s soft, twinkling sounds, cresting drums and piano parts, an electric guitar that cuts in, 

…and I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might…

Your mouth curves into a smile at the song.

Yeah.

Fitting.

– – – – –

Thanks for reading! Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with! Also, if you have any song suggestions for my Dr. Robby playlist, send them over, I’d love to add them!

[robbyology]

how easy you are to need - part 1

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

|| part 2 >>

Summary: You accidentally send some very compromising pictures (and a particularly filthy video) to your boss/attending/crush. Chaos follows and, along with it, a very pleasant surprise.

wc: 7.6k

Warnings: f!reader, secondhand embarrassment probably (it ends well), kind of non-con voyeurism, resident/attending, implied age gap, lewds n’ nudes, jerking off at work, banter, robby has a dirty mouth, mutual pining, (they’re both down so bad but robby is better at hiding it), tension, reader is shorter than robby, alternating pov

A/N: *sobbing into my hands* it was not supposed to be like this. i need help. i need to be sedated. actual smut in part 2, i promise </3

Honestly, you really shouldn’t be putting in this kind of effort for a guy who’s failed to get you off not just once, not twice, but three times now, which happens to be the same number of times you’ve hooked up with him. 

Yet here you are, striking various poses in various states of undress with the hope of inspiring Tony to just try harder.

You start on your knees in your thigh highs, cheeksters, and a way-too-short crop top. Arch the back, make sure to get some under and side boob, a tasteful lewd to whet his palate.

Move to the bed and lose the panties. Part of your face is in the shot, lip between your teeth, but the main focus is your ass that’s pushed into the air enough to get a better view. 

The last photo is of your tits—most of them, anyway, but if Tony is smart enough to press his thumb to the screen, he’ll see that it’s a live and be generously afforded the sight of your nipples on screen for half a second when you give a little bounce. 

None of it is crazy, just enough to make him hungry, prepare him for the video you film. Back in bed, you take the time to get yourself wet with your favorite vibrator, feel your muscles contract and loosen in preparation for your fingers first, then your dildo. 

About seven inches with a satisfying girth, the toy is a shade of light teal (and glows in the dark, but that’s irrelevant). Phone secured in a telescopic stand that gives you more reach, you click ‘record’ again and spend the next 20 minutes filming and editing until you’re pleased with the end result. 

Your moans are loud enough to hear but not over the top, still leave gaps that are filled by the squelch of your pussy. Some frames catch the quiver of your thighs, others a glimpse of the curve of your tits where your shirt has ridden up. The star of the show, however, is the toy you’re plunging in and out of your cunt, coated in gossamer arousal at first but eventually smeared with white cream as you continue to fuck yourself with it. 

The orgasm at the end is faked, impossible for you to achieve without clitoral stimulation, but you’re positive Tony won’t know the difference considering you’ve already faked three with him. 

Scrolling through, you hum at everything you’ve managed to capture. Good work. Maybe he’ll finally go down on you for longer than three minutes. Maybe next time you see him, you’ll actually cum. 

Wishful thinking, but enough to motivate you to send the suggestive images and filthy fucking video. 

It’s about four PM, so Tony will be at work for another hour. Refusing to wait with baited breath, you toss your phone to the side and busy yourself with cleaning your toys. You’ve done enough for this guy; you’re not gonna let him take up any more space in your mind by obsessing over what his reply might be. 

You have no idea that you’ve just made a horrible mistake.

You should’ve double checked. Maybe then you would’ve been quick enough to delete everything. 

But, you didn’t, so you’re not, and about 15 minutes later when you pick up your phone again your heart drops into your ass. 

It’s so fucking stupid. You’re so fucking stupid. But Tony was your most recent message, and you were positive that when you unlocked your phone, it opened up his thread like it usually does. You hadn’t even noticed that it had, instead, taken you to your most recent notification—an older text thread that had remained untouched for over a week.

Until now. 

>> I know you just worked 5 in a row, but Mel is out with the flu. Is there any way you can come in for her tomorrow? 

From Robby. 

As in Dr. Robinavitch. As in your senior attending, your boss, your teacher (your crush for the last two years).

And, right there under his question, or really in response to it, are your three pictures and amateur video. 

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep vomit from spewing past your lips, ohh God, your stomach is rolling. There are literal tears in your eyes as you frantically type 

<< DO NOT FULLY OPEN THIS THREAD!!!

<< JUST DELETE IT 

<< PLEASE

But, you’re kidding yourself. It’s already been 15 minutes since you sent them, and that dreaded ‘Read’ is already time-stamped beneath your video. 

Dizzy and hot with humiliation, you walk into your bathroom and sit on the tile, want to be as close to the toilet as possible in case you really do hurl. 

<< I am SO sorry those obviously weren’t meant for you 

<< I didn’t realize you texted 

<< I should have double checked. Triple checked 

<< I’m so so sorry oh my god 

Three dots appear, and you bite down on your lip so hard, you just might open the scars left by old piercings. 

The dots disappear for several seconds. Pop back up. Disappear again. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

>> No worries. Deleted. 

You inhale shakily, the text almost impossible to read with how your phone quakes in your trembling hands. 

There is no way you’ll be able to look Robby in the face ever again. You should just go to the hospital now and grab any shit you have in the locker you share with Trinity. Start looking at different residency programs. See if you can get some kind of letter of recommendation from an attending who is not Robby. 

His question, you remember. If you can work for Mel. You can’t agree to it—absolutely not. 

Should you tell him that, though? Is he waiting for a real answer that does not involve your naked fucking body? Oh, this is bad. This is very not good. 

You don’t tell him that you’ll cover the shift, and Robby doesn’t ask a second time. He probably knows you’re going through the five stages of grief and are nowhere near ‘acceptance’. He’s a smart guy, merciful despite what some of the other residents say. You need time to process your egregious mistake, and he’s giving it to you. 

Or, so you assume. 

In reality, Robby is about ten miles away, dealing with what might be the most painful erection in the history of mankind, and he can’t even do anything about it aside from hide in the bathroom, staring and cursing at his traitorous dick for reacting like this. 

He’s at work, for fuck’s sake. There are patients bleeding out on the other side of this door, and he’s standing here like an asshole, contemplating if it’s possible to will his predicament away, or if it’ll be easier to just jerk off right here. Robby has no doubt that he’d be able to cum within thirty seconds, but the morality aspect of it…

Getting himself off in the bathroom of his own emergency department is goddamn degenerate behavior, but how the fuck is he supposed to focus like this? 

Holy fuck, he’s so hard it hurts, and when Robby finally pulls his cock from his cargos, the pressure of his hand alone has him gasping and hissing. His tip is leaking precum, and he decides that yeah, this was the right move. Most ethical? Fuck no. But at least now he won’t have to explain any suspicious fluid that may bleed through his pants. 

The weight of his phone in his pocket is comparable to that of an anvil. Robby tries to ignore it, gives himself a few slow strokes while bracing his other hand on the wall. 

Don’t. Don’t look at the pictures. Do not fucking open that thread again (the one that he definitely did not delete). Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t—

“Shit,” Robby huffs, grabbing his phone, unlocking it, immediately opening your messages. 

He’s fucked. He is fucked. Can’t believe he’s actually doing this. It’s wrong on so many levels, but God, you are gorgeous and splayed out, on display for Robby to drink in even though these images were not meant for his eyes.

The arch of your back in the picture of you on your knees. The outline—the suggestion—of your tits beneath that impractically tiny top, completely gone in the next image to show off the slopes and curves and valley between. Robby thinks about what it might feel like to suck on your pebbled nipples, what sounds you’d make for him. 

Then, he sees the video, the one he hadn’t actually opened because the screencap was already too much. It’s what sent him speed walking to the nearest bathroom in the first place. 

He’s smart enough to turn his volume all the way down, looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is nearby despite being in a very locked staff restroom that is one, marked as occupied, and two, requires a code to get in. Still, it never hurts to double check (as you learned just a few minutes ago). 

With a deep breath, hand still wrapped around his cock, Robby taps his screen to play the video and—

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, sucking saliva from his teeth as he watches you move the camera from your chest down your torso, your hips, and finally the hand between your legs. The toy between your legs. 

Robby is panting as he watches you, stroking himself and time-locked with the bright dildo you’re thrusting in and out of your cunt. 

He wants to hear you, fuck, he wants to find out if you’re moaning or whimpering or letting your pussy do all the talking. 

The toy shines in the light whenever you pull it out, but Robby zeroes in on the ring of cream you leave around the base, smearing it up and down as you keep fucking yourself, and fuckfuck, he’s gonna cum. He’s gonna cum in this hospital restroom to this video that he was never supposed to see, the video he’d told you he deleted. 

So wrong, so fucking wrong, possibly the most fucked up thing he’s ever done, but he couldn’t help it—can’t help it when you tremble and buck and shove the dildo into your pussy as far as it’ll go like you’re greedy for more. 

Robby can give you more. He wants to give you more, has wanted to for too fucking long. From the first time he stood behind you to guide you through a procedure, got a whiff of your shampoo, saw the way you smiled at him. Cute and competent, beautiful, flexible, good. You’re so fucking good. 

He’s ignored it for two years. Two years of squeezing his eyes shut to block out the stars in yours. Two years of biting back groans when you end up pressed against him in a crowded trauma room. Two years of flushed skin and heart palpitations and staring at someone he shouldn’t even be glancing at. 

But, now he has the pictures and this video, and it’s like he’s been damned to a special kind of hell. He’s watching you take that dildo, obsessed with the idea of watching you take something bigger, take him, let him fill you up with more than just his cock. Shit, he could give you so much more, load after load until his cum is dripping out of your pussy rather than off of his hand like it is now. 

“Fuuucking—”

Robby drops his head to the wall and takes a few deep breaths while letting the shame wash over him, wishing he would drown in it instead of simply bathing. 

•

Robby quickly figures out that he is going to have to be the mature one out of the two of you. He doesn’t really have a choice, has to pretend that he didn’t get off to your photos or that he’s watched the video so many times he has it fucking memorized. Every breath, every moan, the faked orgasm at the end that’s honestly kind of insulting. He’s offended on your behalf because you should never ever have to fake that. You should have never gotten so good at faking it.

The first shift that you work with one another, you go out of your way to avoid him. It’s impossible to keep up considering the environment and pace that goes along with traumas, but whenever you aren’t stuck in a room with him, you do your best to hide. 

It isn’t subtle. 

If Robby could, he would also be making himself scarce, but again, he was supposed to delete your messages, not obsess over them with his hand shoved down the front of his pants. 

After stepping into an exam room that you’re already in then watching you scurry out of it at the first opportunity, Robby decides he’s had enough. This kind of avoidant behavior, though understandable in this case, just doesn’t fucking work in an ER, and he refuses to let you fuck up the rest of your residency over some accidental nudes. 

So, Robby plasters on his best ‘I have never seen your pussy before’ expression and, when he gets his chance, wraps a hand around your elbow and gently guides you out to the ambulance bay. 

You don’t protest or shrug him off, just sigh, resign yourself to whatever fate you think Robby has in store for you. 

He looks around, checking for any coworkers or, you know, incoming ambulances, and once he deems it safe, Robby takes you by the shoulders, looks you dead in the eye, and states, “you have got to fucking relax.”

He thinks you might sputter or gawk, but that is not what happens.

“That’s easy for you to say!” and you do not bother censoring yourself when you continue, “you’re not the one who sent fucking nudes to your boss.”

“Definitely not arguing that, and I get that you’re embarrassed, but I’m telling you—” he notices that he’s still holding onto you, drops his hands and shoves them into his jacket pockets, “—it’s fine, alright? I’m not gonna fucking blackmail you or make fun of you or some shit. I’m not twelve.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re a grown ass man who I work with every day who has now seen my—my, like…” 

You can’t even say it, can’t even look at him, just hide your face in your hands. 

It’s fine. Robby can finish it for you. Maybe if he’s blunt about it, the awkwardness will dissipate. Lay it out. Rip off the band-aid. Exposure therapy. 

“I’m a fucking doctor. Seeing a pair of tits,” perfect, pretty tits, “and a vulva,” slick and creamy, hole all twitchy and greedy… Christ. Robby has to clear his throat in order to finish, “it’s not gonna faze me. Yours is not the first female body I’ve seen.”

The number of emotions that play out on your face is more entertaining than it should be. Mortification to surprise to confusion to something very fucking pouty. 

“What? What are frowning about?” 

Your, “nothing,” comes out suspiciously fast, and Robby narrows his eyes as you avert yours. “Nothing. It’s just weird hearing you talk like that.”

He rubs a hand down his face. Of all the things to focus on. 

“Tits. Pussy. Cock. Cunt,” he lists because if you’re gonna hash all of this out, he can’t have you on the brink of combusting. 

“Oh my god, stop! Stop talking!” It’s practically a squeal, and the noise sends heat racing down Robby’s spine to settle right at the base of it. 

It reminds him of the sounds you made in that video, turned up all the way while in the privacy of his own home. Gasps, and mewls, and adorable whines. Little ‘please please please’s thrown in there as a treat, but even if the begging isn’t genuine, it still sounds damn good, still ricochets in Robby’s brain even now. 

“I’m just trying to show that this isn’t a big fucking deal,” he tries, then immediately backtracks when he sees yet another emotion play out on your face: anger. “Hold on, wait, listen. I’m not trying to invalidate you. I—look, I get that you’re probably feeling vulnerable, or that now I don’t know, I have something on you, or more power or some other bullshit. I recognize that, okay? Nod with me,” he pauses to make sure you’re following, would be worried about condescending, but you don’t seem to take it as such, just stare and do as you’re told, nodding slowly. “As far as I’m concerned, it never happened,” a lie, “it was a mistake. You have a life outside of this ER just like I do.”

“You send dick pics to the wrong people?” you pipe up, finally starting to look more like a person and less like a deer being hunted.  

“Well, no…” Robby cradles the back of his neck, “but I’m sure some of the people who’ve seen it wish they hadn’t.”

He never noticed how fucking cute you are when you’re caught off guard—eyes widening, brows rising, lips parting. 

“Didn’t ever think I’d end up in a conversation with my attending about his dick,” you mutter. 

Robby laughs, “yeah, well, I didn’t ever think my best resident would send me a sex tape.”

Your jaw drops, but the corners of your mouth are still upturned. “It was not a sex tape—”

Hands back in his pockets, Robby’s body language screams his disagreement. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, presses his lips into a line, rocks his head back and forth as if he’s waffling on the idea until he eventually responds, “mmmyeah, except it is. That was a sex tape.”

“It was n—wait,” you stop, eyes going wide again only they don’t stop growing, threatening to pop out of their sockets. 

Confused, Robby raises an eyebrow and—

Ohh, shit. 

“You watched it?”

Yep, he just outed himself, and now all he can do is cringe. 

“Robby, what the fuck?!”

He expects a slap to the face. Deserves that and more. But all you do is stand there, hands on your cheeks like you just stepped out of whatever art museum The Scream is mounted in. 

“I’m sorry—I don’t…” He runs his palms up his face, presses them to his temples before settling at the top of his head and squeezing his skull as if it’ll ground him. “I have no fucking excuse. I’m sorry. It was just base brain curiosity.”

Head hanging forward, you shake it back and forth, muttering something Robby can’t hear as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

Should he go back inside? He should go back inside. Jesus, this is about to be an HR clusterfuck, god dammit—

“Okay, the least you can do is tell me I looked good in it, fuck.” 

You seem to steel yourself, crossing your arms over your chest, hip cocked out, chin up in some kind of unnecessary defiance. 

“You…” Robby blinks at you, stunned. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, blushing all the way to his scalp. “You want me to fucking critique it?”

“Absolutely not. If you criticize any of it, I will kill myself,” you say so seriously that Robby actually believes you. “I want you to tell me that I didn’t fucking film it for no goddamn reason, ‘cause the guy it was for didn’t seem to care, so—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Robby cuts you off, startled by how loud his voice is. 

It makes you jump, but you still release something that might be a giggle. 

“I wish I was. He just said ‘you’re sexy’,” finger quotation marks, “with a sweating emoji.” 

You roll your eyes, and Robby lets out an incredulous laugh about an octave higher than is normal for him, looks up at the bay awning while uttering, “Jesus, men are so fucking stupid,” before he levels his gaze back on you. 

“Yeah, I’m well aware.” All moody and inpatient, literally tapping your foot as you look at Robby expectantly. “Well?”

He checks his surroundings again, must be habit at this point, then asks, “you want me to be honest?” and when you nod, he pushes a little more, “one hundred percent?” just to be sure. 

“Oh my god. You watched the video like a fucking pervert. I think I deserve some validation—yes, I’m sure.”

How is his skin still getting hotter? 

Robby exhales through his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut for a second before shaking off his nerves. 

You aren’t mad at him. Irritated, maybe, but not about to shove a scalpel into his carotid. And, you’re asking for his opinion, asking for his praise, brimming with curiosity. 

It gives Robby undeserved confidence, and he slowly walks you backward toward the brick wall behind you until he’s got you crowded against it. 

Lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, he confesses—quiet, deep, rough, “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cum to that video of you.” 

You inhale sharp enough for him to hear, air filling your lungs and making your chest rise, and suddenly Robby isn’t the only one who’s burning. He can feel the heat radiating off of you. 

So, he keeps going.

“You want validation?” 

He’s met with the tiniest nod, as if you’re ashamed for asking. Robby tells you exactly why you shouldn’t be. 

“I got those messages while I was here, right in the middle of the pitt. Didn’t even move ‘cause I was too busy staring at how pretty you are in them…” He raises a hand to catch a strand of your hair, tries to memorize how soft it is between his fingers. “Locked myself in the bathroom ‘cause I couldn’t let anyone see how fucking hard I was getting. Doubt I need to tell you what I did in there.”

He’s getting bold. Too bold. About to cross the last line bold. Your head is tilted back so you can gaze up at him, and Robby takes it as an invitation, drops your hair in favor of running a knuckle up the side of your neck then along your jaw. 

“I watched that video and stroked my cock until I came all over my hand like some fucking teenager. And, then I went home and did it again.”

Biting your lip, your eyes are hooded and desirous as you slide down the wall a couple inches, stopped by the leg Robby slots between yours without thinking. 

“Listened to you over and over—so fuckin’ sweet when you started whining, when your pussy started begging.”

“Holy fuck,” you whisper, and it pulls a chuckle from his chest. It’s easy to tell you’ve never had a man speak to you like this. Robby is glad to be the first. Honored, even. 

Some of your weight rests against his thigh, and he has to bite back a groan when your hips twitch against him. 

It was just a few days ago that Robby was locked in a prison of arousal and self-loathing, hating himself for even thinking about getting off in the EC. Now, he’s got you pinned to the wall outside of the same department, and all he wants is to watch you grind and squirm against him. 

Any shame he felt before is long fucking gone. 

“The photos, the video… I know you’re embarrassed, but I am fucking ruined, okay? I can’t think straight anymore, not when you’re around. Fuck, not even when you’re gone.” 

He’s telling you too much, admitting things he shouldn’t, but he’s spent days walking around with the image of you fucking yourself with a dildo burned into his retinas (days walking around with his cock being at least half hard at any given time). 

Pent up, frustrated, and stupid, Robby really can’t be held at fault for running his mouth and letting his hands wander. 

“And, the worst part of it all,” his fingers curl over where your neck meets your shoulder, but his thumb is stretched out to lightly press against your throat, wishing he could leave his unique print on your skin. 

“The fucking worst part is that you took those while thinking of some someone else, put on your little thigh-highs and fucked yourself for some asshole who can’t tell the difference between a real orgasm and a fake one.”

You go rigid between Robby and the wall, staring up at him in shock. You’re still simmering from the contact, with where all this is heading because it is heading somewhere. 

But, the difference between… there’s no way he could know. He’s just talking shit about Tony because he’s jealous apparently (and that idea is extremely fucking hot), but his words hit home because yeah, you have faked every orgasm with Tony, and no, he hasn’t noticed. 

But, how could Robby? He’s seen one video; it’s not like he knows—

“Honey, I’ve been fucking for longer than you’ve been alive,” oh, good lord, “I know what an orgasm looks and sounds like.” His hand is calloused where he cups your cheek, and you melt straight into it. “What you did in that video was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t real.”

He raises the leg between yours, probably rocks onto the ball of his foot, and it presses harder against you, but it’s not enough. Even when you grind down, clutch at his shoulders, it is not fucking enough. 

His brazen display of self-assuredness makes you dizzy and dumb. If he’s this confident, there must be a reason, and that reason is likely how you’re responding to him. Your body language, how you can barely even see him through your half-lidded eyes, how your bottom lip is raw from chewing on it.

It makes you desperate—embarrassingly so, and when his coarse beard grazes over your cheek bone, you let the last of your inhibitions dissipate. 

“Robby, I swear to God, if you keep talking, I will literally fuck you in one of the parked ambulances.”

He has the audacity to laugh, a puff of air straight from his throat that cascades over the shell of your ear, and it makes you want to cry. It makes you hit your head against the wall behind you. One, two, three times before Robby slips his hand between your skull and the bricks. 

“Not in an ambulance,” he shakes his head, brown eyes trained on your mouth. “You won’t be able to move the way I want you to in an ambulance.”

His voice is so low, a rumble, a vibration, and it makes you pulse, pussy hungry for what you can’t have. 

You roll your hips in a plea for more friction, and you’re about ready to strip right here and now if it means he’ll fuck you. 

If you could just push him a little further. If you could just make him as crazy as he’s made you. 

Eager to the point of hysteria, you squeeze your eyes shut and tell him the secret you’ve been harboring since starting at the hospital (part of it, anyway), something you never imagined telling him, and it comes out in the form of pathetic incoherencies— “it was you. I was thinking about you when I made the video, ‘nd I’ve done it before—made myself cum while—I try not to, t-to think and, like, imagine other things, but can’t—”

A surprised grunt (squeak) is forced out of you when Robby crushes his lips against yours, and you cannot remember the last time a man has rendered you so fucking useless, but fuck, you’re holding onto him as if it’ll keep you in a solid state because it sure feels like you’re about to evaporate out of his hands and into the clouds.

You are going to die here. No way you can survive his beard scratching against your face or the sensation of his lips on yours, warm and a little chapped but so, so hungry as they move with yours. 

Jesus fuck, you feel his tongue, do not hesitate to stroke it with your own, licking into his mouth before pulling back and catching his bottom lip between your incisors and biting. 

Robby groans, the fingers at the back of your head curling into your hair. He cants his hips forward, and you finally see that it’s not just you who’s affected. Worked up. Not thinking straight. 

This is Robby—the man who is obsessed with controlling everything he can, who refuses to let anyone see what he’s bottled up, who compartmentalizes so much you’re surprised he doesn’t have multiple active bleeding ulcers—tearing apart at the seams little by little. 

Quick, tiny rips that turn to longer cuts then into deep gashes until he’s cleaved right down the middle. You feel the way his eyebrows pinch together when you hold his face to yours, inhale every one of his shaky breaths, grind yourself down on his thigh as his hips move in short, abortive thrusts. 

Fuck, fuck, “on-call room—”

“No.” Growled. Rough. Leaving no room for argument. “I’m not doing this until I can spread you out,” —the way he keeps running his nose up your cheek is driving you crazy, but not as much as his voice in your ear, “until I can make you scream my fucking name.”

“God, fuck, Robby—”

He smiles, you think, judging by the way his beard scratches at you differently, “not a chance in hell I’m letting anyone else hear you like this.”

There is a very good chance, however, that you’re dripping through your panties and possibly your scrubs. You surge forward, demanding another kiss that Robby eagerly bends to. 

A siren sounds in the distance, distorted by the doppler effect that matches the way you feel inside, like your sanity is waxing and waning, screaming then whimpering. 

“There are still three fucking hours left in this shift,” you grumble, “and you expect me to just power through? Wet?”

He swears under his breath, something that is so very satisfying, but when he actually lifts his head and pulls back enough for you to see his flushed face, he somehow manages to school his expression into something professional. 

“I expect you to do your job,” he says, masterfully composed. You pout, and Robby brushes hair from your face at the same time that he shifts his leg against your cunt, and you think he must really enjoy seeing you unstable because he tacks on a low, sing-songy, “be good for me.”

Fucking devilish. 

Hands on his chest, you shove him backward, eyes narrowed in a heatless glare. 

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“Oh, you have no idea how mean I can be,” he shoots back, winks, then turns his attention to the ambulance that’s pulling up into the bay. 

Back to business, hands in his pockets, brown eyes clear and alert, like nothing even happened. 

“34-year-old female with multiple fractures after a hit-and-run while biking…”

You move on autopilot, falling into step beside the gurney as the medic rattles off numbers and injuries. The motions come easily, muscle memory, but even as you assess and examine, you can’t ignore how damp your panties are. When Robby announces that the biker’s hip needs to be reduced, you almost roll your eyes at him before stepping up to get a better angle. 

External rotation, upward pull, praise the Gods for fast-acting pain meds. 

A hand steadies you as you begin to lower yourself, and you don’t have to look to know who it belongs to. Scorching and far too familiar, following your movements while remaining planted on the small of your back. 

When you’re on solid ground, you lean close to Robby’s shoulder and clack your teeth together as if snapping at him. Playful, maybe even cheeky, but quick so that no one else notices. 

He goes along with it, scrunches his nose while imitating a snarl, and you gallop to put distance between you and him before he can catch the ridiculous fucking giggle that bubbles out of you.

What have you gotten yourself into? 

Two and a half more hours, a case of appendicitis, and a knowing smirk. 

An hour and 45 minutes, a collapsed lung, and fingers that linger a little too long. 

30 minutes, a football player with a compound fracture, and breath on the nape of your neck as he slides to get to your other side. 

The night shift crew starts trickling in, and Ellis nearly pulls you into what would probably be a witty conversation full of laughs and subtle shit-talking, but you spin away from her with the excuse of being late for a family dinner. 

You need to shower and you need to give yourself a pep talk in the mirror and you need to—

“Family dinner?”

Robby catches up to you outside, which was not supposed to happen because he always stays later than necessary, wants to be his control freak self and keep an eye on the night shift for at least an hour. 

“Too late for you to play dumb. I already know you’re an evil goddamn mastermind.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responds, eyes to the sky, whistling in a casual, cartoonish manner. 

Bouncing back and forth between overwhelming frustration and giddy anticipation, you walk a little closer to him, biting the inside of your cheek when Robby gently shoulders into you.

Then, like a bucket full of ice water, the situation washes over you all at once. From the accidental pictures up to now. The mortification and anxiety, the compulsive avoidance, the enthusiastic conversation you had mere hours ago. 

You stop walking.

Flirting at work is one thing, but bringing it out into the real world…?

You want it. You want him. You have for too long, and you’ve struggled with it. 

Dating apps and hookups and finding new fucking hobbies—they’re just attempts at distracting yourself. You wish you could cope with extra shifts, but that would be counterproductive. It’s hard enough seeing Robby a few days a week. Any more than that and there would be no hope for you to get over this thing you’ve had for him. 

This can’t be a hookup brought on by a few filthy photos. This can’t be the first time he’s ever seen you as more than just a resident. This can’t be a roaring fire tonight that gets doused in the morning. 

Robby only gets a few steps further before noticing your standstill, stops a few feet ahead at the edge of the lot your car is parked in. 

“You okay?” he ventures, “rethinking all of this?”

You shake your head, “no,” then, “yes.”

Robby frowns but the expression doesn’t come off as upset. More confused than anything. 

“You can back out. I know you’re in limbo or… something, but—”

“No, it’s not that,” you wave off, and you notice that your hand is shaking. Actually, all of you is shaking. It’s pretty well contained, you think, but the antsy energy makes you clench your jaw too tight.

Robby is looking at you in a way only he can—concerned, compassionate, exhausted—and he’s about to open his mouth again, push for you to talk to him with that gentle tone that’s usually meant to placate patients and family, and unfortunately, you’re going to be completely honest, tell him what you left out in the ambulance bay, because you’ve never been able to lie to him. 

“What is it, then?” He takes a step forward but keeps his hands in his pockets. It makes him look relaxed, unimposing, I am restrained; I cannot hurt you. “This can end right here if you want it to, but you’ve gotta tell me.” 

Kind despite the gravel, just as you predicted. 

Heaving a sigh, you snort to yourself, truly cannot believe you’re about to ruin the rest of your residency with a single conversation. 

“I know, yeah, just… I’m about to say some things, and they might make you feel awkward or, I don’t know, like, trapped or whatever, so—”

“Is this about the crush you’ve had since you started?”

He just says it. To your face, right out in the open!

Jaw dropping all the way, you stare at Robby completely dumbfounded. Your cheeks blaze and your ears ring and the world around you comes to a jerky stop. 

“You—you knew?”

His eyes are damn near blinding with the way they shine, a smile tugging at his lips, so fucking self-satisfied even as he blushes. 

“It took me a while to catch on, but yeah,” he nods, moving closer now as he pulls a hand from his pocket to scratch over the hair on his cheek. 

You’re only torturing yourself by asking, “how?” but you need to know. What did you do? What tipped him off?

Robby’s grin softens, his blinks get slower, and for the first time today, he sounds a little unsure. 

“You remember that marathon last year? Some charity event, I think for Alzheimer’s or dementia, one of those nightmare diseases.”

“It was Parkinson’s,” you remind him. 

“Right, anyway, we were fucking packed with broken ankles and torn ligaments, that one guy with rhabdomyolosis…” he lists, eyes to the sky instead of on you. “Then, that kid came in with a dislocated jaw, and—”

“Oh, no, I remember now.” Because you do. You remember this story almost as well as you remember the butterflies. 

Robby chuckles. “I still don’t know why, but you got this fucking look on your face when I showed you how to pop it back into place, like I’d just performed some goddamn miracle, and it didn’t—no, it still doesn’t make sense to me, but I remember liking that look way too fuckin’ much, thought about it too much, wondered if you thought about me too much, and eventually it sort of… started making more sense. Not that it’s me, that doesn’t—the doe eyes, I mean, I understood a little better.”

His rambling would be adorable if you weren’t so fucking embarrassed. Shit, how many times had you stared at him with those “doe eyes” without realizing it? Like a dumb puppy chewing on his pant leg to get his attention. 

You slap a hand over your face and shake your head. “So, you’ve just been going along with it no matter how uncomfortable it probably made you.”

If you were to actually look at him again, you’d see the way Robby rolls his eyes. 

“Didn’t listen to a fucking word I said, Jesus…” 

Now, you do glance up, see the familiar way his fingers lock at the back of his neck as Robby slides his jaw back and forth like he’s thinking. Debating. 

“Okay, here’s what it is—I went along with it. I ignored it.” Ah, ouch. “Or, I tried to, ‘cause it’s fucking distracting, but not… it doesn’t make me feel like—what’d you say earlier? Awkward or trapped. It's distracting ‘cause I can see it. On your face. And, I lose my goddamn focus ‘cause all I can think about is—fuck—what can I do to make you keep looking at me like that?”

He looks stressed, like he’s arguing with an ignorant, unruly patient, even releases one of those incredulous laughs. It doesn’t feel like he’s frustrated with you, though, and you think that maybe he hadn’t planned on telling you all of this. 

“Wait…” you massage your temples, “what are you—hold on.”

Is he saying what you think he’s saying? No. No, definitely not. 

“You’re my resident,” Robby groans, and you know. You know you’re his resident and he’s your attending. 

You know it’s cliché and stupid and impossible which is why you’ve been doing everything you can to move the fuck on. It even felt like you’d been making progress, slow and minuscule as it was, it was still progress. 

But, now you’ve seen how heated his gaze is, heard how rough his voice gets, felt his body pressing against yours, and all of that progress has been lost. In fact, you’ve fallen behind your initial starting point, and this time he knows. 

“I’m sorry—I know. I didn’t mean to put you in a shitty spot, but I couldn’t help it! If I could stop, I would.”

“Please fucking don’t,” Robby replies swiftly, covers the last bit of distance until he’s right in front of you, shaking his head and keeping you pinned under those endlessly tortured brown eyes, “don’t be sorry, don’t try to stop.” 

His hand feels huge on your cheek, and you subconsciously lean into it while gazing up at him. Curling his fingers, you feel his nails graze your cheekbone as a devastatingly soft plea falls from him, “don’t stop fucking looking at me like this.”

You wouldn’t be able to even if you wanted to. 

The kiss is a surprise. You didn’t think he’d be the type to be comfortable displaying something like this in a public setting; any of your coworkers could walk by, could snicker, could judge, so either he’s not in his right mind, or he really does not care. 

“There are people,” half-hearted and muffled against his lips as you raise up to your tiptoes. 

Robby huffs a laugh and tells you, “couldn’t give less of a fuck,” and proves it by settling his free hand on your back, just over the waistband of your pants, and pulls until you’re slotted against him. 

It’s… not softer than before, there’s definitely still force behind the kiss, but it’s less greedy. Less about taking, more about giving—giving up, giving in, giving everything. 

You’re still just as desperate as you were three hours ago, want him between your legs, want him to wreck you, but the way his mouth feels moving with yours is all you can focus on. Harsh pressure receding into something feather light, angling your face, tender yet controlling, so that his nose bumps yours, parted lips barely dragging over yours, and he’s teasing, making you want him more and more. 

“So, here’s my plan,” Robby breathes so, so close. 

You think you hear footsteps nearby, can’t find it in yourself to be bothered by them. 

“You have my…” you barely manage to swallow a whimper when he pulls you impossibly closer, “—undivided attention.”

Robby smiles and hums, “like the sound of that,” before getting back on track, “my plan, though—”

“Mhm, your plan,” your hands travel down his torso, finding belt loops to hook your fingers in. 

“It involves going to your place first, so you can grab clothes, your toothbrush, and whatever toys you use to get yourself off—” 

The way he says it punches the air straight from your lungs. 

“Then, we’re going to mine, and I’m gonna use every one of those toys, make sure you actually cum.”

Robby nips at your lower lip, traps it and sucks before he continues. 

His voice isn’t just gravel now; it’s stone. Firm, deep, excavated from his chest— 

“And, when we get there, I am going to fuck you until the only thought in your pretty head is how good I can make you feel.”

If it weren’t for Robby’s broad frame in front of you, the setting sun would beam straight through your dangerously blown pupils, fry both of your fucking optic nerves, but the danger is blocked, eclipsed by this menace of a man.

You’ve seen Robby goof around, seen him play and poke fun, but you have never seen him look and sound and be so fiendish—an honest to god villain. 

And you are so fucking wet, you think you’re getting dehydrated. 

“That… that sounds, uh,” you try, possibly panting, definitely light-headed. But, you are nothing if not stubborn, so you counter, “sounds kinda presumptuous, actually. Assuming I’m just gonna, like, spend the night and cum my brains out.” 

You make a show of rolling your eyes. The petulance doesn’t quite land when you shudder from the sensation of his fingers toying with your waistband, so you add, “I’ve noticed that when guys talk a big game, I usually leave disappointed.”

Robby looks entertained, a little endeared, an expression that reads something like, that’s cute. 

“I’m sure that’s been your experience in the past, but I’m not some fucking,” he makes a dismissive motion like he can’t be bothered to think too hard about it, “some douchey real estate agent you found on Tinder.”

“What side of Tinder are you on?” you snort. 

“I’m not on it at all, actually, but you’re missing the point.”

“Right,” you suck your teeth, still challenging but refusing to move away from him. “The point being you’re gonna rock my world or whatever.”

Robby takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger then uses them to shake your head for you. With his eyebrows raised, his responding, “no,” sounds like an admonishment, “the point being I actually care about making you cum, and plan to do so—multiple times, if I have it my way…”

“Your way,” you parrot. 

“My way.” He strokes your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Gonna make sure you don’t send more filthy fucking pictures to anyone but me from now on.”

Is it possible to climax from words alone? It must be because having Robby talk to you like this, show how possessive he can be, it feels like you’re about to explode. 

“So I can keep sending videos, then? Didn’t say anything about those.”

“As long as it shows my head between your thighs, go for it.”

Your pitchy, disbelieving giggle breaks enough for him to hear, “what? Are you serious?”

“No, I’m not fucking serious, are you kidding me? My eyes only, got it?”

Your pussy clenches as if he’s already fucking you.

“I—didn’t you have a fucking plan, or are you just gonna keep riling me up?”

“Oh, so you’re on board then?” he toys, smile growing both in size and smugness. 

You click your tongue, quietly scoff, “as if you don’t know. Asshole.”

Robby laughs, and you grab a handful of his hoodie before turning and making your way to your car.

He’s more than happy to be tugged along behind you.

[strangunddurm]

Need part two nooooowww

[criminalyapping]

due for trouble | you're mine

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: i'm actually going to murder my keyboard i am so done with the extra letters and spaces you're gonna yell at me about the end but i'll pick up straight where this leaves off tomorrow :)

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, language, the girls are fighting!! he's big mad, they yell, etc. gets saucy near the end but no smut

< part 5 | part 7 coming soon!

Jack loves working on the night shift. He loves his coworkers, being able to watch the sun rise, and he loves the relative peace in his shift when compared to what he knows the day shift is like.

Lately, he's been thinking about the downsides, though.

When the baby is here, god, he's having a baby, but when it's here does that just mean that its your job to take care of it all night and then go to work all day? He can afford daycare no problem, but maybe he should look into nighttime nurse for you. He adds it to the mental list of things he needs to figure out.

There's approximately 4 million other things on his list as well.

It's another of his string og three days off, and he's seated on his couch trying to enjoy a movie that he put on. He'd much rather be with you, but you're out with your friends at some new country bar that popped up.

When you had first told him your plans for the night, he cringed. Thinking about the hot, sweaty environment you must be in, the opportunities for slips and falls on the sticky dance floor, and in his darkest thoughts, the possibility of you getting something put in your drink, regardless of if it was just water or a soda.

But be a controlling ass he will not, so he wished you and your friends a fun night and left it at that.

He's regretting that now as he looks at his phone and the message he got from your friend Emily. He scrambles for his reading glasses, slips them on, and inspects the text message thouroughly, trying to decipher it.

'miss girl fully eating with her fit'

She had sent along a photo as well, highlighting your cowgirl boots, your cute little sundress, and the intricate way that you had styled your hair for the evening. Jack, however, is focused on the tall cowboy character that you're talking to in the picture, smiling up at him as he looks down at you.

He puts his phone down, biting his lip and thinking about how hard he wants to take this. He's not taking it well overall.

'Do you guys need a ride home?'

He asks. It's about 11:30 now, so he would be able to get there at midnight, which he thinks is a perfect time to leave a country bar.

He's already up and changing out of his sweatpants before he gets a text back.

'uhhhh we were all going to get an uber home'

Emily had texted back.

Jack rolls his eyes.

'I'm on my way, be there in 30'

Jack has a white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel as he gets closer to the bar and finds a parking space.

He has to wait in line to get in and pay a $15 cover, which only sours his mood more. He's borderline seething as he enters, his eyes quickly scanning the open space.

He finally spies you, standing at the bar talking to someone.

Instead of being your friends, it's a tall, cowboy-hat wearing tool with a few too many buttons undone on his shirt.

He makes his way through the bar to you, and you don't even notice his presence until he has wormed his way into your conversation, standing directly in front of you.

Your eyes flick over, at first just preturbed about the man in your space, then your expression shifts to shock and a little bit of fear. The look on his face must be severe.

"Jack..." you trail off, "what are you doing here?" you ask.

"Emily texted me." he says, "I'm here to give you all a ride home." he says.

The man you've been talking to seems to think now is a good time to speak up.

"Hey, man, we're in the middle of talking," he argues.

"Not anymore," Jack says, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along with him as he turns to go.

"Jack," you start to argue as he sucessfully pulls you away from the man, deeper into the bar and looking for the other three.

"Not right now." he cuts you off harshly, not letting go of your wrist.

You trail behind him as he finds the other three, and goes to leave with the four of you trailing behind him like ducklings. You give Emily a severe look, pointedly looking down at your wrist caught in his grasp and back to her.

She looks a little guilty, but the look she shares with Jada afterwards tells you that they're enjoying this.

Jack unlocks hiis truck, opening the passenger door for you and then shutting it hard after you're seated.

As he climbs in the drivers side, he opens his phone and gives it to the backseat.

"Where am I going first?' he asks. Jada lives closest, so she types in her address and Jack pulls out of his parking space.

The car is silent, an unseen tension filling the air as he makes his way around the city dropping off your friends.

As Jack pulls up to his home, you scoff.

"What?" he asks in a monotone voice.

"Can you take me home, too? I thought that was where we were going." you ask snidely.

"No," he disagrees, "we're going to go in and we're going to talk." he tells you.

"Oh, are we?" you argue.

"Yeah," he says, getting out of the car and rounding to the other side, opening your door. "Come on," he urges.

You roll your eyes and clilmb out of the truck gingerly. Jack keeps a hand on yoour shouder like you're about to run away as you walk to his door.

As soon as his door is shut behind him, you lay into him.

"What the fuck was that?" you ask, not quite yelling but definitely close.

"I was trying to have a good time with my friends," you complain.

"Your friends? Your friends who were halfway across the bar while you flirted with some guy?" he spits.

"Oh, fuck off," you scoff.

"No, no tell me." he insists, "Tell me about how much fun you were having."

You roll your eyes again and turn away from him. He grabs your shoulders and angles you towards him. He's standing close enough that your head has to be tilted back to look at him.

He looks pissed. His eyes are wide, a red tinge covering his whole face and neck, and his intense look is focused soley on you.

"I told you," you start, measured, "that I was going out out of courtesy," you spit, "I can do what I want, and it was not okay for you to show up and ruin our night-" you're interrputed when Jack cuts you off.

"Ruin your night?" he repeats.

"Yeah, ruin our night!" now you really are yelling. "You show up, make us all go home, and for what? For what, Jack, so stake some kind of claim?" you yell. "You're not my boyfriend, Jack!" you yell.

Jack chuckles wryly, looking up at the ceiling for a moment.

"You know," he starts, crowding into your space again, grasping the tops of your arms. "I don't have to stake any claim," he tells you lowly. "I don't have to, because I already fucking did," he says, pressing you against the length of his body. "I didn't think I had to spell it out for you, but I will." he continues.

"You're mine," he says, and you open your mouth to argue, but he stops you before you can.

"And don't argue, okay? I'm telling you." he's all but whispering now, his face a few milimeters from yours as he speaks with an intensity that has your toes curling in your boots.

"You're mine," he repeats. "I'm not just around because of the baby, but it gives me a damn good excuse." he tells you. "Call me your boyfriend, or your baby daddy, I don't give a shit. You want to call me your fiance and I'll go get a ring right now," he growls. "But whatever you want to call it, you're all mine, and you need to get that through your head."

Despite being 100% sober, his words give you a floaty feeling in your heads as you struggle to put together a string of words, intoxicated by his presence.

"And I get no say in this?" you finally ask.

"I think," he starts, "that if you really wanted to put up a fight, that I wouldn't have even gotten you out of that bar, let alone into my house." he argues. "I think you just wanted to put up a fight and be a little brat."

You don't say anything, but look up into his eyes and keep your gaze locked there.

"Am I right?" he asks.

You roll your eyes and try to move away, only to be stopped by his renewed grasp on you, pulling you into him as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

"You wanna be mine, baby," he says into your cheek, "that's okay," he assures. He drags his lips down the side of your face and presses his lips to yours in a messy kiss.

His tongue plunges into your mouth annd tangles with yours, overpowering any attempt you make at turning the tides of the kiss. He wrenches his lips from yours and skims them down your neck, leaving licks and kisses and at least one bite, for good measure.

"Yeah, I do," you agree breathily as his mouth works on your collarbone.

"Yeah, you do," he parrots around your skin, "good girl," he sighs.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog

let me know if you want a tag!

[bitters-n-sweets]

gym crush — jack abbot x fem!reader GYM CRUSH JACK ABBOT. because have you seen his ARMS? im DEAD

warnings: none? it's just cute and fluffy masterlist

There's always this guy whose gym schedule lines up with yours. He's older, maybe in his 40s, with salt-n-pepper hair, and forearms you've been dying to touch but settled with staring. For now.

He usually shows up around 2 or 3 PM on weekdays—prime quiet hours—which makes you wonder what kind of job lets him sneak away like that. He's too young to retire, but maybe he's an entrepreneur, or he's in a good position in his job that allows him to leave work whenever he wants.

You're staring again.

You have to physically pry your eyes off his arms when he does curls. You try to focus on your set, but it’s hard—his breathy exhales do something to you, and not in a helpful way.

You shouldn't be thinking this way. He might be married—though you don't see a wedding ring, or dating, or whatever, you shouldn't—

"Hey."

Oh shit.

You lift your head to see him standing near you. He doesn't have the friendliest face, that was the first thing you noticed, and now you're worried if maybe you've done something wrong, or he's there to tell you he caught you staring.

"You need some help with your set?"

Oh.

"I noticed you're not really in it today. Maybe a spot?"

Oh??

Does that mean he's noticed you before?

"S-sure!" You get into position, and he stands behind you, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning your form. It's oddly intimate, maybe just because he's your gym crush.

He has calloused hands. You make a note. Especially when he taps your elbow, coaxing out one more rep with that low, steady voice. God, you imagine how this all would in the right context.

"That's it, atta girl." He gives you a high-five. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, just—" You glance at him. "Work has been stressful."

"I get that." He nods. "I'm Jack."

You say your name. Hopefully correctly. And then he smiles, and heads back to his weights.

Jack has noticed you staring. Stealing glances. The way your eyes flick to him even when he’s on the far side of the gym, out of your line of sight. As if your brain has a compass, and he’s north.

He finds it flattering, really. And he can't hide it (well, maybe better than you), but he watches you too. He finds it adorable that you come in with a different gym set for every session, and your water bottle somehow always matches your outfit. Who owns that many water bottles? It baffles him. And entertains him. And somehow makes him like you more.

He likes your hair too. Sometimes it’s braided, sometimes it’s in a ponytail. Beyond that, he has no clue what the styles are called—he just knows they all suit you. Ridiculously well.

And today?

You’re wearing his favorite set.

Yes, sure, kind of creepy for a man who’s never spoken to you to have a favorite gym set. But that shade—God, that shade—brings out your eyes like nothing else. And on days like this, with that color hugging your body? How is he supposed to look away?

The day after he offers to spot you, Jack finds himself hoping you’ll show up again. What started as stolen glances has turned into quick smiles as you pass each other, protein shake cheers between sets, and casually trading spots like it's second nature.

You still don’t talk much—nothing too deep, anyway—but his presence makes the gym feel different. Like something to look forward to. Something that gets you out the door on even the laziest days.

Then a week passes.

No Jack.

You tell yourself maybe your rest days just aren’t lining up. But another day goes by. Then two. And now it’s been a full week, and the dread creeps in: maybe Jack’s found a new gym.

It sucks—but it happens.

You try to focus on your workout, but you’re hopelessly distracted. Every time someone walks in, your head turns, heart kicking up… only to sink again when it’s not him.

You sigh and settle under the barbell.

Creak.

The gym doors open.

You whip your head around—"Shit—"

Your form wobbles, balance gone. The bar slips, and the weight traps you beneath it.

"Um, a little help?!" you gasp, struggling under the bar.

A gym employee rushes over with another regular, both of them working quickly to lift the bar off you. The pain in your shoulder flares immediately, sharp and hot, and you try to breathe through it.

"I don't think you need an ambulance, but we're gonna get you to the ER just in case." A gym employee rushes over with another regular, both of them working quickly to lift the bar off you. The pain in your shoulder flares immediately, sharp and hot, and you try to breathe through it.

You nod mindlessly.

Greg—the gym employee, and Harry—the regular, are kind enough to help drive you to the ER. They left once it's your turn, and you're now sitting in an exam bay, waiting for a doctor.

The ER is freezing. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline fading. You're still in your workout gear, couldn't even grab your hoodie, and your arm in a temporary sling. The pain's dulled to a throb, but the embarrassment is still fresh.

"The doctor will see you soon."

You're not really listening, until you hear a familiar voice.

"Okay, so what do we have—oh."

You look up. "Jack?"

He freezes when he sees you, clipboard halfway raised. His salt-and-pepper hair’s a little messy, dark scrubs clinging to him like he’s been running all over the place. There’s a stethoscope slung around his neck.

A smile starts tugging at his mouth. "Hey."

"You're a doctor?"

"That topic never came up?"

You chuckle. "Not really, no."

Jack steps closer, eyes flicking to your sling as he gently helps you adjust it. "Wanna tell me how this happened?"

"I didn't have my usual spotter."

He half-smirks. "Sounds like an unreliable prick. But seriously, walk me through the accident, I skimmed your chart, but I need to hear it from you."

You look at your feet. "It's dumb."

"Try me."

You fiddle with the edge of the paper sheet under you. "I was going for a new PR on squats. And… I got distracted. Lost focus, lost balance, and the bar pinned me."

Jack studies you for a moment. "Distracted by what?"

You glance at him, then away again. "Does it really matter?"

"It does to me."

Your voice is quieter when you finally admit, "I thought it was you coming into the gym. I heard the door. And I looked up."

Jack’s brow softens, and then so does his smile. "You were looking for me?"

"Ugh, you were gone for a week, okay, and I miss—I got worried." You groan lightly, more embarrassed than hurt now. "Don't make a thing out of it."

He laughs, smoothing a stray hair behind your ear. "I absolutely will make a thing out of it."

Jack proceeds to examine your nasty bruise, and making sure you didn't hit your head too hard by telling you to touch his finger where he points it, but intentionally making you miss.

"Jack, I swear—"

"Just messing with you, sweetheart." He laughs again, and you think you might die. "You're good to go home, just take some aspirin if the headache is too much."

You get down from the bed accidentally bump into his chest. You can practically feel his breath on you.

"S—"

"For the record," he leans down, voice brushing your ear, "I missed you too."

Your breath hitches, eyes wide. He pulls back with a low chuckle, then presses a kiss to your cheek. "Get home safe, I'll text you later. Okay?" He murmurs.

"O-Okay." You try your best to speak.

"Oh, and no gym for at least a week!" He calls out as he walks away.

You’re still reeling as you head home, Jack’s jacket slung around your shoulders and your mind spinning from everything that just happened. That smile. That voice. That kiss. It all feels like a fever dream—until a sudden realization hits you.

Jack doesn’t have your number.

And you don’t have his.

You groan. Of course. You’re benched from the gym for a week and just when things were finally happening—

Ding.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unknown number.

Hey, it’s Jack. Got your number from your chart. Want to grab dinner tonight? :) Don't forget to take aspirin for your headache

You stare at the screen, grinning like a fool.

Okay. Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

[strangunddurm]

Ughhhh so cute!!

[spaceyaemonds]

i can only imagine reader bringing in her chunky, ruddy cheeked baby with the softest freckles smattered across her rosy cheeks and big, round hazel eyes to the ER. her baby’s wispy auburn curls lightly fluttering as the reader bounces her in her arms to keep her calm in the noisy building. it’s shift change in the morning, so everyone from each shift is there. dana and samira notice the cute baby first, asking if she’s a patient and the reader brushes them off with a smile telling them that both she and her baby are fine and they’re just waiting for her boyfriend. and the look of shock on everyone’s faces when jack and his salt and pepper curls strolls over to the much younger woman and scoops the chubby baby that looks suspiciously like him up into his strong arms 💞💞

hi friend!!!!

omg i love love love this😭😭😭

Mohan notices them first, the young woman and her cute baby that looks almost familiar, and if she had to guess was around nine months old. They both seem content. Or at least she does, the baby is clinging onto her, eyes dropping as she fights off sleep.

Though they seem fine, she can’t help but be concerned.

“Dana?”

The blonde looks up at the doctor, “Yeah?”

“Have they been helped?” She points in their direction.

Dana’s brow furrows, glancing at the board then down at the charts just to be sure. No one matching their description is currently in a room.

“No, I don’t think so,” She glances back over at them, watching as the baby blinks sleepily in their direction.

Mohan nods at Dana before walking over, gently placing her hand on the woman's shoulder to not startle her.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a hand on your shoulder, “Oh my goodness!”

“Oh my god!” You and the doctor that touched your arm jump at the same time.

You let out a light laugh when you look at her, “I’m sorry. You startled me,”

She nods, letting out a small laugh herself, “No, I’m sorry,” She shakes her head before smiling at you, “I just wanted to check on you, make sure you and your baby have been taken care of? Do you need a room to be examined?”

You quickly shake your head, “Oh! No, we’re waiting on my boyfriend. Are we in the way?”

Her brow furrows, and you bite your lip, wondering if you should have just waited in the car.

“No, of course you guys aren’t in the way,” She glances at the baby who has started fussing slightly and moving around a little more. “If you want, I can go find him for yo-“

Before she can finish, your daughter attempts to launch herself out of your arms.

“Hey, you,” Mohan looks up, eyes landing on Dr. Abbot, who, to her surprise, gently takes the baby from you during what is her second attempt at launching herself at him.

“Have you been good for mommy? Huh?” Again, she is taken aback by the night attendings familiarity with this child.

She’s left standing there awkwardly when he pulls you close and kisses your head. “You have an easy night?”

You laugh, shaking your head no, “She has another tooth coming in, so we’ve been up alllll night. Huh, baby?”

He smiles fondly as you answer him but talk to her.

Jack finally notices Samira, “Dr. Mohan, can I help you with something?”

Her eyes widen, and she quickly shakes her head no, “Oh! No, I just saw them standing here and wanted to make sure they didn’t need anything, is all,”

She glances between him and the baby, who she can now see is nearly identical to him, “So, you guys know each other?”

Your eyes widen slightly, a small laugh threatening to leave your mouth at the deadpan look on Jack’s face.

He looks at the baby, smiling at her, “Well, Dr. Mohan, what would your observation be?”

[bitters-n-sweets]

scoliosis — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader You have scoliosis and it's been killing your back all day. Robby notices and decides to help you out with it.

warnings: suggestive content, minors GO AWAY | reader has scoliosis - not bad, but def painful after hours of standing, running etc. masterlist a/n: anyone else got scoliosis? mine is killing me today || side note, I've been basically writing one fic a day for a week, my brain is on FIRE and I might take a break soon lol

Crack-ety-crack

You groan as you stretch your back. You only have 3 hours left on your shift, and though it will feel like eternity, you can't wait to get back to your bed and reset.

You’re perched slightly sideways in your chair, trying to avoid pressure on your elevated right hip. It’s second nature by now—awkward but necessary. The real exhaustion comes from always being aware of how you're sitting, how you're standing, how you're moving—if you don't want it to gradually get worse.

You sigh again, and Robby notices.

"You okay?"

"Yep," You enunciate the P. "Just charting, boss."

Robby finds your behavior—and posture—odd but keeps walking. You’ve stretched five times today by his count, and that’s unusual. He knows he needs to ask you about it, and he will.

A while later, he sees you dead-hanging on the break room's door frame. Someone—he doesn't know who—had installed it for their "gains" and now you're using it. With your scrubs riding up as your spine relaxes, showing your bare waist.

It’s not indecent. Not really. But the sight punches the air out of his lungs harder than he expects. Heat rises to his ears as he steps behind you, instinctively blocking the view from anyone else.

He clears his throat.

"Sorry!" You say, "Was just relaxing my back."

Robby’s frown is back. "What’s going on with your back?"

You shrug, casual. "Scoliosis. It flares up sometimes, so I stretch."

"I’ve never seen you stretch this much during a shift."

"Yeah, it’s worse today. No idea why." You wave him off like it’s nothing. "It’ll go away once I sleep."

"You taking anything for it?"

"Pssh, no." You grin. "I’ll be fine. Rest usually does the trick."

Robby doesn’t look convinced. "You wanna leave early?"

"No," You shake your head. "Seriously Robby, I'm okay."

With a tap on his arm, you're on your merry way to see your patients. Robby sighs, because he knows how stubborn you can be, and he's gonna have to force you to rest.

"Alright, Mr. Evans, you're all patched up and ready to be discharged." You smile at the older man and stand up, a groan following suit as you put a hand on your back.

"Hon, you might wanna check that back." Mr. Evans comments, "You sound older than me!"

You're about to argue back when someone cuts your line, "Tell me about it. Come with me." Robby motions and leaves, meaning you need to follow him fast.

"Robby—"

"Nuh-uh, get in here." He opens the door to the on-call room and you go in with a grumble.

"I'm fine, Robby."

"No, you're not." He says, locking the door behind him. "You're in pain, so let me help you."

"What are you—" Robby moves you so your back is turned towards him, and he gently places his hands on your shoulder.

He's giving you a massage.

"Rob—"

"It's gonna help with your pain." Robby says. "Now lean forward a little."

You do as he says, leaning your body weight on your arms while he makes his way down your back, his hands now on your lower back, under your scrubs. It's too intimate. You feel your cheeks getting hot. And it doesn't help that he's now so close to you, you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

Robby pauses for a second. "Is this okay?" he asks, voice lower now, closer to your ear.

You nod, quickly. "Yeah. Just… didn’t expect you to be this good at it."

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "Let’s just say I’ve had practice. Not on coworkers, though."

You glance at him over your shoulder with a smirk. "Am I special, Dr. Robinavitch?"

He grins, his hands stilling briefly on your waist. "Yeah. You are."

You let out a shaky breath as he works you, and you can practically feel the smirk on Robby's face.

Robby chuckles. "That feel good?"

You hum, trying not to enjoy it too much.

You try to focus on anything but Robby’s hands—his clinical, practiced, totally professional hands—that you just realized are huge, and are currently pressed on your hip. But your body betrays you.

A soft, breathy sound slips out of your throat. It’s not loud, but it’s definitely a moan.

"That good, huh?"

"Robby, I swear—"

Robby chuckles, deep and smug. "I mean, I was hoping to make you feel better, so… I’ll take it as a win."

You try to twist around to glare at him, but his hands hold you steady. "Don’t move. You’ll undo all my good work."

"Cocky."

"Confident," he corrects. "And apparently very effective."

You let out a groan—not from the massage this time. "You are insufferable."

"And yet," he murmurs, dipping his thumbs just below the curve of your waist, "you’re letting me keep going."

You bite your lip. He notices. Oh, he definitely notices.

"Tell me if it hurts," he says, quieter now, closer to your neck. "Or if you want me to stop."

You don’t say a word.

And he doesn’t stop.

"Good girl."

[docrobinavitch]

but i stayed anyway

dr. robby x f!fiance!reader content: 18+ mdni, canon medical incidents (mci), shooting, mental health discussions, suicidal ideation words: 9.8k synopsis: takes place over the course of episodes 12-15. reader is a clinical psychologist who used to work in the hospital, but no longer does and is engaged to robby. robby calls reader to let her know about the shooting and asks that she not come... and guess what our reader does (: (as this is following alongside the events of episodes 12 through 15, please note that i borrowed some dialogue directly from the episodes.) a/n: hiiii besties!!! this fic is proof that democracy works 🤪 thank you for voting in my poll! the family trauma fic is soon to follow (hopefully). i listened to renegade by big red machine a lot while writing this, which to me may be the most robby coded song of all time. but yeah that's where the title comes from, if you were interested. thank you guys so much for all the love you've shown my writing the last month, i think it's time to get a masterlist up. love you, enjoy your weekend, and as always feel free to blow my inbox up.

It was almost 6PM when you were on your drive home from work that day. You thought about calling your fiancé, Michael, but figured he’d be off shift in an hour anyway. You were trying, and failing, not to be overbearing.

When he told you he intended to go to work today, you had feigned indifference, but he knew you and he heard the worry in your voice.

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me.” He said as he kissed you goodbye.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You said, “You said you’re good to work today so you’re good to work today. Just, um, maybe we could check in around lunch—?”

“Stop.” He said, sighing, “We talked about this.”

“Yeah, okay.” You said quickly, anxious to get him out of the house so you could fret in peace, “I’ll see you later.”

Once he was gone, you got yourself ready for work and did your best not to think about it too much. Him working on the anniversary of Adamson’s death. You were, after all, a clinical psychologist and so it had been… difficult to turn off your clinical instincts when Robby had been suffering so obviously the last few years.

You had suggested a referral to many a colleague, which he politely refused each time. Insisting he was fine while day after day you watched him slip further and further into an abyss.

You had gone so far as to text Kiara, the hospital social worker, about your concerns a few months ago. Robby had been livid about that. Barely spoke to you for days after.

Your fingers itched to call her on your way into work, but you really didn’t want to start off the weekend fighting with Robby.

So you stayed away. You didn’t text or call to check in during the day. However, when Jake had texted you earlier today asking if you wanted to stop by the ER with him around lunch, you nearly gave in.

Sorry, kid, too wrapped up with work today. But make sure you give him a hug for me!

You locked your phone and put it down after that, but then a minute later couldn’t stop yourself from sending an extra text:

Also couldn’t hurt to ask him how he is.

After it was sent you rested your head on your arms and sighed.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Jake had texted you that he seemed busy, but overall fine. You knew though that Jake’s perception of fine did not match yours. Besides which, Robby would have put on a show for him, a happy face. He’d never let Jake see the crushing grief that was just behind his eyes, if only you knew where to find it. You didn’t hear anything else for the rest of the day.

So when there was still an hour of Robby’s shift left and a picture of the two of you lit up your screen to indicate an incoming call, your heart rate picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, honey, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be home late tonight. I’m not sure how late yet.”

“Oh.” You waited for him to provide more information, but he didn’t. “Is everything okay?”

He sighed, “I don’t know. There’s an active shooter at Pitt Fest.”

“Oh, God—“ Your breath caught when you remembered your conversation with Jake earlier, “Jake’s there—“

“Yeah, do you think you could try getting in touch with him? I’ve tried calling, but it won’t go through.”

“Yeah, yeah of course.”

“And if you don’t mind, maybe call Janey too?”

“Yes. Whatever you need.” He was quiet on the other line for a moment. You badly wanted to ask him if he was okay, but knew the answer and also knew it would only piss him off, so you waited in the silence.

“Please don’t come here,” He said finally, “I know you think you can help—“

“I can help,” You said quickly, “Kiara’s going to be slammed, I’ve worked in the hospital before, I can—“

“You don’t want to be here for this.” He said firmly. You heard someone call his name in the background, “I have to go. You’ll let me know if you hear from Jake?”

“Yeah, of course. I love—“ The line went dead before you could finish your sentence.

That was fine. Your brain was entering crisis mode anyway. You dialed Jake as you drove, about three times with no luck. Trying to keep your own anxiety in check, you called Janey and let her know what was going on and to call you or Robby if she heard from Jake.

Robby didn’t want you at the hospital, you knew that, but there was simply no way in hell you were just going to go home and twiddle your thumbs while you waited to hear from him or Jake. You were sure he knew that, too.

So, after thinking it over for a minute, you made a U turn and dialed Kiara.

As you were walking in to the ER, you ran into Jack Abbot and exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” He teased, throwing an arm over your shoulders.

“Oh, thank God you’re here too.”

“What are you doing here? You’re back at the hospital?”

“No, no, I just thought Kiara could use a hand tonight.”

He hummed, “Which roughly translates to you wanted to keep an eye on Robby.”

You feigned outrage, “Come on, Jack, I thought you’d be on my side about this.”

“I am on your side,” He laughed as you walked through the waiting room, “Why do you think I’m here?”

The two of you walked into Robby giving a pep talk to the ER staff. His face betrayed nothing when he saw the two of you, but just from looking at him it was immensely clear to you that the day had weighed on him. And now he still had miles to go.

“Brother, am I glad to see you.” He said to Abbot, pulling him into a hug.

“You,” He said, turning to you, “I specifically asked you not to come here.”

“Kiara asked me to come, and besides,” You lowered your voice, “You’re not the boss of me.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his face, “Have you heard from Jake?”

“No, I’m still trying. So is Janey.”

He nodded and then without preamble pulled you into his chest, “Thank you for coming.”

You exhaled in relief and tightened your arms around his waist, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” You murmured, “I have to go find Kiara.”

He nodded and stepped away from you, immediately shifting back into leader mode. While you slipped away, you stopped at Dana’s side, gaping at her black eye.

“Oh my God, what the fuck happened to you?” You asked, hands coming up to her face.

“Oh, please, don’t start. I don’t have time.” She pulled you into a tight hug, “Glad you’re here though, regardless of what sad boy over there says, we could use all the help we can get.”

You smirked, “Sad boy?”

She waved you off, “Gen Z lingo, ask one of the med students.”

“Hey,” You grabbed her arm as she started to run off, “You’ll come get me if he seems… sadder than usual?”

She smiled, “Yeah, you got it.”

And then she was off and you disappeared into the chaos to find Kiara.

***

You had lost count of how many times you’d called Jake. You had talked to several family members, mostly just to ask them to be patient and be sure to upload any information about their missing family members.

But you had also had to inform a woman that her husband was dead. You had done this before, the hard thing, giving someone the worst news of their lives. It was a difficult balance to be empathetic enough that you didn’t come off cold and distant, but not so empathetic that you let it destroy you.

You still hadn’t mastered it. And the fact that no one could get in touch with Jake only made it worse. As soon as you could, you excused yourself to call him again.

It rang and rang and rang and when you reached his voicemail, you hung up, hands shaking.

It felt like hours before your phone went off with a text from Dana.

Jake’s here. He’s ok. Come find me.

The relief hit you so hard you felt yourself tearing up. Taking deep breaths, you headed back into the ER, looking for Dana.

You hadn’t been back here since everything started and the sight of all the patients, the blood on the floor, nearly made you sick. You stood there, frozen in place, listening to the crying and medical jargon being shouted and wondered, not for the first time, how the fuck Robby did this all day long. You knew from experience it wasn’t normally like this, but after only a couple of hours in the ER, you had always been anxious to leave it. You never understood how anyone could do a full 12 hour shift here.

“Good, there you are.” Dana said, coming to your side, “Jake’s good, he was shot in the leg, but they’ve stopped the bleeding he’s stable.”

“Oh, thank God. Has anyone called Janey?”

Dana nodded, “She’s on her way here. But, Leah, Jake’s girlfriend,” Dana sighed and shook her head, “It’s not good. Robby’s working on her.”

You nodded, “Okay, well, that’s encouraging. Robby’s the best chance she has.”

Dana nodded, “Yeah, I’m more so worried that she was a lost cause when she got in here and Robby’s been working on her for… Well, longer than he should be in a mass casualty. Anyone else and he would’ve called it minutes ago.”

You saw where she was going with this. Leah was dead. But Robby would kill himself to bring Leah back, to not have to tell Jake he couldn’t save her. And all of this was happening on the day Adamson had died.

“Also,” Dana added, “I don’t know the details, but him and Langdon had a falling out today. He sent the kid home.”

You frowned, “What d’you mean, Langdon’s right there?” You pointed behind her to Langdon who was working on a patient.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be shitting me.” She sighed, “Okay, well, don’t tell Robby you saw him. He’s gonna lose his shit when he sees him.”

You sighed and brought your hands together, “Okay. I’m going to go talk to Jake and then I’m gonna see what I can do about… Leah.”

“Thank you,” Dana said, “You’re an angel.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, it’s a long shot he’ll listen to me.”

“Have a little faith, yeah?” And then Dana disappeared.

Closing your eyes, you breathed slowly a few times, psyching yourself up to go find Jake, and then you forced yourself to move.

You found Jake alone, on a gurney in the hallway, phone in hand and tears still wet on his cheeks.

“Oh, Jake, baby,” He looked up at the sound of your voice and his arms opened to you immediately. You wrapped him up, holding him as tightly as you could.

“Leah was shot,” He cried.

“I know, I know, I heard.”

“Robby’s with her, do you know how she is?”

You shook your head, “I just got in here, but I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Could you stay with me? Just until my mom gets here?”

Oh, your heart was shattering in your chest with every second that passed. You closed your eyes for a second, “I have to go handle something, but I promise I will be right back, okay?”

He nodded, “Yeah, okay. And you’ll see about Leah?”

“Yeah, of course.” You squeezed his hand and kissed the top of his head and then you were moving again.

The level of carnage was absolutely stunning and in your head you had to keep repeating to yourself over and over Find Robby. Find Robby. Find Robby. In order to keep your head on straight.

And then you saw him, in front of the hub, perched on top of the gurney like a man tied to the pyre at the center of town. You wondered idly how long he had been performing compressions. Nurses surrounding the gurney, carrying out orders as he spewed them out. All of them had the same look on their face, like they were placating a child who could not quite seem to grasp that their dog had died.

“Fuck.” You muttered.

“Good, you’re here. Maybe he’ll listen to you.” Abbot appeared behind you.

“I don’t know that he will,” You swallowed, “He’s been pushing me away for weeks.” The intensity of the situation they were in, of seeing Jake, and now his girlfriend, dead beneath Robby’s hands brought tears to your eyes.

“You have to try.” Abbot said quietly, and then he buried himself back into the fray.

You blinked the tears away rapidly and then tentatively stepped towards the gurney. You looked down at Leah’s body, all the tubes coming out of her, the gaping wound in her chest, “Robby.” You said softly and looked up.

His eyes flicked to yours quickly, then back to Leah, “It’s Jake’s girlfriend.”

“I know.” He continued compressions and gave more orders out to the nurses that you didn’t quite understand, “How long has she been down?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I thought—I thought we had a pulse for a second.”

You nodded, “But her heart stopped a long time ago, didn’t it?”

His eyes flicked up to yours again and you saw the layers of pain there that had been ripped up, likely all day long. All culminating in this girl, this one girl he couldn’t save. That he would have never been able to save, even on a good day. And despite all the people he had already helped save today and the dozens he would save after, he would never let go of Leah.

He looked back down at Leah, “It’s Jake’s… She’s Jake’s…”

“I know, baby,” You said softly, “Have you tried everything?”

“We gave her so much blood… We transfused some of her own blood… But the bullet it… It tore through her heart…”

“That sounds like you did everything you could,” You said gently, and you felt your own tears aching at the back of your throat, “It sounds like you gave Leah the best chance you possibly could have. If this didn’t work then nothing would have.” He’s still doing compressions, grimacing as he does, “Why don’t we check her pulse one more time, okay?”

He looks up at you again, your eyes pleading for him to climb off the gurney, his eyes pleading with you not to make him give up on Leah. You lift a hand up to him, a silent offering: You don’t have to do it alone.

He looked back down at Leah for another moment and you saw him fighting with himself. And then he reached for you. His gloved, blood soaked hand wrapped around yours tightly and the weight on your chest lessened marginally.

“Sophie, could you take over compressions for a moment? Dana, do you have the doppler?”

“Yeah.”

“Has it been tested?”

“No.”

Robby let go of your hand and took the doppler from Dana, quickly checking it on his own wrist. “Ok, it’s working.” He said when the sound of his own pulse echoed. “Hold compressions.”

You held your breath when he held the doppler to Leah’s neck. The silence was deafening and you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. But you kept watching Robby, never looking away from him.

“Ok.” He said finally, and you heard the tears in his throat, “That’s it, we’re done.”

He put the doppler away and wrote the time of death on her wrist chart and pulled the blanket up and over her head. You reached out for his hand again, fully expecting him to push you away, but he took it, holding it like a lifeline.

“I can tell Jake.” You said softly.

“No,” He said, shaking his head, “It’s okay, I’ll do it.”

“Robby—“

He squeezed your hand once before dropping it, turning his attention elsewhere, “You should wash your hands.”

You looked down at your hands, and sure enough, they were covered in Leah’s blood from where Robby had held them.

“Thank you,” Dana said, coming up behind you, “I wasn’t sure he was ever going to stop.”

You inhale shakily, “Don’t thank me yet. He still has to tell Jake.”

You excuse yourself before she can reply, heading straight for the bathroom. The crying starts before you’ve even fully closed the door, and then when you see the bloody footprints and the blood in the sink, you only cry harder.

You thought about Jake, about how he had told you about Leah just a couple weeks ago. The two of you giggling while he showed you pictures of her, told you about the music she loved and the TV she watched. Now you're washing her blood down the sink.

You watch the pink water and suds flow from your hands down the drain and wait for your breathing to level.

After drying off your hands, you sniffle, and then steeling yourself you walk back into the ER— And straight into Kiara.

“Hey, I was looking for you. We got a couple more positive IDs in the morgue and the families are here.” She looks at you more closely, noting your red eyes and wet cheeks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just… Jake’s girlfriend just died, so.” You cleared your throat, “But I’m good, I’m ready.”

She gave you a knowing look, “You’re sure?”

You shrugged and looked around, “You can’t fully process an event like this until it’s over. The only way out is through and all that. So I’m good.”

Jake was waiting for you, you remembered, but you couldn’t face him right now. Couldn’t lie to him when you had watched Robby pull that blanket up over Leah’s head.

“Alright.” Kiara said, and the two of you began walking back to the cafeteria.

***

After helping Kiara with two family notifications, you excused yourself back to the ER, wanting to check on Robby and Jake.

Walking back into the chaos was just as upsetting the second time. You clenched your fists as you walked through, looking for Robby or Dana or Abbot. The first person your eyes found was Abbot, monitoring a patient and talking a resident through a procedure.

“Hey,” You said, walking up to him, “Have you seen Robby?”

He looked up from his patient and looked around, “Hey Dana?” He shouted, “You seen Robby?”

“No,” She called back, “I was just about to ask you the same.”

“Shit,” You murmured and started walking again.

“Y/N?” Dana called.

“Yeah, I’m on it.” You called as you passed her.

You opened every room, asked every doctor and nurse you passed, but no one had seen him.

Finally, you overheard someone mention that they were using the Peds room as a makeshift morgue and it clicked.

Robby didn’t talk to you much about the pandemic or about Adamson afterwards, but when he had been in it. When he came home on this day four years ago, he had been so distraught, so desperate, he had tried at first to talk about it. And you remembered how he explained to you that they put Adamson in Peds for lack of space. It had really stuck with him, for some reason, that Adamson had died in Peds.

If now the morgue was in Peds. And Leah was in the morgue. And Robby was the one who took her there. Well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why no one could find Robby.

You walked quickly, occasionally stopping to ask for directions or to see if anyone had seen Robby. Langdon was the most helpful, saying he saw Robby go in the morgue with Jake and then Jake came out, but not Robby.

“Hey, what’s going on with the two of you today?” You asked.

“Me and Robby?” He looked around as if to see if anyone else was listening, “Why, what have you heard? Did he say something to you?”

You raised your eyebrows, “No, but Dana said he sent you home hours ago.”

He ran a hand through his hair, “It was a misunderstanding.”

You nod and then shrug, “Okay.”

“Are you analyzing me or something?”

You give a short laugh and then start backing away from him, “Are you paying me? I don’t analyze for free, Frank. I’m very expensive.”

You were hoping to get more from Langdon on what was going on. It was becoming more and more apparent that a lot of shit had happened today during Robby’s shift even before the shooting.

But, you didn’t have time for that, you supposed. You’d have to go in blind, trust your instincts, hope to God you don’t say the wrong thing to push him away.

And when you walk into Peds, you realize just how in over your head you are.

Robby’s on the ground, Star of David necklace clutched in his hand, eyes closed tight as he shakily murmured to himself in Hebrew.

You had never seen him pray before. He had struggled with his faith after the passing of his grandmother and ever since working in the ER. As long as you’d known him, his relationship with God had been tenuous or nonexistent.

So if he was praying right now, well, that scared the shit out of you.

You lowered yourself to the ground in front of him, not touching him or saying anything, just wanting him to know you were there.

After a few moments of you sitting in front of him, his breathing just starting to level and the tears slowing, you tried to find the right thing to say. Nothing you said, you knew, would fully be able to help him process whatever this was. Whatever had happened in here with him and Jake. That was for another time.

It went against everything you were taught as a clinician to push Robby back into the work when that was the reason he was on this floor, wrecked beyond recognition. But people were dying out there. And more would die if you couldn’t manage to pull him out of the riptide.

“I heard one of your interns just did a REBOA without supervision.” His eyes darted to yours at that, “I don’t know what that means, but everyone seems pretty pissed about it.”

“What is this?” He asked, voice gravelly.

“What?”

“You’re not going to ask if I’m okay or ask me how it makes me feel that Leah’s dead and Jake blames me?”

Ah. Well, that certainly explained the situation they were in. The straw that broke the camel’s back was Jake. The closest thing he had to a son, rejecting him in his lowest moment and reaffirming every untrue belief he held about himself.

You shook your head, “I think it’s pretty clear you’re not fucking okay. None of us are okay right now.” You glanced over your shoulder through the glass door, “I could give you the heartfelt pep talk if you want, about how I know you’re the best doctor in this whole damn hospital and how I know if you couldn’t save Leah no one could and how I know Jake loves you even if he’s angry and hurting. But I don’t think you’re in the space to receive that right now.”

His breathing was shaky and he fiddled with his necklace, not looking at you anymore. You weren’t sure if you were blowing it or not, but this was the best you could do right now without falling apart yourself.

“What I think you need to hear right now is that people are still dying out there. People who are loved, who have families, just like Leah did. And they need you.”

He shook his head, sobbing, “I can’t.”

Your eyes watered and you swiped a tear from your cheek hurriedly, frustrated at yourself for crying, “I know that’s how it feels. But I also know you’ll never forgive yourself if you leave your department out there to fend for themselves all night while you sit in here.” You sniffed, “And I’m really gonna need you to forgive yourself for this someday, Michael.”

At that, he did look up at you. The unspoken words in what you were saying. You loved this man with every beat of your heart. But you weren’t sure how much longer it could go on like this. You, desperately trying to throw him a life vest and him actively swimming further away from you.

He needed to want to get better and you weren’t sure how to make him want it, to see that this was unsustainable and destroying him. And he was pulling you down with him.

Eyes glittering with tears, you rose to your feet and reached a hand out to him for the second time that day.

He looked back down at the floor for a moment and your heart sank, but then you felt the brush of his fingers on your palm. You swallowed down a sob that threatened to choke you and gripped his hand, helping him off the floor.

Once he was at his full height, you brought your hands to either side of his face and gently pulled him to you, pressing kisses to his cheeks and forehead before resting your head to his.

His breathing wavered only slightly as he rested his own hands at the base of your neck.

“Okay?” You asked tentatively after you’d both been standing there like that for a few moments.

He swallowed and nodded, “Yeah.”

As you stepped away from him, your hand trailed down his arm until you were just holding his hand. You squeezed once and he squeezed back. You dropped his hand as you turned for the door and you felt his hand at the small of your back as the two of you left Peds.

Things seemed to be beginning to slow down now. You watched from a distance as Robby breezed by you, pulled off his bloody robe and encouraged his residents. As if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t been destroyed just moments ago. It was astounding to you, the way he could so quickly shift gears.

But then, as he was putting on a new robe, Gloria appeared. You stepped closer to the hub and watched the exchange anxiously. You almost turned and walked away as things seemed to be going okay, but then the conversation shifted to discussions of unscreened blood donors and a shooter with a hit list and then Robby exploded.

“Jesus Gloria!”

You were shoulder to shoulder with Abbot when he lost it and your breath caught, “Your turn.” You murmured to Jack and backed yourself into a chair next to Dana at the hub.

“Hey, get some air, brother.” Abbot said as soon as Robby was close enough, “Go check on triage.”

When he disappeared out the ambulance bay doors, you rested your head in your hands.

“Should we be worried about him?” Abbot asked as he walked around the hub.

“Yes,” You said, “Everyone should be very, very worried about him.”

“Awesome,” Jack sighed and went back to see more patients.

You kept an eye on the ambulance bay, tears still constantly threatened to spill over. You wanted to go home, but not if Robby didn’t come with you.

“It’s slowing down, right?” You asked Dana, eyes shining as she turned to you.

She gave you a sad smile and squeezed your shoulder, “Yeah, kid. It’ll be over soon.”

***

You had sat with Jake after that until Janey came. You had squished yourself into his non-injured side and rested your head on top of his.

“You know Robby would’ve traded his life for Leah’s in a second if he could have. He would’ve done anything to not see you hurt like this.” You said gently.

Jake had sat there quietly so you had decided not to push. The two of you sat in silence for a while.

You watched Robby whenever he passed by and almost without fail, his eyes fell to Jake whenever he passed. You had heard there was a measles case in the ER. Not contagious, but it was something Robby had said to you months ago he feared the most. That this anti vaccination trend was going to boil over and sooner or later, diseases like the measles that had largely been eradicated, would return. You couldn’t believe this was happening today of all days.

When Janey got to Jake, you reluctantly left him.

“Oh, please, don’t leave on my account,” Janey said smiling, “I really appreciate you staying with him.”

“Please, it’s my pleasure,” You squeezed Jake’s hand again before climbing off his gurney, “But I really have to go find Robby and see if I can drag him home. He might collapse soon if he doesn’t get out of here.” You turned back to Jake, “You’ll text me if you need anything, right? I mean anything.”

He shrugged, “Sure, whatever.”

You knew he was acting this way probably because he saw you as an extension of Robby. And it sucked. You loved Jake. Had loved him for years now, since he was just a little kid. It would pass, you told yourself. It had to.

“Janey,” You pulled her off a little away from Jake, “This is not unsolicited advice, just an offer from a friend: I would be happy to refer him to a colleague if at any point you think he needs to talk to someone.”

Janey gave you a watery smile, “Thank you.”

“You have my number?” She nods, “Okay. Well, please, if either of you need anything, Robby and I are just a call away.”

Janey nodded, “And also not unsolicited advice, just the observation of a friend, but I’m worried about Robby. You’ll make sure he’s alright, right?”

You looked down at your hands, at the ring on your finger, then looked back up at Janey, “Right now I can’t see past the next hour or so, but I am trying my damnedest to keep him above water.”

Janey nodded and squeezed your hand before you headed back towards the hub. As you were heading there, though, you thought you heard Robby’s voice yelling coming from the elevators.

You locked eyes with Dana, and frowning, slowly turned towards the direction of the yelling. You walked down a hallway to find Robby in a heated discussion with Dr. Shen, but when his eyes landed on you he disengaged.

“While I am glad that you are… functioning again,” You said quietly, “If you keep screaming at people, I’m gonna need to forcibly bring you home.”

He had a hand on your shoulder as he steered you through the ER, “You should go home,” He said, “Nothing else for you to do here, Kiara doesn’t need you anymore, I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

“No,” You said immediately, “No, I’m sorry, I’m not leaving here without you. If you want me to leave, you’ll have to come with me.”

He sighed, “I wish you wouldn’t make this so difficult.”

You bit your lip to stop it from wobbling, “And I wish you’d stop pushing me away.”

He stares at you for a few moments, opening his mouth as if to argue when there’s a commotion at the hub that has you both turning.

“Is that… Is McKay…?” You start, but Robby’s already walking. You follow, but keep your distance, listening as he puts the cops in their place.

The pride flared in your chest, as it always does. This is the man you fell in love with, the one who stood up for what he believed in, for his students and staff, regardless of the cost.

When it’s done and they let McKay go, Gloria is back. You watch with some tension as Robby reports the status of all the mass casualty patients. But there’s no further incident and Robby walks past you on his way to another patient, “Go home.” He whispers as he walks by.

You tried not to let it hurt, how he seemed to be desperate for you to go away. But after the way the last few hours had unfolded, it was getting difficult. You parked yourself at the hub, trying to contain your sniffling as you again looked at the ring on your finger.

He was having an astronomically hard day, you knew. But had the two of you not made a great team? Weren’t you the only one who could get through to him when everything around him seemed to be crumbling?

“Hey, kid,” Dana said softly and pushed a cup of coffee your way, “You doing okay?”

You tried to smile, but nearly broke, “Fine, I’ll be fine. And you?”

She gave a short laugh, “I’ve seen better days.”

You sipped the coffee Dana had given you, “I hear that.”

***

You tried not to seem too eager the next time you saw Robby at the hub. He tells Dana that he’s stepping outside with a sandwich and a juice box, and then you feel his shadow above you, and look up, “Dana says you look like you’re experiencing an existential crisis.”

You nod, “Probably a normal reaction to what we’ve all experienced here tonight. Unlike some people in this place I don’t see experiencing the normal range of human emotions as a character flaw.”

He nodded slowly, “Is there anything I can say to get you out of here?”

You almost laughed, “Can I ask you a question? Is the insistence on getting me out of here out of concern for my emotional well being or is it just because you know I’m the only person here who can truly help you and you don’t think you deserve help?”

“And if it’s both?” He locked his red rimmed eyes with yours and gave you a sad smile.

A rare bit of honesty and it floored you. You reached for his hand, “Robby—“

“I need some air and to eat,” He said backing away, “We’ll leave soon, I promise.”

You watched him disappear into the ambulance bay, having to physically restrain yourself from following. But then, you watched Langdon follow after him.

“Oh, no.” You sighed. You debated with yourself for about thirty seconds whether or not to follow, “Fuck it.” You muttered to yourself and then followed them outside.

“—I was never high, I was just treating my own withdrawal symptoms—“

“Which you should’ve done under the care and supervision of a physician.”

Oh, fuck. You stopped walking just past the ambulance bay doors, unsure if maybe you should go back inside.

“You could’ve come to me, but instead now you could face felony charges for stealing controlled substances from a hospital.”

Holy shit. You had thought the whole thing with Langdon earlier today must’ve been related to patient care or maybe the new residents or med students. But this was much, much more than a disagreement about care or teaching methods.

“You need help.”

“What about you, man? I’m not the only one fucked up here! Look in the mirror!”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Perhaps you should go back inside. This was only going to get worse.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You heard the edge in Robby’s voice. The frustration, the exhaustion, the disappointment. He was practically begging Frank to say the quiet part out loud so he’d have an excuse to explode.

“I never had a complete meltdown.”

“No, you just cause them in other people.”

This was past the point of being a productive conversation, but you knew if you intervened you’d probably just make it worse.

“You’re blaming me for what happened to you?”

“What happened to me? What happened to me?! Oh, you are so full of shit. You let me down! You let everybody down! Especially yourself.”

Robby turned to walk back inside and you started to as well, but then Frank spoke again.

“Somebody saw you in Peds.”

Robby stopped cold. You couldn’t watch this anymore. You moved to go grab Robby, wanting to drag him inside, but he was already walking back to Frank, “Who? Y/N?”

You looked down at your shoes and tried not to feel betrayal. That he thought you would tell anyone about how you had found him, in his most vulnerable state.

“No, a night shift nurse saw you on the floor. Said it looked like—“

“Looked like what? LOOKED LIKE WHAT?!” You flinched and blew out a slow breath between your lips. “This job will fuck you up if you let it. You let it.”

Robby started walking again, still not having seen you.

“Yeah, I wasn’t the one talking to cartoon animals in Peds.”

“FUCK. YOU.” Robby shouted as he kept walking back towards the ER.

When he laid eyes on you, he almost stopped in his tracks. He shook his head and sighed, walking past you, “This is exactly why you shouldn’t be here.” He said as you followed him inside, “You shouldn't have heard that.”

“He is desperate,” You said quickly, a long shot attempt at damage control, “And experiencing withdrawal, I know you know what that does to people. He didn’t mean any of that.”

“You doing okay, man?” Abbot asked as the two of you approached the hub.

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you did take the parent of a patient into our makeshift morgue, never mind that it’s technically a fucking crime scene. That’s just not cool, man.”

Robby didn’t deny this, and you slowly turned to him, horror clear on your face, “Okay, you are done with patients today. Do you hear me?” He wouldn’t look at you, pretending to be very focused the chart in front of him, “Robby.” You said sharply.

Finally he looked up at you. “I know,” He said softly, “You’re right. I’m done.”

Just then Gloria came down, talking about getting Robby and Abbot in front of a press conference. It was absolutely inconceivable to you that after what had happened here today Gloria had the fucking audacity to ask for more from her doctors, but Robby must’ve sensed you were about to tell her as much because he gently put an arm in front of you and pushed you behind him.

“Trust me, Gloria, you don’t want me speaking to the press right now.”

“Or ever.” Abbot added.

After Gloria’s little speech about ER cowboy nonsense, Ellis shouted some sort of medical jargon about a patient that had both Robby and Abbot’s head shooting up.

“What the fuck?” Abbot murmured, exasperated.

To your dismay, Robby began following him, “Robby!” You called after him, “No more patients!”

“Yeah,” He called back, “I’ll just be a second.” And he disappeared behind the trauma room door.

“Unbelievable.” You sighed and watched Robby anxiously from the hub, biting at your cuticles anxiously.

A few minutes later, he came back out and started talking to Dana as he stood next to you. As he did so, he pulled your hand from your mouth to stop you from biting, holding your hand within both of his.

“Could you please find the remaining day shift so I can do a quick debrief and we can all go home?”

Dana nodded and was off and then Robby sighed heavily. Feeling brave now that he had grabbed your hand on his own, you stood in front of him.

“Hey,” You said softly, “Come here.”

To your surprise, he allowed your touch, in fact, he buried his face in your shoulder of his own volition. You lightly scratched the back of his head and turned your head inward just slightly so you could press kisses to his skin, “Everything’s going to be okay.” You said softly.

He nodded into your shoulder before gently pulling away from you and rubbing a hand over his face.

The day shift had gathered and he released your hand to walk around the front and give the debrief.

The speech was hard to listen to, the emotion in Robby’s voice unmistakable.

“None of us are gonna forget today.” He voice faltered and he rubbed at the tears in his eyes, “even if we really really want to. So, go home. Let yourselves cry. You’ll feel better. It’s just… Grief… Leaving the body.”

You swiped at your own tears as Robby finished and headed off. You immediately walked after him, following him to the memorial wall where Adamson’s portrait was.

You slowed your walk as you approached him, “He would’ve been so proud of everything you did here today.” You said softly.

Robby sniffed and nodded, “I wish he had been here.”

You nodded, “He would’ve made the same decision you did, you know? To take him off the ECMO.”

He shrugged, “Yeah, maybe.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, “If it had been you, instead… And it was one of your students who extubated. Would you have wanted them to blame themselves like this?”

He sighed heavily, screwing his eyes shut tight.

“If it had been Heather, or Samira, …or Frank? What would you tell them?” He didn’t answer the question, which was fine. It was rhetorical, you both knew what he would say. It would sound a lot like what he had just told them all after this shift from hell. You nudged your shoulder with his, “It’s time you start showing yourself that same grace, hm?” You said gently.

He nodded and then turned to look at you. The grief had settled into his face. He had had these sad, weary eyes the entire night. “Thank you for coming today.” He said, “I know I don’t say it enough, that I push you away when I need you most—“

“It’s okay,” You said softly, “We don’t have to do this now. Not until you’ve slept and eaten. Okay?”

He nodded, blinking away the tears. He looked back towards central, “I just want to check in on Jake and then we can go.”

“Okay,” You intertwined your fingers with his, “I’ll come with you.”

The two of you walk back in to central and head towards North Three, where Jake is with Janey. As you get closer, you let go of his hand, standing just behind him as he looked at Janey and Jake, “How are we doing?”

“We’re doing okay,” Janey said and turned to Jake, “Right?”

Jake didn’t say anything and so Robby went on, “I know that this is difficult. This is gonna hurt for a long time and it’s okay if you wanna blame me. Just, please don’t blame yourself. We’ve been friends for a long time, I would hate it—“

“No we’re not friends,” Jake spat, “And you’re not my father so fuck off.”

Robby stood there frozen. You couldn’t see his face, but you could only imagine the devastation he felt even if he wasn’t showing it on his face. Your hands itched to reach for his so you clasped them in front of you instead.

“Jake.” Janey admonished, but Robby was already walking away.

“Robby,” It was Donnie now stopped him as he was walking away, “Parents of Jake’s girlfriend, Leah, are here. I put them in the viewing room.”

Robby nodded and affectionately patted Donnie on the shoulder.

“Wait, Robby,” You walked quickly to catch up to him, “I’m going with you.”

“No,” He said quickly.

“I wasn’t asking.”

He stopped and turned back to you, “You don’t work here anymore, the fact that you even helped Kiara today I know I’m gonna get shit about from Gloria—“

“Screw Gloria!” You hissed, “I mean, since when do you give a fuck what she thinks anyway? I can help.”

He sighed, “Don’t fight me on this.” He said finally, “You won’t win.”

And then he turned on his heel and left. Christ, he was so fucking frustrating today.

“Um, Dr. Y/L/N?”

You turned at the unfamiliar voice who was addressing you with such formality. She was a tiny brunette, her hair tied back in a short ponytail, and ice blue eyes.

“Y/F/N is fine.” You said, perplexed that someone you didn’t know was addressing you as Doctor. You hadn’t worked at the hospital in so long, most of the people here now simply knew you as Robby’s fiancée and either forgot or didn’t know about your PhD.

“Sorry to bother you, I’m Dr. Trinity Santos. I’m one of Dr. Robby’s new residents. I heard you used to work here? Do psych consults in the ED?”

You nodded, “Yeah, not just here, every floor. But because of the nature of the ER I was here pretty frequently. What can I do for you, Dr. Santos?”

“I have an overdose who came in from Pitt Fest and I’ve confirmed it was a suicide attempt… It’ll likely be days before he gets up to psych. I was just wondering if maybe you could have a conversation with him? Maybe point him in the direction of resources outside of the hospital?”

“Um,” You looked towards the door Robby had just left through, then back to Trinity, “Yeah. Of course. Lead the way.”

***

You sighed as you walked out of the patient’s room with Dr. Santos, “That was a really good catch on your part,” You said to her, “He seemed like a really tough egg to crack, but you got through to him. Really excellent work for an intern, Dr. Santos. Keep it up.”

She beamed at you, “Thank you. And thank you for talking to him, I really think it’ll make a difference.”

“Anytime,” You said and then turned to head back towards the viewing room.

Seeing that patient with Dr. Santos reminded you of what you missed about working at the hospital. You loved collaborating with other clinicians and physicians on a case, the team work and multiple perspectives it brought. Now, you mostly worked on your own for any given case, unless you really needed advice. But the work was more solitary now, which could be quite isolating.

As awful as tonight had been, you realized you really missed being apart of a team.

“Hey, Abbot,” You called to Jack as you got to the hub, “Have you seen Robby? He was notifying Leah’s parents, but then someone grabbed me for a consult and now I don’t see him anywhere.”

“Consult?” He tugged on the stethoscope around his neck, “I thought you don’t work here anymore?”

You tilted your head a bit, “What’re you gonna do, tell Gloria on me?” He gave a short laugh, “Seriously though, Robby?”

He sighed, “I haven’t seen him since the debrief.”

“Okay,” You tried not to panic, but you knew he must be in bad shape. But he wouldn’t go home without you, “Is there a place he goes when he’s upset? Do you think he’s just getting some air out in the ambulance bay or—“

“The roof.” Abbot said.

“Excuse me?”

Abbot scratched the back of his head, “The roof, we go to the roof sometimes to… contemplate.”

You stared at him for a moment and then scoffed, “You ER physicians and your suicidal ideation,” You pushed off the hub and started backing away, “I have half a mind to get you all admitted to psych on 72 hour holds.”

Jack laughed, “Yeah, good luck finding the beds.”

You took a brisk pace heading up to the roof and by the time you got there, you were out of breath. Stepping out into the Pittsburgh night air, you took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay. The sun would rise again tomorrow. The world would keep spinning. Life would go on.

Your eyes fell to Robby, standing over the railing and far too close to the edge of the building.

And you would get Robby off this roof, safely.

You approached the railing slowly and quietly, but he heard you, his head turned slowly in your direction before he turned back to the skyline, “You shouldn’t be up here.”

“Neither should you,” You leaned on the railing, “Abbot implied you come up here a lot, though.”

He shrugged, “Maybe I just like the view.” He said, but he sniffled.

You hummed, “It is quite lovely up here.”

You swung your leg over the railing and Robby swore as he grabbed you, making sure to stabilize you before your feet got their bearings. When it seemed like you weren’t going to go flying over the edge, he released you.

“It’s you and Jake.” He murmured after the two of you had stood silently for a few moments.

You frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Every time I come up here,” He rubbed at his eyes, “I think about it. Just taking that extra step over the ledge. But I never do, because I think about leaving you and Jake and I can’t do that. But now, Jake...” He shook his head and scratched the back of his head.

“Jake loves you,” You said, “He just needs time. And you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

He shook his head, “And how long until I fuck that up for good, too?”

You inhale deeply, “You know, self fulfilling prophecies are a real thing. So if you convince yourself that you’re going to lose me, chances are you’ll continue to behave in ways that’ll make you lose me.”

He turned to look at you, “I really don’t like when you use your clinical brain to describe our relationship.”

“Sorry. It’s a defense mechanism. Knowing what’s happening and why makes me feel like I can fix it.” You sighed, “You know you can’t keep going like this, right?”

He nodded, tears tracing paths down his cheeks, “I shut down. The moment everybody needed me the most I couldn’t do it. I choked.”

You frowned, “That’s not how I remember it.”

“You know damn well I broke.”

“You didn’t break. You fell apart for a couple minutes, so fucking what? Any other feeling person in your position would have done the same. It’s a strength, not a weakness.” He was shaking his head, “106 people get to go home because of your leadership. I think that more than outweighs the two minutes you took to cry.”

You climbed over the railing and held out a hand to him, “Now I’d like to go home, if you have no further objections.”

You watched his shoulders heave shakily for a few moments before he finally turned and grabbed your hand.

***

Walking through the threshold of the home you shared with Robby nearly made you fall to your knees after the last several hours in the hospital. It was messy, neither of you had had a chance to clean in a while. Unopened mail piled on the console table. Books strewn haphazardly around the living room. A half done crocheting project you had started a week ago was abandoned on the couch. Robby’s toolbox sat, opened by the door to the guest room that he had attempted to replace the doorknob on, but never finished. The dishwasher was full and clean, needing to be emptied and reloaded with the dirty dishes that sat in the sink.

Regardless of the mess, you felt the tension start to ebb out of your body as the warm lights lit up a path to the living room. Unceremoniously, you threw some books and a stray remote out of the way before turning to Robby and forcing him to sit on the couch,

“I’m going to run you a bath,” You said, “Think about what you want to order for takeout?”

“I’m not hungry.” He said, and then reached for you, pulling you straight on top of him.

You chuckled, “Let me go run the bath for you, please?”

He wrapped his arms tightly around you, securing you to his chest, and he kissed your hair, “Just stay with me for a few minutes?”

The smell of him and the feel of his arms around you were more than a bit enticing, unfortunately. You sank into him, pressing your nose into his neck, “Fine. But only a few minutes.”

The rhythm of his breathing, of his heart beat against your skin, lulled you into that place just between waking and dreaming. You hummed, “If I don’t get up now, I’m gonna fall asleep.”

“Would that be so bad?” His voice was thick with exhaustion.

You yawned, “Yes, actually. Your back will be absolutely fucked tomorrow if you fall asleep on this couch.”

You pushed yourself off him and he rubbed his hands over his face. After starting the bath, you went to the fridge and pulled out a container of left over pasta. Grabbing a fork, you took the cold pasta back to the couch and took a bite. You speared a few more noodles and put it in front of Robby’s mouth.

He looked up at you with annoyance, “I said I wasn’t hungry.”

“Just a couple bites, please.”

He sighed heavily, but opened his mouth and watched as you grinned with satisfaction as you fed him the cold pasta.

A few minutes later you put the pasta away and checked on the bath, which was now full. Turning off the water, you headed back to the living room. Robby was still lying on the couch, eyes red rimmed as he stared at the ceiling.

“Come on, baby,” You said softly, holding out your hand, “Bath’s ready.”

He wordlessly took your hand, allowed you to lead him into the bathroom. He watched you carefully as you helped him take off his clothes. “Are you okay?” He asked, softly enough that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You said quickly, but he stilled you by gently grabbing your wrists.

“Look at me,” Your eyes flicked up to his, “Are you okay?” He asked again.

You blinked rapidly to dispel the burning that was quickly accumulating at the back of your eyes, “I’ll be fine.” You said slowly and nodded your head towards the bath, “Get in, please, before it gets cold.”

He let your non answer pass for the moment, but you knew he wasn’t going to let it go. As much as your persistence on his own well being irritated him, he could be the same way when you were clearly unwell and not being honest about it.

“Get in with me.” He said, already tugging at your clothes.

You sighed, “This is for you, I’m trying to take care of you.”

“Yes,” He smiled tightly, unbuttoning your pants and gently tugging down, “And I want you in the bath with me. Okay?”

You could feel your eyes beginning to water, which is exactly what you didn’t want. You wanted, needed, desperately to focus on the act of taking care of Michael so that you wouldn’t fall apart. And now he was shifting the focus.

He lowered himself in first and then held out a hand for you, helping as you lowered yourself in between his legs. He wrapped his arms around your waist and gently pulled until your back was flush to his chest.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he kissed the side of your neck, “Thank you,” He murmured against your skin, “For not giving up on me today even though I was a bit of a jerk to you.”

“I know you don’t mean it,” You said, “Most of the time when you push me away it’s because you think you don’t deserve the help, not because you don’t want it.”

You both listened to the drip of the faucet for a few moments in silence before he spoke, “I think I’d like to start seeing a therapist.” He said slowly, “If you know a guy.”

The corners of your lips inched up just slightly, “I’ve had a whole roster ready for you for about two years now, take your pick. I’ll print out a list tomorrow.”

He hummed, “I don’t want to lose you,” He said slowly, “And I know if you were anyone else, you likely would’ve been out that door years ago. So, I’m…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath and you place a hand on his thigh beneath the water, squeezing encouragingly, “I’m going to get better. I’m going to be the man you deserve.”

You were encouraged by him finally admitting that something was wrong. He had never done that before. He had never asked you for a referral. But you knew it was still a long road. Things would continue to be very difficult going forward. But if he was willing to try and fight for you, for himself, that was enough for right now.

“I love you,” You said softly, “And I’m going to hold you to this, just so you know.”

“I know,” He pressed his mouth to your shoulder, his beard scratching at your skin, “I love you too.”

“I want to come back to the hospital,” You said after the two of you had been sitting in silence for a few minutes.

You felt him inhale heavily behind you, “I don’t need a babysitter—“

“Not because of you,” You said quickly, “Though I won’t act like it wouldn’t ease my own anxiety being nearby while we’re working. But I… miss being on a care team, the collaboration. I realized today how isolating it is working at a clinic.”

“Well,” He sighed, “I miss working with you, too, actually. The other psychologists don’t laugh at my jokes.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, “Hate to tell you, Robinavitch, but most of the time I was laughing at your jokes it was because I had a massive crush on you, not because I found them funny.”

You felt his chest rumble with laughter behind you and your heart swelled with the sound.

Later, when the two of you finally climbed into bed, he pulled you to him, your foreheads bent together. Your hand rested gently on his cheek.

You both sat in the dark like that for a while, silently mulling over the events of the day. You couldn’t get the feeling of Leah’s blood on your hands out of your head. The look on Robby’s face when he had finally called time of death. The families you had had to tell that their child, sibling, spouse was dead.

You don’t know which of you started crying first, just that once it started, one of you clawed for the other, pulling each other as close as your bodies would allow. Without any words exchanged between you, you both just held onto each other as wave after wave of grief rolled through. Until eventually, the tears dried and sleep came for them, still wrapped up in one another’s arms.

The moon and the stars faded and the sun rose again.

[neverinadream]

black coffee, no sugar (ja)

summary: when your son wants a slightly more expensive birthday present, you pull a double to earn the extra cash, but you're stuck working with his dad too.

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader

word count: 4.8k

warnings: age gap (reader - 30s/jack - late 40s), the reader wears glasses but there are no other descriptions of how the reader looks, exes-ish (there's feelings there somewhere but not spoken about), boy dad!jack, co-parenting, jack being soft for the reader in his own little way, probably incorrect medical jargon because i make people feel better with food for a living - i am not a doctor/nurse, mentions of patient loss and off page death, one mention of a past sexual encounter between the reader and jack, food poisoning (sorry shen), like one joke about jack being older, not sure if that's everything but let me know

a/n: i had an idea and i tried my best to write it....but hey, look, my first abbot fic. i was hooked from the minute he said 'don't worry, you'll get there soon enough,' to mel. i don't like the ending but honestly didn't know how i wanted this to end. do we want more of these two??? feedback is always appreciated

6:28 PM

Heather stretches her arms, fingers wiggling as she unfurls her hands. “I can't wait to get home to my bed,” she says, and the sentiment is shared by the few nurses around you. You, however, had your head resting on your arm, trying your best to beat off the impending fatigue, a patient’s record - Mr Hernandez - up on the screen, waiting to be completed. “What about you?” She looks down, sharing the same tired expression.

“I wish,” you sit up, shoulders rolling back, “Shen's still out with food poisoning.” Bad sushi. You and Jack had laughed about it until your sides had hurt, you bent over, tucked into the warmth of his side, your couch becoming Jack's temporary bed for a quick nap, after swinging by that morning to see Auggie.

“You're pulling a double?” Her voice pulls you away from the warm memory, your body growing quickly cold as the sounds of heart monitors, the distant carnage of the overcrowded waiting room, and the chaos happening in Trauma 1 pounds your ears.

“I need the hours,” you mumble, inputting Mr Hernandez's last check up results. You tuck your fingers under your glasses and rub your eyes. A quick nap in an on-call room would be enough to get you through the night shift. And maybe a cup of coffee, or three. “Auggie’s already been with my mom all day, so she’s gonna take him tonight. It’s all sorted.”

Her arms fold. “And you're sure you want to work with Abbot?”

“You make it sound like we can't play nice.”

Trinity pops up beside Heather, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, making you both jump. “Wait,” she looks down at you, “the nurses were telling the truth about you and Doctor Abbot?”

Princess, Donnie and a young blonde named Anna all dart in different directions, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your hard stare. It was just as good as Jack's. Anna turns to her computer, pretending to read a chart. Princess had ducked behind a curtain, checking in on a patient. And Donnie made a break from the staff room. You shake your head, turning your lips up into a partial smile.

“So?” Trinity was still waiting for an answer. Her smile can only be described as wicked. “What's the story? Messy breakup? Did one of you cheat?”

“Dr Santos!” Heather clears her throat.

“Oh, come on,” Trinity sighs, slapping her hands down on the top. Heather glares hard at her and she turns and walks away, grumbling something under her breath.

“You got that mom stare down perfectly, by the way,” you log off and groan as you unfold from the chair, swearing you could hear at least three different joints cracking as you stretch.

She sighs. “Just missing the important thing.”

“You can have Auggie.”

“He's a good kid, but no thanks,” she shakes her head, turning with you as you take a steady walk through the Pitt, “it's like being around a miniature Abbot but pumped with aquarium facts.” You snort, but she was right. Loose, dark curls. The same eyes, hidden behind red framed glasses. Grumpy in the morning, chaos at night. Two perfect sides of the same coin. “But, seriously, you know he'll try to make you go home, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do,” you throw her a knowing smile and she rolls her eyes, “and it’ll be fun to tell him no.”

7:45 PM

A-U-G-G-I-E. You trace your thumb over each individual bead, the black lettering a little chipped from constantly wearing it. It was an amalgamation of reds and blues; for Spiderman, your five year old had mumbled, when you asked what colours he was going to use to make it.

“Mommy, are you listening?” Auggie's voice pulls you back to reality.

“Of course, bud.” You swap your phone between your hands, pressing it to your left ear. “Grandma took you to the aquarium, yeah?”

“Yep!” He pops the p. “The crabs were my favourite; they had a king crab, a snow crab, and spider crabs…” His words become a jumbled mess as he excitedly lists off each species of crab, probably remembering them all in less than five minutes, making sure he and your mom didn't move on to the next thing until he knew them all.

“The crabs were your favourite? Not the jellyfish?” He'd been bombarding you with jellyfish facts that morning before your mom came to pick him up.

“They were cool but they weren't as cool as the crabs,” Auggie mumbles, voice muffled like he had just put something in his mouth. Probably his thumb. He always chewed on it when he was getting tired. “Grandma got me a new book,” he tells you, “it's all about sharks!”

“Mom?” You sigh, dropping your head into your hand. This kid had everyone wrapped around his little finger. If it wasn't your mom buying him a gift every weekend they spent together, it was Dana sneaking him sweet treats, Robby giving him piggyback rides around the Pitt, or Jack agreeing that he could have a puppy.

“What?” Your mom dismisses you. “I can't say no to this gorgeous face!” Auggie giggles. “It's one of his birthday presents.”

“One?” You ask, arching your eyebrows. “How many are you buying him?”

“As many as the kid wants.”

“Well, there goes my inheritance,” you joke.

Auggie yarns down the phone. “When are you coming home, Mommy?”

A spear of guilt lodges itself beside your heart. There was still time. You could go home, not get yourself involved in any more cases, leave the next twelve hours to the night shift. But Auggie wanted a specific bike for his birthday and you would give anything to see his face light up in six weeks. That would be worth the price tag and the extra hours.

“I'm sorry, bud,” you sigh, already picturing the droop of his mouth. “There's a lot of sick people who need mommy's help tonight, but you and Grandma are gonna have a sleepover. That sounds like fun, right?”

“Are you helping them with Daddy?”

You hum, nodding your head to no one. “I will. Want me to say hi for you?”

“Please!”

“Why don't you go clean up and get ready for bed?” Your mom's voice comes from the other end. “Huh, wait, not so fast, little man. Say goodnight to Mommy.”

“Goodnight, Mommy!” Auggie shouts, and you smile to yourself, listening to his footsteps hurrying away from the phone.

“I'm sorry about this,” you mumble, shoulders sagging as you slump back against the wall.

“Don't apologise for giving me more time with my grandbaby, but you know, sweetie, August will be fine with any red bike.”

“I know, but remember the birthday present you got me when I was his age?”

“Yeah, I remember.” It was a beautifully handcrafted, Victorian style dollhouse, with powered blue walls, white accents and three floors. You were obsessed with it. That was until your baby cousin got jealous one day and broke two of the windows. “Your father worked more hours than he should've to save up for it, but it was worth it seeing that look on your face.”

“I want that with Auggie, Mom.”

“So why not ask Jack-”

“No, Mom,” you cut her off, nudging your glasses back up your nose, “I’m not asking Jack for money.”

“You're stubborn, just like your father,” she laughs, and you could only agree.

Saying goodbye, you pocket your phone, fix your scrubs, and step out of the stairwell and back into the Pitt. It was no calmer than you had left it, the patient in 19 was still screaming, despite already being given something to help with the pain, an elderly man waiting on a bed upstairs had been moved into the hallway, and Jack's intense stare met you from the opposite side of the room, like a hawk watching its prey. It would've made anyone else crumble, but not you. You stare back with the same intensity and wait for him to make the first move.

“What are you still doing here?”

“Working,” you mumble, looking up to check the board. Mr Singh in 13 could be discharged and told to come back in the morning if the pain in his stomach persisted, freeing up a bed. “The same as you.”

“But I haven't already just done a twelve hour shift,” Jack fires back, attempting to take the pad from you. You jerk your arm, giving him the same look you would give Auggie when he refuses to eat his greens. He sighs and slips his hand into his left front pocket. “What are you doing?”

“Discharing Mr Singh.”

9:57 PM

You rap your knuckles softly on the door, your runaway teen admitted this afternoon looking up from her spot on the gurney. One of the nurses had managed to get her to change into some clean clothes, but a quick search of her pockets came up with nothing. You had her first name, Cassie, but no idea where she had come from, or how long she had been unhoused. Longer than you could probably imagine.

“How are you doing, kid?” You slip your hands into your pockets, pulling out a granola bar. It wasn't much but hopefully an incentive to get her to trust. “Hungry?”

She lowers her eyes.

“It's not much, I know, but if you think you can stomach some hospital food, I can get you a sandwich.”

She tucks a messy strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I don't like tuna,” she whispers, any quieter and you would've missed.

“Got it.” You smile. “No tuna.”

“What's her story?” Jack asks, waiting to catch you as you leave. He was leant up against the nurses’ station, arms folded, a to-go coffee cup sitting on the counter.

“You're like a bad smell.” His lips twitch, leaning into you as you saddle up next to him. His cologne was warm and earthy, like a hug you never knew you needed until it happened. “Cassie, fourteen, possibly older, came in this afternoon after she was found unconscious on a park bench.”

“Social services?”

“She wouldn't say much to Kiara.”

“What about missing persons?” You shake your head. “What are you thinking?”

“Foster kid, maybe,” you glance up out of the corner of your eyes. He was already looking at you, eyes intense but with a softness around the edges. “We've had a few cases come in before of kids running away from group homes, found sleeping rough in parks and the usual spots for the unhoused. All similar to Cassie.”

You shrug and nudge your glasses back up your nose. Earning Cassie's trust was more important to you. And these were the type of cases you couldn't jump to conclusions with. Doing so might just be the difference between Cassie going home to a bed and hot meals, and spending another night on the street.

“Keep her overnight and contact someone in the morning to see if they can identify her?” Jack suggests and you agree, nodding your head, before letting it fall against his shoulder. The left side of his mouth hitches and he reaches for the cup. “Here.”

“Black, no sugar?” You tiredly mumble.

“Always.” You take a sip and wince. Jack snorts. “It's not that bad.”

“This,” you gesture to the cup, “is disgusting.”

You take another sip. “And yet you're still drinking it.”

"It's this or crash in the break room.”

Jack unfolds his arms, the backs of his fingers brushing against your side, gooseflesh prickling your arms. “You could just go home.”

“Mateo’s pulling a double. You're not on his ass about it,” you grumble, drinking more coffee.

He leans down, his left temple pressing into your hair, fingers stretching to softly grasp at your scrubs. “Can I let you in on a secret? I don't care about Mateo the same way I care about you.” You turn your head deeper into his shoulder but Jack feels the smile you're trying to hide. His expression stays neutral, successfully hiding his own, but his chest is alive with a warm gooey goodness. “At least tell me you took a proper break?”

“I tried.”

You lift your head, absentmindedly using his shoulder to nudge your glasses up as you pull away. That had probably been enough to give the nurses something new to gossip about in the break room. You'd probably hear about it from Dana or Perlah when you return on Tuesday, followed by Heather pulling you to the side, asking you if there had suddenly been a change in yours and Jack's ‘relationship.’ Which was a no.

“Go take a twenty minute break.”

“Not a chance,” you step away from the nurses' station, his to-go cup still clutched in your hand, “I have to get Cassie some sandwiches, Mr Johnson's blood work is back, and…” You take a sip of his coffee. “...I need to add about five packets of sugar to this.”

“Do not tarnish my coffee with sugar!” Jack snorts as you stick your fingers in your ears, pretending not to hear him. At least now he knew who taught it to Auggie.

00:39 AM

“How are we doing, Mrs Simmons?”

“Gloria, please,” Mrs Simmons insists, a friendly smile beckoning you forward into an atmosphere of warmth. “I keep telling this one the same,” she points to Ellis, “but she won't listen.”

Ellis looks over her shoulder, Mrs Simmons's chart becoming a secondary focus. “Thought I saw you whizzing about earlier.” She offers you her friendliest smile, which isn't much, but you were one of the few to ever see it. “Pulling a double?”

“Need the money,” you simply tell her, shrugging your shoulders. “Auggie's got expensive taste.”

“Birthday present?” You nod. “Auggie's his kid too, remember? Get him to pay for some of it.”

“That's the thing, he would,” you glance at Mrs Simmons, who'd be flicking her eyes between you and Ellis, listening to every word, “but let's talk about this later.” Ellis nods and turns her attention back to the patient's record. “Gloria?”

“I'm okay,” she answers, folding her hands in front of herself. “I'd better in my own bed though. Can't I go home and come back later?”

“Unfortunately not, Mrs Simmons,” Ellis says looking up for a beat.

“How long on a bed being available upstairs?” Ellis shrugs.

They had the space upstairs for more beds. It wasn't a secret. There was an empty floor, ready to be filled with beds and nurses. But refusing to hire the staff meant more patients were waiting hours, if not days, for a space to open up. The lives of patients were being gambled with because those in charge refused to put the money where it was needed, and nothing made you more angry.

You force it down, the bubbles of frustration popping as you take a breath, calming yourself. Mrs Simmons didn't need to hear a lecture about the ways the system was failing those in need.

“Are you sure there's no one we can call?” You ask for the second time that night. “A husband? Children? Even just a friend?”

“I'm old, sweetie, most of my friends are either dead or close to being dead.” You awkwardly laugh, her bluntness surprising you. “My husband too.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” you offer comfort and she accepts it with a kind smile. “What about children?”

“Just my son,” she quickly shakes her head, “but he lives in Italy now. It's just me, dear.”

You meet Ellis’s gaze. “What about leaving him a voicemail?” She asks, mirroring your stance on the opposite side of Gloria. “I'm sure your son would want to know you're in the hospital.” Gloria nods, unhappy to be defeated. “Good.”

“So, who's the dreamboat?” Gloria points and you follow her finger until it stops at Jack and Mateo. “Not the pretty one, the one on the left.”

“Dr Abbot,” you answer, ignoring Ellis and her smirk.

“I saw you two earlier.”

Ellis's eyebrows meet her hairline. “Oh?”

You look down at your pad, skimming your eyes over Gloria's notes. “Still keeping an eye on everyone?”

She shrugs. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Nurse?” Ellis asks.

“Thirty five years,” she says with pride, eyes brightening. “Looked pretty cozy, you and Doctor Dreamboat. What's the story?”

“No story-”

Ellis barks a sharp laugh. “Oh, there's a story there, alright,” she cuts in, the edges of her lips curving upwards. “Or was Auggie just an immaculate conception?”

“Either way, it's in the past,” you say tightly, and brush a hand down the front of your scrubs. “Don't you have other patients to see, Dr Ellis?” You didn't make it a habit to air out your dirty laundry to all your patients, and Ellis might just do so if you let her stay much longer. “I think there's a case of food poisoning with your name on it.”

“Who is it? Shen?” She teases, making her exit, giving Gloria a sharp nod.

“Didn't look like it was in the past to me, sweetie,” Gloria continues, fixing her sheets. Eyes float to ‘Doctor Dreamboat,’ lingering for a beat, just long enough so he wouldn't feel you staring. Gloria watches you; her gaze not hard like Jack's, but soft with curiosity. “Have you told him how you feel?”

You suppress the laugh that bites at your throat, a flash of warmth hitting your cheeks, the memory feeling hot and fresh for something that was seven years ago. Heather's birthday, too many beers, and a recently broken heart had led you to a quick and awkward fumble in the back of Jack's truck. Your dress hadn't even been hitched up your waist when you had mumbled something about wanting to do this for a long time. Jack's agreement had been the thing that took it all from fantasy to reality.

“It's complicated,” you settle on, giving your patient a slight frown.

“That's love.”

3:55 AM

“You look different.” Bridget stirs sugar into her coffee, the nurse trying to work out for the last five minutes what was so different about you tonight. She leans back against the counter, narrowing her eyes and studying you. “Not pregnant again, are we?”

“I'm not sure immaculate conception is a real thing,” you nearly choke on your water, screwing the cap tight on your bottle. If you were lacking one thing in your life, it was definitely a sex life.

“She's wearing her glasses,” Jack mumbles, briefly looking up from the medical journal in front of him, occupying the space across from you at the table.

Bridget accepts his answer with no problem, sipping slowly on the hot coffee. It needed more sugar, and she grabbed another sugar packet, ripping it open.

“Coffee, anyone?” She offers to both of you. “Fresh pot.”

Jack taps the back of his finger against his cup, not the same one you walked off with earlier. “I'm good.”

“No, thanks,” you scrunch your nose, trying not to look too disgusted.

Jack closes the journal, marking the page with his thumb. “Why are you wearing your glasses?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him. He knew you didn't need to have a reason to wear them. “Lose your contacts again? You didn’t fall asleep in them, did you?”

“I did that one time.” You roll your eyes. “And no, I didn't lose them. I’m wearing them for Auggie.”

“Why?” Jack straightens up. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, not really.” You shake your head, trying to defuse the alarms ringing so clearly on his face. A sigh tumbles off your lips. “It's just the other day, he said he didn't want to wear his glasses anymore because they make him look stupid.”

He frowns. “He said that?”

“I think one of the other kids might have said it.”

“Whatever happened to kids just being nice?”

“Most kids are,” Bridget answers, taking the seat next to you, happy to rest her feet, even if it was just for a few seconds. You nod, agreeing with her. “But some just don't know how to play nice.”

“Doesn't explain why you're wearing yours.” Jack flicks his eyes away from Bridget, back to you.

“I'm thinking maybe if he sees me wearing mine, he won't feel as embarrassed to wear his,” you explain, unscrewing your water bottle. You take a sip, shrugging your shoulders. “It's not my most creative plan, but he didn't make a fuss when I asked him to put his glasses on this morning.”

Bridget touches your wrist. “It's a sweet plan, hun.”

“D’you think I should start wearing mine more around him?”

“You've already been mistaken for his grandpa once before,” you tease, giving his foot a soft tap under the table. “Might just happen a few more times if you go around in those old man frames.”

Jack grins, tapping your foot back.

“Y/L/N?” Mateo pokes his head around the break room door. You glance at him, eyebrows arching, not liking the droop of his mouth and the panic in his eyes. “It's your patient in 18. Mrs Simmons.”

4:48 AM

Jack finds you in your usual hiding spot, bottom of the stairwell, obscured by a potted plant, head in your hands, body hunched over to make yourself look as small as possible. It works. People pass by without acknowledging you. Or maybe they do, but decide not to. He approaches quietly, knees cracking as he lowers himself down to join you, a groan rolling easily off his mouth.

“It-”

“Don't,” you mumble, voice muffled and broken, “I don't want one of your motivational speeches right now.”

Jack snaps his jaw shut, lips pursed together tightly. He tips his head back, meeting the wall behind, and looks up at the ceiling.

He remembers the first time he found you here, two months into your residency, the first glimpse of what was really behind that stubborn exterior. Multiple deaths from a vehicle pile up would do that to you. There was no motivational speech that night. He just sat and waited with you until you were ready to go back to work.

A few months later, you would ask him why he did that, and he would just shrug and mumble something about it feeling right in the moment.

It's in this spot, that he found out you were pregnant. And for all of thirty seconds, his world came crumbling down.

He hadn't thought about a life that involved children. Not ever, not really. Was there even a justifiable reason to bring a kid into a word that couldn't get its shit together? His thirties mostly consisted of friends with kids asking when it was going to be his turn. It came down to him making the decision that if it didn't happen before he was forty, then it just wasn't meant to be. And then you stormed into the Pitt, all stubborn, not backing down from a challenge, matching his every step.

A drunken decision became his whole world and he wouldn't take it back.

“Can I talk yet?”

“No,” you gruff out, but know it won't be enough to stop him. He'll say whatever speech he has stored up and you would just have to listen.

“It wasn't your fault,” he says, voice soft, trying to comfort you. He hesitates, but reaches out, settling his hand on the back of your neck. “Come here,” is all he mumbles, cupping your head as you fall against his side. His thumb strokes slowly, making patterns in your hair. “It wasn't your fault,” he repeats, emphasizing each word.

Your fingers play with your scrubs, hands dropping from your face and into your lap. Jack tucks you beneath his chin, and you welcome his warmth and comfort in one big breath.

Your bottom lip wobbles. “It was.”

“No, it wasn't.” He trails his hand down your back and drapes his arm around your middle, holding you tighter. “You followed every procedure, this was just one of those things that snuck up on us.”

“It shouldn't have,” you disagree, always the hardest on yourself. “I should've caught it before it was too late. I'm better than that.”

“Look at me.” You do, chin turned upwards, sniffling as you fight to keep the tears away. “We're human, but we're not perfect, okay?” He dips his head, looking at you directly. “We try things. We make mistakes. We fall, we get hurt, but we always rise up again. This one thing doesn't make you a bad doctor. How many mistakes have you made with Auggie? Doesn't make you a bad mom doesn't it now?” His thumb brushes away the first tear, calloused pad rough against your cheek. “You're a damn good doctor. I'd tell you if I thought otherwise.”

A small smile plays on your lips. If Jack blinked he would miss it. “You can't just let me feel defeated once, can you?” You huff, feigning your annoyance.

He takes his arm from around you, letting you sit up. “I can't, I like your smile too much to see you upset.” You glance at him wide-eyed and he just chuckles. Catching you off guard with subtle and not-so-subtle admissions was always fun for him.

“I'm not the one who needs to smile more,” you say, pushing your hands into the floor and standing up. Jack takes your hand as you offer it to him, groaning as he slowly gets up. “People might think you're less of a grump.”

He shakes his head. “I save my smiles for my two favourite people.”

You tilt your head. “Auggie and the waitress at Frankie’s?” Frankie’s was a diner still stuck in the seventies and the only place that made pancakes good enough for your son to eat. Jack did take offence to that.

“Okay, three people.” He points to you and counts you off on his opposite hand, “Auggie and Bertha,” two more fingers go up.

“Bertha’s been happily married for forty three years.”

“What Bertha and I have goes beyond marriage.”

You snort. “She only has a soft spot for you because you saved her husband from choking on bacon that one time.”

“And now I get my coffee for free.” He reaches out to fix your glasses. “You good?”

You shrug, a crooked smile twisting your mouth. “Is that twenty minute break still on offer?”

“Go,” he nods. “I'll find you if we need you.”

7:28 AM

Jack waits for you, his army rucksack slung over his left shoulder, mouth tight, forming a smile as you exited the hospital. “Everything good?”

“All good,” you mumble, nodding. “Just needed to give something to Dana.”

He tips his head, fishing his keys from his cargo pocket. “Something important?”

“Depends on your definition of important. I wrote a letter to Mrs Simmons's son.”

“Taking a leaf out of my own book, huh?” Warmth blooms behind his ribs. “Said everything you needed to say?”

Just about. Letters to the patient's loved ones was more Jack's thing, so you were unsure at first what you wanted to say, but once you started, it was hard to stop. The general stuff was in there, how sorry you were for his loss and how you had done everything possible in your power to keep her alive. But you also included how she was a beautiful and kind woman, someone who he could be proud of.

“I think so,” you say, giving a glance back at the double doors. The next forty eight hours would be bliss compared to the last twenty four you just had. “I picked up the extra hours to pay for Auggie's birthday present,” you turn back to him.

“Huh?”

“Last night, you asked me what I was still doing here, and, well, that's why.” You fix the strap looped over your shoulder, the front dotted with badges with various aquatic animals. It was like carrying a piece of Auggie with you to work. “It's a bike that's stupidly expensive but it's the only thing he's asked me for this year and I really want him to have it.”

His lips twitch. “The red one, with the white stripes on it?”

“Kinda matches his glasses?”

He hugs his arm around your shoulders. “Yeah, I already have it in my garage.” You gasp and give his side a soft punch. “Hey!” He groans, clutching your shoulder tighter, pulling you against him. “I didn't know he had asked you for it too.”

“I'm gonna kill you Jack Abbot,” you grumble, spinning out of his arm.

He chuckles, lips perked at the corners. “No, you're not. Who else is gonna take you to breakfast?”

You playfully roll your eyes. “You only want to go Frankie’s so you can see Bertha, I have nothing to do with.”

He swings the loop of his key chain around his finger. “Yeah, you're right.”

tagging: @livinginastory

[robbyology]

SOMEONE, SOMEDAY, SOMEWHERE [3]

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

<< prev || masterlist || next >>

wc: 3.6k

Warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of PTSD, author doesn’t know anything about heart rhythms, suggestive ending

A/N: tbh, this is a very robby-centric chapter—not necessarily a character study, but a lot of it is just what’s going through his head with a bit of fun banter.

─── ⋆⋅ general taglist form

Robby isn’t actually a huge drinker. 

He’s always had an addictive personality, and while it’s helped him with many things—namely med school—it’s also a real fucking bitch. He’s had too many vices over the years, smoking, drinking, coke (Jack had to help him through that one with a few ass-kickings and way too many lectures, but hey, it worked). 

Nowadays, Robby gets by on caffeinated fucking tea and throwing himself into his job with an unhealthy vigor. 

Today is an exception, though. He has tomorrow off, so Jack, who has tonight off, has the esteemed honor of listening to Robby bitch and moan about the clusterfuck that his life has become. 

“She’s the one who came in with Jesse, yeah?”

“I guess? I don’t fucking know, I wasn’t there. I was late because I was up all night fucking her.”

Jack snorts into his drink, the bastard, and Robby takes a sip of his own. 

“Okay, well, so you know she came in with Jesse.”

Robby shoots him an unimpressed look. 

“They’re cousins, apparently. Wouldn’t’ve guessed based on appearances, but…”

Head thudding on the table in front of him, Robby whispers curses like he’s counting Mala beads, then sits back up before he can get himself kicked out of the bar. 

“That’s fucking great,” he scrubs a hand down his face before tucking it under the arm already crossed over his chest. “Just lost the respect of one of the most reliable guys on my staff.” 

“Robby, shit like this happens,” Jack tries to reason, “you just gotta roll with it. Keep your distance, but don’t be a dick. Move on, man.”

Glancing over at him, Robby really considers bringing up the topic that his friend likes to keep nestled tight within his chest, but it’s really not worth it. Jack is just trying to help. 

Robby doesn’t do well with actually discussing his feelings, though. Usually, he prefers to vent without receiving any type of meaningful response or simply sit in silence and glare down at the bubbles in his beer. 

But, Jack Abbot, despite his general demeanor of stoicism, is a fucking talker, so both of the options previously listed are really just wishful thinking. 

“Move on? That’s the best you’ve got?” Robby asks, and it’s as much a jab as it is a genuine question because how, pray tell, is he supposed to just move on from that. 

Jack looks at him with raised eyebrows and takes a swig of his non-alcoholic beer (the man has more restraint than Robby ever will). When he puts the bottle back down on the table, Jack pins Robby with a look and starts, “okay—” and god dammit, he shouldn’t have given his friend a reason to open his mouth again, “—I hate to remind you, but you’ve been here before.”

Not wrong. 

“In fact, I distinctly fucking remember sitting in a bar just like this one, listening to the same tune, only it was about Heather.”

Robby cringes. Ouch. 

“That was different.”

Jack snorts, “yeah, ‘cause you’d been pining for—”

“I was not fucking pining—”

“Pining,” Jack continues, “for months. I feel like that was a way bigger dilemma than whatever you’ve got goin’ on now with the cute one-night-stand who just happens to work at the hospital.”

It wasn’t supposed to be a one-night-stand.

Well, it was, but then it wasn’t. By the end of it all, it definitely didn’t feel like a one-night-stand, that’s for fucking sure. 

But, how is he supposed to tell Jack that? It’d be like giving him a loaded gun and extra ammo. 

“Don’t tell me you were actually thinking about calling her,” Jack says, sounding much more condescending than he probably means to. 

Robby looks over at him, wonders how a man ten years his junior can look so annoyingly wise. War, probably. 

“Was texting her on my way in,” Robby grunts. 

After letting out another long and laborious sigh, Jack prefaces, “I’m saying this out of love, brother.” Here it comes. “You’re in no place for something like this, alright?”

“Something like what?” Robby grits, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle in front of him. 

Jack doesn’t miss it, and his posture shifts in a way that has him ready to catch whatever Robby might throw at him—just another not-at-all heartbreaking defense mechanism his friend brought back with him from overseas. Robby would never purposely hurt him, but the fact that Jack still tapped into that part of his brain, consciously or not, makes him feel like shit. 

So, Robby relaxes, lets go of the bottle, and hangs his head backward over his chair. 

“Something like what?” he repeats without as much bite this time around. 

He sees some of the tension leave Jack’s shoulders, thank fucking God. 

“Something that’s anything other than work and healing,” Jack answers, voice rough, tone caring. 

“Not this shit again,” Robby stands up and tosses a few bills from his wallet onto the table, “I’m fine, alright? You can stop pimping out your fucking therapist.”

Jack apparently runs out of patience then because he starts using his backup tactic: the hard truth. 

“Yeah, just like you were fine when you had a panic attack in front of a grieving fucking family last week.”

“Jack—”

“Or, when you lost it on the nursing student over vent settings…”

“That could kill someone,” Robby argues. 

“It was attached to a mannequin, Robby! Also, are we ever gonna talk about your daily dissociation in front of the fox?” 

Robby lets out something like a growl and roughly scratches at his head, “alright, I get it, I fucking get it, I’ll keep my dick in my pants, Christ.”

“I’m not worried about your dick this time, man.”

They stop halfway to the door, glance at one another. 

“I’d rather you not worry about my dick at all, Jack.”

“You know what I fucking mean,” the other man grumbles. 

“Do I?”

They’re both laughing by the time they hit the sidewalk. 

•

Adamson’s death fucked him up. 

Heather moving didn’t help either. 

PittFest was probably the final straw. 

Between losing his mentor, one of his closest friends, and his stepson, Robby has not been in the best mental space. He’s barely been himself at all. 

Gloria forced him to take a leave of absence not long after the shooting, and he can’t blame her for that. Somewhere deep inside of him, Robby even appreciates that she prioritized his health over her precious reviews. 

However, he does not appreciate anyone viewing him as weak, and after everything that’s happened, Robby can’t help but think that’s exactly how his team sees him now—like he’s fragile, on the verge of losing his shit at any given moment (some days he is). 

So, of course, it was refreshing meeting someone who didn’t know his sordid fucking history, who looked at him as just some guy, who let him take her back to his house and do all sorts of things to and with her… so, so many things… 

Unfortunately, Jack is right about Robby not being ready for anything of real substance at the moment, and therein lies the problem: Robby has never been good at keeping things casual. With anyone or anything. And, the one night he spent with you is more than enough to prove to him that there is no way in hell he’d be able to keep things light between the two of you. 

The sex was fucking spectacular, but it’s not the reason he’d struggle. No, it was the note you’d left on his fridge, how it had made him smile in a way Robby hasn’t in a long time.

He isn’t naive enough to believe in happy little endings, not after everything he’s seen over the years—parents watching their children die, unpreventable freak accidents. Fuck, just the other day Robby treated a woman who was brought in after being attacked by her husband; he’d gone after her with a barbecue fork, and she ended up losing her left eye. 

The world is a cruel place, and God has a terrible sense of humor, and even at his age, Robby still has a hard time understanding any of it. Sometimes he thinks it might be time to hang up the white coat, that he’s too old for this shit. 

But, god dammit, you made him feel young and stupid again. 

It’s cliché and kind of fucking gross, and Robby really and truly wants to listen to Jack’s advice—roll with it, keep his distance, just move on—it’s just that he’s not so sure he’s actually capable of doing that, and after the way you’d looked at him on the roof of the hospital, Robby’s not so sure you are either. 

The proximity shouldn’t be a problem. It isn’t as if he’ll have to see you in the pitt all that often. 

That’s what he thought, anyway. 

Robby never realized how many god damn neuro consults they request down in the EC. Every doctor on his team can perform the basic exam, but with all the fucking head traumas that roll through the doors, the basics usually aren’t enough. 

Robby puts in orders for MRIs and CTs and EEGs, and Dana pages whoever she needs to page, and then ten minutes later Mehta or some other attending will stride in accompanied by one if not all five of the new fellows. 

Sometimes Robby is able to stay out of the way, busy with someone on the other side of the pitt. Other times, you’re all working on the same patient, moving around one another. 

Like now, as you all crowd around a middle-aged man who crashed his car into a minivan. The neuro attending is flitting around different exam rooms, checking on the other fellows as they assess the family of four that was t-boned. It leaves you under the supervision of Langdon, Robby, and the team of nurses that are all working to stabilize the patient. 

“Sir, can you hear me?” you lean over him as Princess suddenly shouts the name that was found on the man’s ID— “Mr. Parsons, are you able to blink for me?” He does, and you inform everyone that his, “pupils are unequal, sluggish but reactive.”

Mr. Parsons has a pretty severe head laceration, which is one of Robby’s least favorite kinds because they just bleed so fucking much. 

“BP 185 over 120.”

“Mr. Parsons, there a history of stroke in your family?” Robby asks as he glances at the vitals monitor. 

Mr. Parsons tries to speak, groans, and then his eyes roll into the back of his head. The alarms that were already going off begin to chime louder and faster as he goes into V-fib, and because you’re still in position from checking his pupils and therefore closest to his chest, you immediately start CPR. 

Robby can see your lips move with every number you count to yourself, fingers laced together, elbows locked, good rate and depth. Perfect form, if he’s being honest, though your calves will probably be sore from having to stand on your tipto—not important. 

Jesse is pulling sedation in case they need it for intubation (they will, Robby already knows), and a med student whose name he doesn’t remember is grabbing paddles while Princess waits for charging instructions. 

You know to step back; Robby knows you know, but you’re not as quick as those who work these cases every day, and apparently that irritates Langdon because he shouts, “fucking move!” while making a swiping motion from the other side of the bed. 

You don’t react aside from backing away with your hands in the air. Robby, however, snaps without thinking, “watch it, Frank,” and narrows his eyes when Langdon glances at him. 

Robby looks back at the monitors before anyone can see the clear irritation on his face, calls out, “Jesse—Roc and Ketamine.”

“Going in now.” At least someone knows how to act. 

Mr. Parsons is shocked back into a normal sinus rhythm and intubated. He’ll be going to the ICU (whenever a bed is available), but until then…

“Squeamish?” Robby asks, tearing off his bloody PPE (fucking head lacs) and watching you do the same with shaky hands. 

“Hm?” you look at him with wide eyes, “oh, no, not really. Just adrenaline, ya’ know? Haven’t done CPR on a real human in ages.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Robby shrugs, stepping in closer without even realizing, “you were pretty quick to start compressions.”

You grin, a little crooked and a lot cute, and Robby knows he should leave it here. Give you your pat on the back and move onto the next case. 

“Like I said—adrenaline,” you reiterate. “Also, Pink Pony Club.”

Robby raises his eyebrows. “What is…? What?”

“You know, the super popular song?”

Robby shakes his head, but you nod and assure him, “you know it. It’s fucking everywhere. The ‘pink pony club, I’m gonna keep on dancin’ at the pink pony’—that one.”

“Oh, yeah, I do know that one.” It’s impossible to escape. “Wish I didn’t, but I do.”

“Well, it’s 107 beats per minute, so it’s kinda perfect for CPR.”

“Whatever happened to using Stayin’ Alive?” Robby questions, tries not to crack a smile when you giggle. 

You’re sharp, so fucking quick to tease him, “hospitals started hiring people who were born after 1985 is what happened,” even poke your tongue between your teeth. 

Robby’s jaw drops as he scoffs, and this time he steps forward on purpose, fully aware of how close he’s standing, but there’s a playful little twinkle in your eye, and it causes any decent thoughts to flee from his head. 

So, he teases right back, “maybe, but ya’ know what?” 

“What?” You lift an eyebrow. 

“They just don’t fucking do it as well as old dogs like me.”

Your mouth may be closed, but Robby still sees the way you suck your teeth at him, like you’re trying not to say something that’ll get you into trouble. 

A cough from the bedside brings Robby back down to earth. You look past him, and when your eyes go a little wide, Robby realizes that Jesse is definitely still standing next to Mr. Parsons and has been this whole time. He’s probably too far away to hear anything, but it’s hard to miss the lack of distance between you and Robby, how he’s ducking to speak to you in a low voice, a suggestive voice. 

Even if he’s keeping his hands to himself, Robby knows what it looks like. 

It looks like an older attending coming onto a pretty, younger doctor, which is kind of exactly what it fucking is. 

Swearing, Robby motions to the door, still quiet when he tells you, “get back to wherever you need to be.”

Your eyes flick to your cousin again, mouth twisting and twitching like you may be sucking on your cheek, then you shake your head and step out. 

Robby rubs his face to keep himself from watching you walk away, then without turning around— “Jesse.” The nurse hums in acknowledgment, gives nothing more, so Robby just continues, “Mr. Parsons stable?”

“Yes, sir. For now.” 

He could be imagining it, but Robby thinks there may be a slight edge to his tone, which is extremely fucking uncharacteristic of Jesse. He’s not exactly a chatterbox that Robby has noticed, but he’ll talk with anyone who talks to him. He’s always polite, always professional, and he’s usually about six steps ahead of everyone else. 

He’s a solid fucking nurse, and Robby is always relieved to have him in whatever trauma room he may be working in.

All of this is to say that there is very good reason for Robby to feel dread pool in his gut when he sees the neutral expression on Jesse’s face. No wide smile or easy posture. He’s just staring at Robby. Unamused. 

“Shit, okay—you up for a walk to the cafeteria?” Robby asks because he’s not just gonna fucking order the other man around. 

“Craving hospital food?” Jesse answers without actually answering, and Robby can see a subtle tick at the corner of his mouth, probably the closest the guy ever gets to smirking. Or frowning. He knows he’s got the upper hand here, and Robby is not about to try to take it from him.

“I hear the mashed potatoes are fantastic,” Robby deadpans, “in fact, they get better reviews than this department does.”

“Everything gets better reviews than this department,” Jesse counters, stares Robby down for a few more seconds, then shrugs, “sure, let’s go.”

They get as far as the elevator before Robby starts talking, mostly because he doesn’t want to stand in tense silence for three floors. 

“I’ll make this quick, ‘cause I don’t think either of us really wanna have this conversation,” he says, eyes locked on the wall and the number that changes as the car begins to ascend. 

“What conversation—the one where we both acknowledge that you slept with my little cousin?”

Christ, did he really have to throw the ‘little’ in there?

Robby grabs the back of his own neck, jaw sliding from side to side, “yeah, that’d be the one.”

There’s that silence he was hoping to avoid. 

“Are you planning on doing it again?” Jesse breaks it, eyes still forward. 

Robby squeezes his own shut, shakes his head and says, “nope,” with an emphasized ‘p’.

“Alright, then.” 

The elevator doors slide open at the third floor, and Jesse holds a hand out to let Robby exit first. 

“Okay. So, we’re good?” Robby lifts an eyebrow when Jesse just nods, makes no move to get out. “You coming?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Jesse shakes his head and finally reveals one of his sponsored-by-Colgate grins when he tells Robby, “I should get back down there,” while pressing the button to close the doors, “but you enjoy your mashed potatoes, Robby.”

Then, the lanky fucker disappears behind sliding metal, and Robby, a little shocked, stands with his head cocked, mouth open, uncaring of everyone moving around him because what the fuck was that? 

He never would have imagined that Nurse Jesse Van Horn, great with both patients and staff, calm and collected, nominated for multiple Daisy Awards, is actually a little shit. 

•

He shouldn’t text you. Especially after that bizarre fucking interaction. 

<< Your cousin is scary

Robby does anyway. 

>> oh, he absolutely is. 

>>  but he’s usually all sweet and charming so no one expects it 

<< That makes him even more terrifying 

>> for sure.  

>> what’d he say to you? 

<< Nothing. He told me to enjoy my mashed potatoes. 

>> ??? What the fuck does that even mean?

Robby snorts. He needs to keep it short, end the conversation here, make an excuse about being too busy to explain even though he’s sitting on his couch with his feet propped up, M*A*S*H rerun playing on the TV he isn’t paying attention to. Just cut it off. 

<< I really do not know 

There. Simple, one line, what could you possibly reply wi—

Robby’s phone vibrates in his hand with an incoming call. He stares for the first ring, scratches at his chin on the second, then swears, “fuck it,” and picks up. 

He doesn’t even bother with a greeting, just starts with, “I am just as fucking confused as you are, believe me.”

“Is mashed potatoes code for something? Is it a euphemism for masturbation?”

If Robby had been drinking anything, it would definitely be all over his shirt and coffee table. 

“What? How would it—why would it—?”

“I don’t know! It could’ve been like—like, ‘since you can’t screw my cousin again, have fun with your hand’,” you try to explain your logic which is at least somewhat sound, but Robby is too hung up on the fact that he’s been talking to you for five fucking seconds and you’re somehow on the topic of masturbating. 

“Also, they have the same number of syllables,” you add, “mashed po-ta-toes, mas-tur-ba-tion.”

Robby’s laugh is high-pitched and incredulous. “You’re a little fucking strange, you know that? I didn’t notice the other night.”

“Well, you were a little distracted with other things.”

Exhaling through clenched teeth, Robby drops his feet from the table and leans forward, hangs his head, and you just wait because you know what you did, what you’re doing to him.

Brat, Robby thinks, and he wants to be irritated by this little character trait of yours, but it turns out it just gets him hard.

His voice is embarrassingly shredded when he damn near begs, “don’t fuckin’ do this to me, sweetheart.”

When you don’t respond immediately, Robby starts to imagine what you might be doing—if you’re antsy or restless, chewing on your lower lip, rubbing your thighs together in that way women think men don’t notice, Jesus Christ. 

Chuckling in disbelief at how fucking easy he is for you to rile up, Robby tells you, “I’m hanging up now.”

“Probably a good idea,” you hum. “See you at the next head trauma.”

“I’ll be there.” Weird time to start palming himself through his pants, but it was gonna happen no matter what. 

He’s about to hang up when you speak again, “hey, Robby?”

“Yeah?”

“Enjoy your mashed potatoes.”

He swears at you and your goddamn giggle while shoving his fucking hand down the front of his pants. The line (thankfully) goes dead before you can hear the drawn-out groan that leaves his chest when he wraps his hand around his alarmingly hard dick. Robby is actually dizzy from how fast his blood had rushed from one head to another.

Keep his distance. Move on. 

He will. He definitely will. 

After he jerks off to the memory of how fucking good you looked taking his cock. 

now tagging y’all on separate posts!

[strangunddurm]

love this sm