Summary: You’re married to Frank, and Robby is your uncle, but people in the ER don’t know this and it ends up causing some problems
Warnings: kissing, workplace romance, false cheating rumors, family relationships, workplace rumors, no use of y/n
Word count: 2.0K
Requested by @thecranberrypineapple
a/n: finally managed to get some writing done! I haven’t had much free time with the holidays, traveling, and everything else, but I promise I’ll get to all the requests in my inbox...eventually 🫠
You’ve known Frank for a long time—long before you ever stepped into the ER. You met in college, both bright and eager to learn. From the moment you first talked to him, you knew you wanted to keep him around, wanted to make him a constant part of your life.
Luckily for you, you managed to get your wish.
Years of friendship slowly shifted into something more romantic, and before you knew it, it had turned into a lasting relationship. And when Frank finally got down on one knee, there was only one answer you wanted to give him.
That answer was yes.
You loved being Frank’s wife—loved knowing that at the end of the day, he was the one coming home with you. But there was one small issue: you both worked together.
Even though you’d started working in the same hospital back when you were just dating, and there was nothing that explicitly prohibited coworkers from being in a relationship as long as it didn’t interfere with their work in the ER, you and Frank had decided to keep your relationship quiet.
Not a secret exactly—more like something you simply didn’t mention at work. The moment the two of you stepped into the ER, you both slipped into your “professional mode,” only interacting with each other in ways that could be seen as two coworkers who happened to be friendly.
People knew you were married. Frank wore his ring on his finger every day, and you always had yours hanging on a chain around your neck—so yes, people knew you were married. They just didn’t know it was to each other.
It was kind of funny, actually. You and Frank had turned it into a sort of game. He would talk about his wife, always praising her, knowing you were close enough to hear. His eyes would find yours, giving you that knowing look that never failed to make you smile. And you did the same—talking about how amazing your husband was, your eyes often catching the soft smirk that would grace Frank’s features as you did.
It was the way the two of you had found to still give each other love during your shifts without alerting the rest of the people at work that you were actually talking about each other.
But that wasn’t the only thing people didn’t know.
Frank turned off the car engine, the silence in the interior taking over for a moment. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath—this would be the last moment of peace and quiet you’d have until another twelve hours had passed, and you wanted to savor it.
Frank grabbed your hand, causing your eyes to open as you turned to look at him. You gave him a soft smile as he gazed back at you.
“Ready to march into battle?”
You nodded, giving his hand one last squeeze before reaching for the door handle.
“Hey, you’re forgetting something.”
You gave Frank a confused look, which made him pucker his lips, exaggeratingly tilting toward you.
“My goodbye kiss.”
You knew what he’d said, but with his puckered lips it sounded more like, “Mu gubye kisth.”
You rolled your eyes, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby before leaning over the center console and giving Frank a quick kiss.
“Come on, Langdon. We’ll be late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As always, you and Frank walked in together. Nobody questioned the fact that you always arrived with each other—you’d given the bullshit excuse that you lived close by, and that it was easier for Frank to give you a ride than for both of you to drive to work. Plus, it was better for the environment. One less car on the streets.
Of course, people believed you. You gave them no reason not to.
When you made your way over to check the board, Robby caught sight of you. He smiled and made his way over with ease. You let him tug you into a quick side hug, your arm wrapping briefly around his waist.
“Hey, Honey. How you doing today?”
You pulled back so you could look him in the eyes.
“I’m doing good. How about you, Robby?”
Your eyes caught the bags under his eyes, and you immediately knew he hadn’t slept well the night before. But Robby hated people worrying about him, so when he said he was fine, you pretended to believe it.
“You searching for a target?”
At Robby’s question, your gaze flicked back to the board, briefly catching Frank disappearing into one of the rooms with Mel before settling on the writing on the screen.
“Gonna start easy, I think. A kid with a nosebleed might be ready for discharge. I’ll go check on him.”
“Alright then. The kid’s in good hands. See you around, Honey.”
You smiled as Robby gave your shoulder a soft squeeze before heading off, leaving you to make your way toward your first patient. You didn’t even notice the glances, didn’t hear the whispers as you moved through the ER. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
See, here’s the thing—people in the ER love to gossip. It keeps them entertained, helps keep the pain and sadness at bay as you all try to make it through your shifts. And when people don’t have all the information, they can come up with some pretty wild rumors.
The most recent one was that you and Robby were secretly married to each other. Which was absurd—not only because of the age difference, but because Robby was family. Literally family. He was your uncle. Biologically. As in, your father’s brother.
But people didn’t know that. Only a select few did—people who mattered, like Dana and Jack and the higher-ups. They knew either because they’d seen you grow up, in Dana and Jack’s case, or because they’d been responsible for hiring you and were aware of your family ties to Robby.
But everybody else?
Oh yeah. They had no clue.
Which ended up causing some… issues.
Because the Robby rumor was bad—but the Frank one was so much worse.
It started harmlessly. Frank bringing you coffee during a lull. Leaning against the counter beside you while you charted, shoulders brushing. A hand resting briefly at the small of your back as he passed behind you in a crowded hallway.
Normal things. Small things.
Things that meant everything to the wrong people.
They started noticing it one by one. Santos clocked the way Frank’s voice softened when he spoke to you. Javadi caught the way Frank’s eyes followed you across the ER when you laughed at something a patient said. Whitaker saw Frank step a little too close when you were visibly shaken after a bad case.
And then, to make matters so much worse, someone saw you and Frank in a very private moment.
You hadn’t thought anything of it—ducking into an empty break room, adrenaline still buzzing through you after a rough trauma. Frank followed, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Hey,” he murmured, hands already finding your waist. “You did good in there.”
You exhaled, leaning into him, fingers fisting in his scrub top as he kissed you—slow at first, then deeper. Familiar. Safe. His hand slid up your back, grounding you.
You were so caught up in Frank that you didn’t hear the door hinges open slightly. Didn’t hear the soft gasp, or the door shutting a little too quickly.
Someone had seen you with Frank. And because they thought you were married to Robby—and didn’t know Frank was married to you—the speculation took a sharp turn, fast.
An affair. A scandal. A nurse cheating with a married attending.
And somehow—somehow—people thought they’d finally figured out the truth.
They had no idea how wrong they were.
And because you had no idea these rumors even existed, you ended up unintentionally feeding into them.
When a tough case got to you, Robby had pulled you to the side, giving you a bear hug as tears swelled in your eyes. And when he left the room to keep working, and you started to take a breather, Frank had slipped in, his forehead resting against yours as he spoke comforting words.
And people saw it. They saw these small, soft moments—and twisted them into something they weren’t.
But like everything in life, there was a final straw.
It came as an accusation.
You were hunched over the chart, scribbling notes after checking on your patient, when a voice from the nurses’ station broke the quiet.
“You know… you should really own up to it.”
You froze, pen in midair. “Excuse me?”
They leaned a little closer, a smirk playing at the corner of their lips.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be coy. We all know you’re… you’re cheating on Robby.”
Your hand dropped to the counter. “What?!”
Someone else, leaning over nearby, snickered. You blinked, utterly confused.
“Cheating? On… Robby?”
The first person shrugged, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Yeah. I mean… it’s obvious. You and Frank, right? We see it all the time.”
You held up a hand. “Okay, whoa. You need to relax. You’ve got this all wrong. Completely wrong.”
By that point, movement in the hallway caught your attention. Robby and Frank had both emerged from different rooms, strolling in the general direction of the nurses’ station. Their heads tilted slightly, noticing you animatedly talking to someone, lips moving, hands gesturing.
“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath. “This is going to get worse before it gets better.”
As they approached, you straightened, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Okay,” you said, raising your voice just enough for everyone nearby to hear, “let’s get something straight. For everyone.”
The staff fell quiet, leaning in curiously.
“I am married—to Frank,” you said slowly, letting it sink in. “Robby is my uncle. I am not cheating on anyone. And yes, we all work together, but none of what you’re imagining is actually happening.”
A pause. Some eyes widened. Some shifted awkwardly.
And then there was Dana.
Dana had appeared quietly, arms crossed, a grin spreading across her face.
“Oh my god,” she said, barely holding back laughter. “This is gold. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Robby calls you ‘Honey’ nonstop. What’s the deal with that?” the accuser jabbed.
You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. God, people really liked grasping at straws.
“‘Honey’ is my middle name. Robby’s been calling me that since I was a kid.”
The accuser froze, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, go back to work.” You turned to glance around at the people still gawking at you. “Everyone, back to work.”
The staff reluctantly returned to their tasks, whispers and smirks lingering just a little longer than usual. And Dana? Dana lingered a little longer too, clearly planning to tease you about this for weeks.
That’s when Frank appeared beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, smirk fully in place.
“Well,” he said, glancing around at the still-whispering staff, “guess the cat’s out of the bag now, huh?”
“Yeah,” you muttered, rolling your eyes but smiling. “I guess so.”
Frank leaned closer, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone.
“So… what’s stopping me from kissing you right here? In the middle of everybody?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Decency.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly offended. “Decency? Since when have I ever been decent?”
Before you could answer, he tugged you gently toward him. Lips met yours in a soft, fleeting kiss. You laughed against his mouth, and he grinned against yours before pulling back just enough to whisper:
“See? We should have told them about us ages ago.”
You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning his forehead against yours, “but you love me anyway.”
And you did.
You and Frank exchanged a look—quiet, silly, and utterly yours.
“Get back to work, Dr. Langdon.”
Frank gave you a mock salute. “Yes, Mrs. Langdon.”
You couldn’t help but smile and shake your head as he walked away. When he was finally out of view, you turned and stared at Dana.
“I hate you.”
She gave you a smile and pulled you into a hug.
“No, you don’t.”
You couldn’t hold back the smile that crept onto your face. Because yeah—you didn’t.
Warnings: graphic medical scenes, severe blood and injury, emotional trauma, intense hospital emergency, near-death experiences, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort vibes, happy ending, established relationship, suggestive language, possible inaccurate medical terms
Word count: 3.4K The Pitt masterlist
a/n: this was requested by a lovely anon
You were pulled out of your dream by the shrill screeching of your alarm. Your body flinched out of sleep, a groan escaping your lips as the noise continued to blare.
For some reason, Frank liked to be woken by what he referred to as “sounds of nature,” which meant that for the past four years you’d been waking up to the sound of roosters cawing.
You’d tried to tell Frank that people hadn’t woken up to that sound since maybe the 1800s, but he didn’t seem to care.
Frank liked waking up like he was living on a farm, and you liked seeing him wake up happy, so you sacrificed your earbuds in the name of love.
It did not, however, mean you enjoyed it.
You didn’t like the alarm in general — it meant peeling yourself out of bed and dragging your body toward what was sure to be a grueling shift — but you disliked Frank’s alarm even more.
You tugged your pillow from beneath your head and pulled it over your face to dull the sound.
“Make it stop,” you groaned into the pillow, your voice muffled.
After a second, the screeching finally stopped, and the bedroom was swallowed by silence once again. You sighed softly, grateful for the lack of noise.
Warm hands wrapped around your waist as Frank burrowed his nose under the pillow you were hiding beneath, his head settling in the crook of your neck. His nose bumped against your ear, tickling you and drawing out a soft laugh.
“Morning, baby,” Frank whispered against your ear.
You tugged the pillow off your face, turning your head so you could press a soft kiss to his lips.
“Morning,” you whispered against his smile.
You turned your body around, letting Frank pull you tight against his chest. You breathed in, savoring that familiar scent that just seemed to come with Frank. You wanted to stay like this for the rest of the day—unfortunately, you had work.
The alarm started blaring again. You groaned, which only made Frank laugh. He reached back blindly for his phone and shut it off.
“We better get up before we’re late.”
You slapped a hand over your face.
“Oh God. No. I refuse.”
Frank laughed again and tugged you even closer as you let your body sink deeper into the mattress. He pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Just think—tomorrow we’re both off. No alarms. No trauma bays. No patients throwing up on my shoes.”
His lips dragged along your cheek.
“We can stay in bed as long as we want… go to Altius for dinner… and then I’m taking you home, and you’re gonna be screaming my name all night long.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Frank.”
He kissed that spot just under your ear—the one he knew turned you into absolute putty.
“What? I’m motivating you.”
When he pulled back, you brushed your nose against his, leaning in for another kiss.
“First we have to work twelve hours,” he whispered against your mouth.
You moved back with a dramatic groan.
“Way to ruin the moment.”
The smell of stale coffee and antiseptic hit as soon as you walked through the double doors. You and Frank ended up standing shoulder to shoulder at the board, your name already splattered under three cases.
“Looks like I’ve got a possible radius and ulna fracture,” you said. “What’d they give you, Frankie?”
He squinted at his line. “A fuckin’ abscess drainage. I swear they’re assigning me the boring ones on purpose.”
You bumped your elbow into him. “That’s because you need to be nicer to people.”
Frank turned like he was ready to protest, then your offer sank in.
“You’re taking the abscess?” he said, eyes brightening.
You shrugged, casual. “Sure. You can take the fracture. Grab Mel and knock it out.”
He leaned in until his lips brushed your ear.
“God, you’ve never been sexier. I’m tempted to bend you over the nurses’ station right now.”
You rolled your eyes and shoved him lightly.
“Calm down, cowboy. This just means you owe me. Next case I don’t want? You’re taking it. No complaints.”
He backed away with that stupid wink.
“You got it, baby.”
As you walked toward Dana, she shook her head at the sight of Frank disappearing into the hall.
“You are way too nice to him,” she muttered.
“It’s my weakness,” you said, because… yeah. It was.
You found Javardi triple-checking her pockets like she’d misplaced her entire existence.
“Javardi!” you called. “Have you seen an abscess drainage before?”
She perked up. “Not in the ED. I’ve only seen videos.”
“Perfect. You’ll observe this one with me. Ask whatever you need. And then I’ll have Dana assign us the next abscess that comes in — that one’s yours. Deal?”
Her eyes widened like you’d just handed her a Christmas bonus.
“Yes! Thank you!”
The patient was in his late fifties, a big guy, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His chart said thigh abscess. The swelling under the blanket confirmed it.
“Hello, Mr. Bernstein,” you said warmly. “I’ll be your doctor today, and this is Dr. Javardi — she’ll be observing. I understand you have an abscess. How long has this been going on?”
“A week and a half,” he grunted. “Hurts like hell. I don’t even know what I did.”
“They can be really painful,” you said gently. “Today we’ll numb the area, drain it, and get you started on antibiotics and pain control. You may need to come back in a couple days for a dressing change. Any questions?”
“No. Let’s do it.”
You pulled the instrument tray closer. Behind you, Javardi laid out the supplies with careful precision.
“Alright, I’m going to disinfect the area and then inject lidocaine for numbing,” you explained. “The lidocaine burns — I’m sorry in advance.”
As you swabbed the skin, Bernstein glanced at Javardi.
“You a student doctor?”
She smiled shyly. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s impressive. Congrats. What year are you?”
You weren’t paying much attention to the exchange — just focusing on getting this guy fixed up and out of the room as fast as possible. There were other people who needed the bed.
Maybe if you had been listening, you would’ve noticed how he wasn’t even looking at Javardi as she chattered nervously about being a student doctor. Maybe you would’ve caught the exact moment his eyes flicked to the scalpel. The precise second his body leaned forward to grab it.
But you weren’t paying attention.
So you didn’t notice any of it until white-hot pain exploded in your side.
Everything happened at once.
Javardi’s scream tore through the room. The sound that came out of you wasn’t even a scream—more like the air had been punched out of your lungs all at once. Your hand flew to your side, warm blood already slicking your fingers.
Dana burst through the doorway, eyes wide as she searched for the source of the scream. When she saw you slumped on the floor, your palm stained red, she didn’t hesitate.
“Code white! Security — I need security!”
Robby and Ahmed barreled in behind her, going straight for Bernstein. The room detonated into chaos: shouting, the crash of a rolling cart, Bernstein snarling something incoherent as he fought them.
But all of it felt… weirdly distant. Your vision wasn’t focusing the way it should. Your ears rang. The pain was white-hot, stabbing—and then somehow ice-cold underneath.
Dana dropped to her knees beside you, eyes huge. “Jesus—okay, okay—pressure, we need pressure on that wound—Javardi, get Langdon, now!”
You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Dana pressed down on your side, and you let out a raw, broken groan.
“I know, hon. I’m sorry, I know. I have to keep you from bleeding out.”
Frank barreled into the room like someone had launched him from a canon. He didn’t even look at Bernstein or the chaos around him — his eyes found you instantly.
He froze.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
Then he dropped to the floor beside you, hands cupping your face, his voice too calm to be real.
“Hey, baby. I’m here. Look at me. Don’t worry.”
His gaze flicked down to where Dana’s hands were drenched in your blood. His eyes snapped back up, meeting Dana’s — her expression mirroring exactly what he felt.
You swallowed hard, tasting metal.
“Frankie…”
“Stay with me, baby,” he blurted, breath shaking. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, okay?”
“We need to move her, Frank — if we don’t, she’ll—” Dana stammered.
“I know!” Frank snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him.
But it wasn’t anger that made him raise his voice — it was fear. Dana knew that, so she didn’t take it personally.
Javardi was talking to Robby, stumbling through an explanation about how she hadn’t seen it coming, how there were no signs of distress. Robby called for Princess, asking her to take Javardi somewhere else — the girl was clearly in shock. Princess nodded, guiding her out by the shoulders. As they passed you, you could hear Javardi sobbing apologies the whole way out.
Someone touched Frank’s shoulder, snapping his attention upward. Mel crouched beside him, her expression sharp and focused.
“What do you need?” she asked.
Frank didn’t hesitate.
“You’re gonna take over pressure. You have to be aggressive. I don’t care if she screams — she’ll bleed out otherwise.”
You barely inhaled before Mel and Dana switched hands.
The scream tore out of you before you could stop it.
Frank gathered you into his arms, lifting you like you weighed nothing.
“We’re going to the trauma bay. Mel — keep that pressure. Don’t stop. One, two, three—”
He stood, muscles tensing as he carried you out while Mel kept her hands clamped to your side.
People jumped out of the way. You heard gasps, someone calling for a crash cart, a nurse shouting to prep a trauma room.
Frank’s breath was hot and ragged against your hair.
“Stay awake,” he kept saying. “Baby, stay awake. Don’t do this.”
Bright lights. Cold air. Too many hands.
They lowered you onto the bed, and you cried out when Mel’s pressure shifted for even a second. Perla grabbed scissors, slicing open your scrubs and exposing the full wound. It wasn’t small. A sickening amount of blood pooled beneath you.
Frank’s voice cracked.
“Fuck.”
Robby rushed in beside you.
“I need TXA on board now! Give me ketamine, two bags of O-neg STAT! Langdon, keep her with you!”
Frank cupped your cheek with blood-soaked fingers, forcing your gaze up to his.
“Hey. I’m right here. Stay with me. Stay calm.”
Your vision shimmered. Your ears buzzed.
Frank tried to smile.
“You always said if you were ever hurt you’d want Robby as your doctor instead of me. That’s still kinda rude, by the way.”
You actually felt a weak flicker of amusement.
Your hand — slippery with blood — lifted halfway before you could stop it. Frank caught it instantly, pressing it to his mouth.
“Frankie…” you gurgled.
His breathing faltered.
Behind him, a monitor beeped erratically.
Then—
It didn’t.
A flat, continuous tone filled the room.
Everyone froze.
Frank’s head whipped toward the monitor.
“No,” he whispered.
The world went silent.
Robby shouted from somewhere far away, “Push epi! Start compressions! Now!”
Frank snapped back into motion and climbed onto the gurney, starting compressions himself. A sickening crack echoed—your sternum giving way.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered raggedly as he pumped your chest. “But you’re not leaving me. You don’t get to leave.”
Minutes stretched—endless, brutal.
Twenty minutes later, Robby’s voice was quiet.
“Frank… it’s time.”
“No!” Frank barked, still compressing. “We keep going! She’s not gone!”
He leaned down, forehead pressing to yours.
“Tomorrow—I was gonna propose. The ring’s hidden in my locker, top shelf. You can’t miss that. You promised me a lifetime, baby—don’t you dare—”
Dana’s voice broke. “Frank… she’s gone.”
His entire body trembled. Tears streamed down his face as he choked, “We’re supposed to get married. Have kids. Grow old. I love her. I love her—”
Robby placed his hands on Frank’s. “Frank… time of death is 11:42.”
Frank collapsed over you with a raw, broken sound no one in the room would ever forget.
Mel never stopped applying pressure.
And then—
A blip on the monitor.
Another.
Robby turned. “Dana—pulse check!”
“I have something!” Dana gasped.
“Dr. King—on the gurney. DO NOT lift your hand. Hang another liter. Push norepi. OR, now!”
Frank kissed your forehead before they raced you out of the room. He stood there shaking, covered in your blood.
Robby took his shoulders. “We got her back. She has a shot. Garcia will take care of her. She’s a fighter.”
Frank sobbed. “This was my case. She switched with me.”
“No,” Robby said firmly. “Don’t do that. You saved her. Those compressions saved her.”
Frank broke, pulling Robby into a hug. “Thank you for not giving up on her.”
“It’s not me you should be thanking. Mel’s the one who kept pressure even after we called it. She’s the one who gave her a chance.”
Robby patted Frank’s back as he finally pulled away from the hug.
“She’s gonna make it, Frank.”
He nodded absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to the door they’d wheeled you through. Robby left the room, leaving Frank alone with his thoughts for a moment.
He felt exhausted all of a sudden, the adrenaline that had been pumping through him finally draining from his body. He stumbled out of the room, his eyes immediately finding Mel talking to Robby. Her scrubs and hands were covered in blood.
Your blood.
Frank’s stomach lurched at the sight, but he forced himself to walk toward her anyway. Mel’s head snapped over to him at the sound of his shoes against the floor.
“Dr. Langdon, they’ve started the procedure, she’s—”
But before she could finish, Frank stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a tight, desperate hug. Mel let out a startled sound. Frank’s voice broke against her shoulder.
“God, you saved her, Mel. You fuckin’ saved her. I can’t thank you enough.”
Mel awkwardly patted his back, still clearly unsure of what to do.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Langdon.”
When he finally let her go Dana was at his side, her hand moving to rest on his back as she gave him a soft look.
“Frank. Go shower. I promise—if we hear anything, I’ll come get you myself.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, like leaving the hallway meant abandoning you somehow—but Dana just held his stare. Eventually his shoulders dropped, and he nodded.
The locker room felt wrong. Too quiet. Too normal. Frank stripped out of his blood-soaked scrubs with shaking hands. When he stepped under the water, the red spiraled down the drain in thin, diluted streams. He pressed his palms to the tile and let the water hit the back of his neck. His chest hurt. His eyes burned. His breath kept catching in that half-sob way he couldn't stop.
By the time he walked out, hair still dripping, fresh scrubs clinging to him, Javardi was waiting. Her face crumpled as soon as she saw him. Frank could tell just from looking at her that she'd been crying just as much as he had.
“I’m—I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I froze. I got in the way. I should’ve—”
Frank let out a sigh, his hand moving to rest gently on Javardi’s shoulder as her face twisted into a deep frown.
“This wasn’t your fault, Javardi. You couldn’t have known what he was going to do—there weren’t any signs. You said so yourself.”
Javardi stared at him, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? Just go home. Get some rest.”
She nodded, crying even harder, and backed away down the hallway.
Hours later, you slowly slipped into consciousness.
Everything hurt. A deep, throbbing, full-body ache that made your breath stutter. When you tried to shift—even a little—a sharp stab tore through your side, and you let out a groan.
Frank jerked awake instantly.
His head had been resting on the mattress beside you, his fingers tangled with yours. His eyes shot open—red, puffy, glassy. He looked wrecked.
You blinked at him, your voice scratchy. “Frankie… you look terrible.”
He let out a weak laugh—half relief, half broken sob. “You literally died, and that’s the first thing you say?”
You tried to laugh, but the motion made your voice twist in pain. Frank immediately shushed you, lifting from his seat so he could press a soft kiss to your temple.
“God, I love you,” he whispered against your skin—skin that, thankfully, was no longer cold and clammy like it had been the last time he kissed you.
“I love you too.” You squeezed his hand as best you could as he settled back into his seat.
For a long moment he just stared at you, drinking in the fact that you were alive—breathing—talking. The adrenaline was gone, but the terror still clung to him.
“What… what happened?” you whispered.
Frank swallowed thickly.
“We almost lost you.” His voice cracked. “We did lose you. For a minute.” He dropped his forehead to your hand. “Don’t ever do that again.”
You smiled faintly. “I’ll try my best.”
Frank let out this shaky little laugh at your words — the kind of sound someone makes after almost drowning. It lasted all of two seconds before the smile fell right off his face.
He went quiet. Completely still. And then his chin wobbled. His breath hitched. His eyes filled again, overflowing before he even tried to stop it.
“Frank…” you whispered.
He shook his head like he was mad at himself for breaking. A tear hit the blanket near your hip. You squeezed his hand weakly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay. I promise.”
His shoulders caved inward, like everything he’d been holding back finally punched through.
“I was so fucking scared,” he choked out. “I thought—God, I thought I lost you for good.”
You dragged in a slow breath, ignoring the ache that lanced through your ribs.
“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He looked at you, like he still didn’t quite believe it. Then he let out this humorless little scoff.
“Life’s too fucking short, isn’t it?”
You blinked, confused. “Frank…?”
He inhaled sharply, sat back just a bit, and wiped his face with the heel of his hand. Then his gaze softened in this heartbreaking way, and he shook his head.
“I was gonna wait,” he said quietly. “Better circumstances, you know? Something romantic. Something… not this.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
He swallowed hard. “But after today? After watching you—after hearing that monitor—” His voice cracked again. “You never know what’s gonna happen. So I’m done waiting. I’m done pretending I’m not ready.”
He reached into the pocket of his scrub pants — the new pair Dana forced him into — and pulled out a small, black velvet box. His hand shook.
Your breath caught, and pain flared in your torso. You let out a soft gasp.
“Frank—are you seriously proposing to me while I’m lying in a hospital bed?”
He gave a watery laugh.
“Yeah. I guess I am.” His thumb brushed the lid of the box. “So… what do you say?”
You stared at him — at his wrecked face, his trembling lip, his desperate, hopeful eyes — and your heart swelled painfully in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
Frank let out a relieved, broken laugh that instantly dissolved into more tears. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours, careful of all your lines and bandages.
“Thank God,” he breathed. “Thank God.”
He kissed your hand — over and over — whispering your name each time like a prayer.
Frank slid the ring onto your finger with hands that were still trembling, letting out a shaky breath like he’d been holding it for hours. His eyes flicked up to yours, still glossy but finally… lighter.
“So,” he murmured, giving you that crooked, exhausted smile, “how’s it feel to be Mrs. Langdon?”
You blinked, took the smallest inhale — and immediately regretted it.
“Honestly?” you rasped. “Like shit.”
There was half a beat of silence before Frank barked out a laugh, trying to smother it against your arm.
You groaned, “No—don’t make me laugh, it hurts—”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, absolutely not sorry, still laughing through what might’ve been lingering tears.
You started laughing too, breathy and pained but real, and reached over to squeeze his hand. “God, we’re a disaster.”
Frank dropped his forehead against your arm, still smiling. “Yeah. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
You smiled at him, nose bumping into his as you gave him a soft kiss before whispering, “Me neither.”
First off, I just found your account, and I'm obsessed!! I was wondering if you could write a Jack Abbot x fem!reader fic where he's struggling with his PTSD. The vibe is like fluffy angst, if that makes sense.
Scar tissue
Jack Abbot X Fem!Reader
Warnings: PTSD, nightmares, combat trauma, injury description, amputation mention, phantom limb pain, panic response, dissociation, implied suicidal ideation (non-acted), emotional vulnerability, comfort, hurt/comfort, soft ending, established relationship, Robby makes an appearance, no use of y/n
Word count: 3.7K
a/n: Awww thnks for the love hon i'm glad you liked my little corner of the internet and i'm happy to have you here 🫶🏻 hope you enjoy the fic!
Anyone who looks at him knows he’s a tough guy. Not just because of the muscles that show through every piece of clothing he wears, but because of the way he carries himself. Steady. Courageous. Cool as a cucumber.
People look at Jack Abbott and they see a soldier — a man who can handle unimaginable pain without so much as a flinch.
But you? You see the cracks in the armor. You see the soft spots beneath all that steel — the proof that Jack, much like everyone else, is still just human.
Maybe you see it because he lets you. Because he feels he doesn’t have to hide as much when he’s around you. Or maybe it’s because you’re always looking for him in a crowd—your eyes scanning every face until they land on his.
You know he has a harder time dealing with his past than he ever admits. The therapist he’s been seeing seems to help, but it’s not like you can erase everything he’s been through. You’re glad he’s getting the help he needs, and you make sure he knows he has a support system he can lean on whenever he needs it.
He has Robby, and he has you.
When things started getting serious between you and Jack, the first person he wanted you to meet was Robby. You could tell immediately, from the way they interacted, that they shared a long and heavy history. And in the short time you spent with Robby, you could see that he too carried scars from the past.
Robby liked you right away—he was genuinely happy that Jack had someone to share his life with. But beneath Robby’s gentle smile, you sensed something else. A kind of relief hidden behind the easy banter and relaxed expression.
And when he cornered you one evening, glancing around as if making sure Jack wasn’t nearby before whispering, “I’m glad he has someone by his side. I can’t always keep an eye on him with our opposite shifts and all. I’m glad you’ve got his back,” you realized Robby knew Jack in ways you had yet to discover.
It had taken you a while to understand what Robby meant, but one night shift made everything painfully clear.
You’d been searching for Jack everywhere, and you were no closer to finding him. It was unlike him to just disappear—he was the attending, after all. Your worry had started creeping in when Robby walked in and caught the look on your face.
He seemed to know exactly what you were looking for. His hand landed gently on your shoulder to get your attention, a soft look settling over his features.
“You’re looking for Abbott, right? He’s probably taking a breather.”
“No, I checked outside. He wasn’t there,” you answered, eyes still darting around the room.
Robby gave your shoulder a small, knowing squeeze.
“Might wanna go check the roof.”
Robby must’ve seen something in your face shift, because he didn’t hesitate—he just said, “Come on,” and started toward the stairwell. You followed him up the flight of stairs until the sunshine hit your face and the rooftop door thunked shut behind you.
Jack was there. Standing on the edge of the roof, on the opposite side of the railing.
Your heart lurched. Your body moved before you even thought, breath punching out of your chest. Your eyes went wide, your mouth opened—but nothing came out.
Robby’s hand snapped around your arm, steadying you before you could take another panicked step.
“Hey—hey. It’s okay,” he murmured, voice low, like he’d rehearsed this line a thousand times.
You froze, pulse thundering in your ears, as Robby walked forward with a familiarity that made your stomach twist tighter.
He leaned casually against the railing, like this wasn’t terrifying, like it wasn’t a two-story drop to concrete.
“Hey, man,” he called out. “You bird-watching or something?”
Jack jolted—just slightly—like the sound tugged him out of a fog. He turned his head, and his eyes found yours over Robby’s shoulder.
Something flickered there. Recognition. Then shame. Then something soft.
He ducked back under the railing and stepped onto the safe side. Robby clapped him on the back and stepped aside, letting Jack walk toward you.
You stood there, hands trembling before you could stop them, the image of him on the wrong side of the railing burned into your mind. When he reached you, Jack didn’t say anything—just pulled you into his chest, arms strong and shaky all at once.
“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, breathing you in. “You don’t gotta worry. I wasn’t—I wasn’t doing anything stupid. Just… needed a look around.”
You didn’t say anything. You just held onto him, trying to let your body relax beneath his arms. When you finally glanced over his shoulder, your eyes met Robby’s. His expression was soft, a little tired, and without either of you saying a word, you understood.
This was what he meant. This was why he wanted someone else watching Jack’s back.
That was the first time you saw Jack’s armor crack.
But it wouldn’t be the last.
Today had been a particularly rough shift. You were exhausted—bone-deep tired—and more than ready to go home. When you saw Robby walk into the ED for his morning shift, you mustered a smile and walked over to pull him into a hug.
“How was your night?” he asked, like he always did.
“Hell, as usual,” you sighed.
Robby gave you that knowing look, the one edged with sympathy and the kind of exhaustion only long-time trauma can carve into someone. His eyes swept the room, scanning faces out of habit.
You knew exactly who he was looking for. Who he always looked for.
“He’s upstairs,” you said, no explanation needed.
Robby’s gaze snapped back to you, understanding immediately.
“That bad, huh?”
“Yep.” Your shoulders sagged under the weight of the night. “Pretty much.”
“You want me to go get him?”
You gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “No, I got it. I was just giving him a little alone time first. You know how he gets.”
Robby nodded, expression softening. “Call me if you need me.”
You offered him a tired smile before turning and heading for the stairs—your feet already knowing the path to the roof.
Jack is in his usual spot.
Same place he always goes when the shift has taken too much out of him. Same spot where the world stretches out before him far enough that he can pretend he’s not drowning in his thoughts. In his feelings.
You ease the rooftop door open, letting it click shut behind you. He has his back to you, but you know he knows you’re here. You take a couple of slow steps toward him, leaning on the railing like Robby had the first time you’d found out about this routine of theirs.
“Anything interesting down there?” you say softly, voice drifting over to him like you’re afraid of startling him.
Jack glances over his shoulder. It’s not really a smile he gives you—more a tired twitch of his mouth that’s trying to be one. The kind he uses when he doesn’t want you to worry, even though the fact that he’s up here already tells you plenty.
“Nah,” he mutters. “Same old streets. Same old mess.”
The wind is cool up here, biting at your cheeks. Jack’s eyes stay fixed on the drop below. Yours stay glued to his profile.
“You want to talk about it?” you ask gently.
He huffs out a breath. “Not really.”
You nod, because you’re not here to force it out of him. You’ve learned that pushing makes him shut down harder. And besides—that tone? You know that one. It’s the I’m-still-in-it tone. The one he gets when some patient or some moment kicks up dust from the part of his past he tries not to look at. The part filled with dirt and gunfire and screams that don’t belong in a hospital.
Jack’s jaw flexes. You see the tension in his body. Not just the usual post–twelve-hour-shift tension, but the kind he carries from years of seeing more shit than anyone should see in their whole lifetimes. It always lingers. Waiting beneath his skin. Waiting for something to pull it out into the open. And tonight, it’s clear something had made it bubble up.
You keep your eyes forward as you ask, “Want me to go get Robby?”
It’s not jealousy. It’s not insecurity. You know how deep their history runs. Sometimes Jack needs his best friend before he needs anyone else.
But he shakes his head immediately.
“No.” His voice is low, rough. “I just… need a little quiet.”
You give another small nod. “Okay.”
And that’s it. No fixing. No prying. You just sit down, letting the silence stretch the way he needs it to. The wind whistles, cars honk far below, and Jack’s breathing slowly evens out—slowly, gradually, grounding itself in the fact that you’re here.
After a while—maybe minutes, maybe longer—you hear him shift. You watch as he ducks under the railing, stepping back toward the safe side before looking down at you from where you’re still sitting. You lift yourself off the ground, moving so you’re standing in front of him. You stay a couple of steps away for a moment before reaching your hand out.
His fingers brush yours, hesitant at first, then more sure when you curl your hand softly around his.
“Wanna go home?” you whisper.
Jack exhales—a shaky, tired sound that breaks your heart a little.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah… I’m ready.”
And with that, he lets you pull him back inside.
He’s quiet the whole walk home, which isn’t unusual on days like this. Still, you miss the easy chatter you usually fall into together. You miss the feeling of his hand in yours as you walk side by side, miss the silly comments he always makes just to get you to laugh.
But you know it isn’t personal. Sometimes the weight of the past is just too heavy to carry, and Jack has to put all his strength into keeping himself together. There isn’t much left over for anything else.
So on days like this, you just match your pace to his, silently following him all the way back to your shared apartment.
You walk into your apartment, keys clattering softly against the door as you push it open. Jack trails in behind you. You slip your shoes off, and he quietly closes the door, locking it before doing the same.
You head straight for the kitchen, washing your hands at the sink before opening the fridge and grabbing the food you’d set aside for the two of you. On normal days, you and Jack share the shower—taking turns helping each other wash the grime and weight of the shift away. But today… you know he won’t be up for that.
So you call out from the kitchen, loud enough for him to hear you from the entryway.
“You go first, Jack. I’ll start heating the food up.”
He passes by the kitchen doorway, giving you a small, tired nod before heading toward the bathroom.
After he gets out—looking just as tired as when he went in, but at least cleaner—you make your way to the bathroom next, focusing on washing the shift off your own skin.
You both settle down to eat afterward, the low murmur of the TV drifting across the room while you eat in silence. When you’re done, the dishes washed and teeth brushed, the two of you climb into bed.
You reach over to click the lamp off and start to settle, already preparing yourself to fall asleep without Jack’s arms around you. But just as you’re about to turn your back to him, he says your name—soft, almost hesitant.
You turn, barely able to make out his face in the dark.
“Yeah?” you answer quietly, voice barely above a breath.
“No cuddling today?” he asks, the words gentle, almost sheepish in the dark.
Your eyes soften instantly.
“Didn’t think you’d be up for it,” you whisper.
Jack reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek before gently tugging you closer until your noses touch.
“Always up to cuddle with you, baby,” he murmurs, the teasing warmth in his voice muted by exhaustion but still sincere.
You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before shifting until your head rests against his chest—right where you’ve always fit perfectly.
“Goodnight, Jack,” you say softly, your voice melting into his skin.
“Night, baby,” he replies, the words low and sleepy.
He can feel the sweat against his temple. Can feel it run down his neck and seep into his uniform. He can smell the dirt and blood and gunpowder. Can hear the explosion, the screams, the bullets ricocheting.
His feet pound against the ground as he runs, bag rattling against his back with every step. There’s a rifle in his hand—he can feel the weight of it, the metal pressed beneath his fingers. The sound is muffled, but he can still make out orders being shouted somewhere beside him. He takes another step.
And that’s when it happens.
He doesn’t even have time to react before his body is launched backward. His back hits the ground and, for a moment, he can’t hear anything. The explosion blows out everything else, dust filling the air and swallowing what little he could see.
And then it hits him.
Pain.
Searing pain, shooting through him so fast he doesn’t even have time to scream.
The world tilts. His vision blurs. When he finally manages to bring it into focus, his eyes trail downward to assess the damage.
He catches it immediately.
Blood. Shredded fabric. Jagged bone.
The panic settles in instantly, and the scream that rips from his throat makes his lungs burn. Hands grab at him—soldiers barking his name, trying to drag him away—but everything blurs, their faces smearing together.
His vision tightens, tunneling. He feels the blood pumping out of him, warm and fast.
And then darkness surrounds him.
Jack jerks awake with a gasp so sharp it almost sounds like a sob.
The room is dark. Quiet. Safe. But his body doesn’t know that—his heart is racing like he’s still on that damn battlefield. His hands fist at the sheets, tugging them off him in a panic. His eyes land on the place where his leg should be and, even though it’s not there—even though it’s been years—he can still feel the pain as if it had happened just now.
He’s so focused on the sight in front of him that he doesn’t feel you stir in bed. Doesn’t even remember you’re there next to him until your hand finds the center of his back.
His head snaps toward you, panicked eyes locking onto your worried gaze. The sight of you seems to pull him back into the present, inch by inch. He lets out a shaky breath just as you say his name again—because he didn’t hear it the first time.
“Jack? Hey — talk to me. What happened?”
He swallows. It’s hard. His throat feels tight, scraped raw.
“I… it was my leg.” His voice trembles in a way he hates. “I was back there. I saw it happen again.”
His breath stutters. He drags a trembling hand over his face, trying to wipe away the nightmare like it’s something he can physically scrape off his skin. You shift closer, slow and gentle, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. If anything, he leans toward you without realizing it, like his body is reaching for something solid to anchor to.
“Is it hurting?” you whisper.
He nods, jaw clenched. “Feels like… like it’s still there. Like it’s still being blown off.” A shaky laugh slips out, humorless. “Stupid, right?”
You shake your head, reaching out to take his hand — letting him decide if he wants to hold on.
“That’s not stupid,” you whisper. “Phantom pain isn’t imaginary. And neither is what you lived through.”
His fingers curl around yours. Tight. Desperate.
For a moment, he just breathes. Eyes closed. Shoulders trembling.
Then he lets out a quiet confession, barely audible:
“I hate waking up like this. I hate that you have to see it.”
Your shoulders sag at the words. You know he struggles with being vulnerable, know he hates making you worry. But it doesn’t bother you — in fact, you’re glad to know he isn’t alone. Glad that you can be there for him when he needs someone, even if he tries to avoid it as much as he can.
You press your forehead gently to the side of his, grounding both of you.
“I’d rather be here with you through the bad,” you murmur, “than miss the chance to be here for the good.”
Jack lets out a sound that borders on a sob and a sigh. He shifts his head to the side so that your foreheads touch. Your hand moves up to cradle his cheek, making his eyes close.
“I’m here,” you murmur against his hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He leans into your touch like he’s been holding himself upright for too long, like the simple act of your hand on his cheek is the one thing keeping him anchored.
You stay like that for a moment, his uneven breathing fanning across your face as your thumb continues to caress his skin. His hands move forward, grabbing onto your hips as if he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
You shake your head gently, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.
“Jack… you don’t have to apologize for having nightmares.”
His jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but the fight leaves him before it ever really forms. His shoulders slump, exhaustion settling back over him like a heavy blanket.
“It felt so real,” he admits, the words barely catching the air between you. “Every time it happens, it feels like… like I’m right back there. Like I’m losing it all over again.”
Your heart twists. Not out of pity — never pity — but out of that deep ache that comes from loving someone who’s been hurt in ways you can’t erase. You angle his face toward yours, gently guiding him until his eyes meet yours in the dark.
He gives you a look that almost makes your heart shatter in your chest. For a moment, you don’t see the Jack everyone else sees — the chill Jack who makes jokes and walks around like nothing ever gets to him. You see the man beneath the armor. The real Jack. The one who carries the world on his shoulders, the one who keeps going even when the pain gets unbearable.
You see your Jack.
The one you love with every fiber of your being.
You can’t promise him the nightmares won’t come. Can’t take the pain from him. Can’t promise that nothing will ever hurt him again.
So you say the only thing you can — the thing you feel every time you see him like this.
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
Jack’s brows pull together at your words — not in frustration, not in dismissal, but in something softer. Sadder. He shakes his head almost immediately, hands tightening on your hips as if anchoring you in place.
“Don’t be,” he whispers, voice barely holding itself together. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You swallow, but the ache in your chest doesn’t ease.
“I know. I just… I hate that you went through that. I hate that you still have to.”
You sigh softly, the sound threading through the quiet of the room.
“I wish I could make it better.”
Jack pulls back just enough to see your face, his hand moving from your hip to your cheek, warm and steady as his thumb brushes your skin.
“You do,” he whispers.
You give him a sad smile and lean forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. He accepts it immediately, sinking into the tenderness, savoring the love you pour into him—trying to commit the feeling to memory.
When you pull back, he follows you, leaning in until his forehead rests against your collarbone. You wrap your arms around him instinctively, holding him close, cradling him as his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. It’s just the two of you breathing in the dark, his heartbeat slowly finding its rhythm again, your hands moving up and down his back in calm, soothing strokes.
Eventually, Jack exhales — a low, weary sound that seems to release a little of the weight crushing him.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest.
You run your fingers through his hair, soft and steady.
“For what?” you ask gently.
“For staying,” he breathes. “For… not being scared of me. Or of this.”
You press a kiss to the top of his head.
“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He holds onto you tighter after that—the kind of hold that says he believes you, even if it scares him to. He presses a kiss to your neck, lips soft against your skin.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too, Jack.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, and you offer him a tender smile.
“Wanna try and get some sleep?”
He breathes shakily against you, the fear of the nightmares creeping back in making him never want to sleep again. You can sense his apprehension, so your hand moves gently to hold his face.
“Don’t worry. I’m right here. I’ll keep you safe.”
Jack can’t help but smile at your words—because he can hear in your voice that you genuinely mean them, and that makes him believe them too. He unlatches from your body, moving to lie back down on the bed. You settle beside him, tugging the sheets over your bodies as you inch closer.
You tuck yourself against him, your fingers drawing slow circles along his ribs, a steady rhythm he can follow back into calm.
“Stay… right here,” he murmurs, voice thick and low.
“I’m not moving,” you promise. “Sleep if you can. I’ve got you.”
Jack exhales, the sound shaky but softer than before. His chin rests lightly atop your head, his heartbeat gradually syncing with yours. His hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer as though he’s trying to merge the last of the fear out of his body and into your warmth.
And little by little, you feel his body start to relax against yours, the nightmare losing its grip as he lets himself rest in the one place he still feels safe.
Summary: Your fellow intern Santos hates you....or does she?
Warnings: miscommunication (or lack there of), rivals to lovers (kind of), wlw, she/her pronouns for reader, pinning, rude patients, workplace tension, kissing, Santos not knowing how to do the whole feeling thing, fluff, happy ending, not proofread, no use of y/n
Word count: 3.1K
a/n: okay so where are all the fics of my girl? Like come on give them to meeeee
She hates you. You’re sure of it. And every time she interacts with you, it only confirms it.
Santos doesn’t speak to you unless she has to, and when she does, it’s always that passive-aggressive, clipped, razor-edged tone. She’s known for teasing the other med students—hell, she makes Dennis turn beet red at least twice a shift—but it’s not like that with you.
With you, it’s… colder. Sharper. Not playful at all.
She doesn’t joke. She doesn’t drop a snarky line just to see if she can make you crack a smile. She doesn’t even give you the raised eyebrow she gives literally everyone else.
No—whatever she has for you, it isn’t sarcasm. It feels like genuine dislike.
You try not to be bothered by it, try to focus on everyone else. But you can always feel her stare on the back of your head — a gaze so intense you’re shocked she hasn’t burned two holes through your skull yet.
And to make matters worse, she’s so eager. So eager to learn, to jump in, to get her hands bloody.
And you’re… not like that.
You’d rather observe first, wait for someone to tell you to go in. You never throw yourself at a procedure unless you’re one hundred percent sure you can do it right. You’re here to learn, sure — but Santos’ speed seems about a thousand times faster than yours.
Santos had made a big impression since day one, and not just on you. Garcia seemed to take a liking to her immediately, Santos’ prickly nature sliding right off the older surgeon like it was nothing.
It stung a little — you had to admit that. The way that even when you were in the room, Garcia would immediately call for Santos to jump in and help her. It was as if you were invisible, and you hated feeling like that.
The others tried to keep your morale high. At the end of your first shift you’d gotten good words from Robby, Samira, and Collins. It made your chest fill with pride, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
But all of it washed away the moment your eyes found the look on Santos’ face.
It wasn’t a scowl, exactly — but it definitely wasn’t a smile.
You thought maybe with time it would get better. You really tried to keep a positive outlook despite every bad interaction. But a week passed, and nothing changed in your dynamic. Santos still hated your guts. And you still had no clue why.
It was starting to take a toll on you. Keeping a positive attitude got harder and harder when nothing good seemed to come from it. It had gotten to the point where if you kept it in any longer, you were going to burst — so when Whitaker least expected it, you practically jumped at him.
His eyes widened as you grabbed his forearm, tugging him closer so you could speak softly.
“You’re close with Santos, right?”
“Uhhh… depends what you mean by close.”
You give him a look that pretty much broadcasts the impatience you’ve been feeling all week, and he swallows dryly before continuing.
“Yeah, I guess you could call us close.”
“Great. Do you know why she hates me?”
Whitaker looks genuinely confused.
“Hates you?” he repeats. “Santos doesn’t hate you.”
“Whitaker,” you say slowly, “she definitely hates me.”
“She— she really doesn’t,” he insists, raising his hands. “I promise.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Totally,” you snap softly. “So she treats literally everyone else the same way she treats me?”
He opens his mouth, but you barrel right over him.
“Does she ignore everyone else when they talk? No? Just me? Great.”
You tick off a finger.
“Does she sigh — loudly, dramatically, like she’s auditioning for a telenovela — every time I’m assigned to the same patient as her? No? Just me? Weird.”
Another finger.
“Does she grab the chart out of your hands before you’ve even finished reading it?”
Finger three.
“Or roll her eyes when I walk in? Or tell me — tell me, Whitaker — ‘maybe next time’ when I ask to practice suturing?”
Whitaker winces. “Okay, that one sounds harsh but—”
“And!” You raise a fourth, triumphant finger. “She glared at me today because I — apparently — breathe too loud.”
Whitaker just stares at you, mouth opening and closing like he’s buffering. He looks like he’s about to say something when Robby’s voice cuts through the room, calling out for Whitaker’s help.
Whitaker jumps like he’s been rescued from a burning building.
“Oh thank God,” he mutters under his breath.
You narrow your eyes at him.
“This conversation is not over.”
He nods quickly, practically fleeing. “Yep! Cool! Totally! We’ll… circle back!”
You watched him go, a tired sigh leaving your lips as you try to get back to work. Of course, that peace lasts… oh, about three seconds.
Because the moment you turn around, you nearly collide with her.
Trinity Santos.
She stops short, eyes flicking up to meet yours — sharp, assessing, and way too intense for someone who supposedly doesn’t hate you. Her jaw ticks once, barely, like your existence has personally delayed her entire schedule.
“Move,” she says quietly, not rude exactly, but clipped enough to make your stomach twist.
You step aside immediately, pulse skittering in your throat.
“Sorry,” you mutter.
She doesn’t respond. She just brushes past you, gloves snapped on, expression unreadable — but not before you catch the way her gaze drags over you for half a second too long. Almost like she was… checking something.
“Right,” you mumble under your breath. “Totally normal. Totally fine. She absolutely doesn’t hate me. Sure.”
At some point McKay seemed to notice that you were overwhelmed. She didn’t even ask you about it—just came up beside you and said something like, “Hey, I could use some help in chairs if you’re up for it.” You’d just nodded, grateful for an excuse to be somewhere else. Somewhere you knew Santos wouldn’t go.
Oh, no—not perfect Santos. She’d never be caught dead working in chairs.
You’re rushing around with McKay, moving in and out of the waiting room as you bring in the patients you can treat. Every time you step outside, someone complains about something, and you try your best to remain professional—explaining for the fiftieth time that yes, the doctors know the wait is long, yes, they are doing everything they can, yes, the triage system is real and actually isn’t a conspiracy designed to personally ruin this one guy’s afternoon.
And then this dude just loses it.
Raises his voice. Gets snappy. Makes some snide comment like,
“Well maybe if you were actually competent, I wouldn’t be sitting here for three hours.”
You swallow it. You try again, patient, professional.
“Sir, I promise we’re—”
“No. Don’t ‘sir’ me. You people don’t care. I’ve seen cashiers put in more effort.”
And that’s the moment you feel it—that little crack right behind your ribcage, where the exhaustion meets the embarrassment meets the frustration you’ve been holding for days.
Your throat tightens. Heat prickles behind your eyes.
McKay notices, stepping a little closer as if ready to intervene but someone else beats her to it.
A voice slices cleanly through the air, cold and razor-sharp:
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
You’d know that voice anywhere.
Santos.
She’s standing there in her black scrubs, gloves still half-crumpled in her hand, chest rising like she sprinted here. Her eyes are locked on the man—flat, hard, absolutely lethal.
“She is qualified,” Santos says, stepping forward with that quiet, controlled fury she usually reserves for assholes. “She’s more than qualified. And she’s been running herself ragged all day trying to keep things moving for everyone in this room.”
The man blinks, taken aback by the intensity aimed directly at him.
Santos doesn’t stop.
“So unless you’re actively dying—which you’re not—sit down, wait your damn turn, and stop taking out your impatience on the staff who are trying to help you.”
The room goes silent. Not frozen—stunned.
McKay’s eyebrows hit her hairline. The man sputters something that vaguely resembles “sorry.”
But you— you just stand there. Because Santos defended you.
You.
The person she supposedly can’t stand.
And even as you stand there, feet glued to the ground, Santos doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes locked on the guy, staring him down until he finally sinks back into his seat. Only then does she turn on her heel and head back into the ED like nothing happened.
Like none of it meant anything at all.
Before you can even fully process what you’re doing, you’re already moving—feet carrying you in purposeful, almost frantic strides as you follow after her. You catch up easily, even though she’s walking faster than she usually does, like she’s trying to outrun the moment.
She doesn’t look back. Just tosses a curt, “Leave it,” over her shoulder, like she can feel you behind her.
“No,” you say, breathless but determined. “No, I’m not leaving it.”
Santos keeps going, weaving through the hall like you’re nothing more than an annoying shadow. You dodge a nurse, a stretcher, a crash cart—all while glued to her heels.
“You don’t need to say thank you,” she snaps without slowing down.
You blink, incredulous. “Do you—what—do you think I’m trying to thank you?”
“Good,” she mutters. “Because I don’t want—”
“Oh my god,” you bite out, speeding up until you’re practically at her shoulder, “I’m not thanking you.”
“Great. Then drop it.”
“No!”
You two keep bickering like that—sharp whispers, clipped retorts—while threading through the ED. Every time she veers left, you’re right there. Every time she tries to outpace you, you match her step for step.
She turns down a quieter hall, clearly trying to shake you off, but you’re done being avoidable. You catch up fully, frustration boiling over.
“Jesus, Santos—will you stop for one second and just—just fucking look at me!”
She halts.
It’s abrupt, like her body short-circuited at the command. Slowly—carefully—she turns around. Her eyes are wide, defensive, like she’s bracing for impact.
You swallow hard, the words rushing out before you can soften them.
“I just… I need to know why you hate me.”
Her brows furrow. Actually, her whole face seems to tense up for a moment. And because you’re standing right in front of her—chest heaving, desperation bleeding through every shaky breath—you catch every micro-shift in her expression.
You watch her go from confused… to irritated… to annoyed… and finally to just—defeated.
She lets out a long, weary sigh, dragging a hand down her face while you continue staring her down. If anyone walked into the hall right now, it would look like the two of you were staging a standoff. Bodies coiled tight, eyes locked—two cowboys waiting to see who’d reach for their gun first.
“I don’t hate you.”
The words are low. Barely audible.
You blink. Once. Twice.
Because that… that is not the answer you were prepared for.
“What?” you breathe.
Santos’ jaw flexes, like she already regrets saying anything at all. Her eyes flick away for half a second—anywhere but you—before snapping back like she can’t help herself.
“I said I don’t hate you,” she repeats, firmer this time. Still quiet. Still rough around the edges. “So stop asking.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you fire back immediately, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Because you act like you can’t stand me! You ignore me, you glare at me, you practically sprint in the opposite direction every time I walk into a room—”
“That’s not—” she starts, but you cut her off.
“And you sigh at me! A lot! I didn’t even know someone could sigh that aggressively.”
Santos presses her lips together in a thin, miserable line. You swear you see the faintest hint of pink touch her ears.
You throw your hands up. “So if you don’t hate me, then what the hell is all of that?”
A beat.
Two.
Her shoulders lift with a shaky inhale, like she’s bracing for impact.
And then—
“It’s because I like you.”
Your brain short-circuits so hard you actually forget how to breathe.
“…What?” you whisper.
This is the first time she’s ever looked truly flustered. Her eyes dart to the wall, to the floor, to anywhere except your face.
“I like you,” she mutters, words tumbling out sharp and fast, like she’s ripping off a bandage. “Okay? I’ve liked you since day one. And I don’t—” She cuts herself off, frustrated. “I don’t do… that. Feelings. So I don’t know how to be around you without sounding like an idiot.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“So yeah,” she finishes, tone flat, like she’s annoyed at herself. “That’s why.”
You just stare at her.
And Santos—Trinity Santos, who stares down furious patients and gory trauma without blinking—looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.
Your brain feels like someone just shook it in a snow globe. Thoughts float around in slow motion, glittery and unreal.
She likes you.
She likes you.
Santos.
Trinity fucking Santos.
You briefly consider whether you’re having some sort of stress-induced hallucination. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve experienced this week. Maybe you finally snapped. Maybe you fell asleep standing up and are currently living out the world’s wildest fever dream.
But then your gaze drifts back to her.
Santos is standing a couple feet away, shoulders tense, eyes flicking anywhere but yours, like she’s ready to bolt. Her posture is stiff, guarded, like she’s waiting for you to laugh at her, or yell at her, or both.
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs.
Something in you shifts.
You take one step toward her.
Her eyes snap to you immediately.
You take another.
She straightens, brows pinching together in that signature Santos way — part concern, part alarm, part why are you walking at me like that?
“Hey,” she starts, voice low, uncertain. “Look, you don’t—”
But she doesn’t get to finish.
Because you reach out, fingers brushing hers first before you grab her hand fully and tug her along. You pull open the nearest door — a supply closet, dim and tiny and absolutely perfect — and tug her inside with you. The door shuts behind you with a soft click.
Santos looks like she’s about to short-circuit. “What are you—”
You kiss her.
Not gently.
Not softly.
Not cautiously.
You kiss her like every bit of confusion, frustration, adrenaline, and want that’s been simmering in you finally snaps and pours out all at once.
Her breath catches against your mouth. For half a second she’s stiff, startled. And then she melts, hand flying up to your waist, the other curling into your hair as she kisses you back just as desperately, just as fiercely, like she’s been holding this in even longer than you have.
Because it turns out she has.
Her mouth is warm against yours, urgent in a way that sends sparks racing up your spine. You’re not sure who moves first, who deepens the kiss, who lets out that quiet, shaky sound — maybe it’s you, maybe it’s her — but suddenly you’re pressed together in the tiny supply closet like gravity dragged you into each other.
Her hand finds your jaw. Yours fists in the fabric of her scrub top. It’s heat and relief and days of unresolved tension snapping all at once.
You don’t know how long you stay like that — seconds, minutes, something in between — but eventually you have to break for air, foreheads brushing as you both pull in quick, uneven breaths.
Santos opens her eyes first. She looks wrecked. And stunned. And stupidly, stupidly soft.
You meet her gaze and something in your chest goes liquid.
Neither of you speaks. You just… look at each other. Breathing the same air. Matching each other’s shaky smiles.
Then — because you’re still full of adrenaline and disbelief and the lingering urge to throttle her half the time — you lift a hand…and punch her in the arm. Not hard, but definitely not gentle.
“Ow— what the hell?” she hisses, jerking back a little, rubbing the spot with wide, betrayed eyes.
“That,” you say, breathless, still dizzy from kissing her, “is for being an asshole.”
You take in her shocked expression before leaning in to press another kiss to her lips. You feel her smile against your mouth, her nose bumping yours as she tries to deepen the kiss again.
But your hand slides up to her chest, pressing lightly as you pull back.
She gives you a questioning look, brows knitting.
“Was that too much? Did I—?”
“No,” you interrupt quickly. “No, nothing like that.”
You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.
“We should just probably get back before someone notices we’re missing.”
Santos nods softly, her hand coming up to cradle your cheek. Her eyes roam your face like she can’t quite believe you’re real — that this is real. She bites her lip, voice soft and steady as she asks:
“One more for the road?”
And who are you to deny her?
You give her one more kiss — slower this time, lingering — before you both finally pull apart. You straighten yourselves out, smoothing scrubs, fixing hair, trying to erase the fact that you just made out in a supply closet.
Santos goes first, cracking the door open and poking her head out like she’s on some kind of stealth mission. When she sees no one in the hall, she glances back at you and gestures for you to follow.
You both head off in opposite directions, doing your absolute best to look normal. Casual. Professional. Totally-not-two-people-who-just-made-out-in-a-closet.
You think you’re nailing it.
Santos seems to think she is, too.
Right up until Whitaker drifts up beside her while she’s admiring you from afar.
He doesn’t say anything at first — just watches with her, eyes tracking the way your face lights up when you glance her way. That soft smile that appears the second your eyes meet. The little wave you give her before heading off to your next patient.
Yeah. He sees all of it.
Santos doesn’t even get the chance to pretend before he lets out a low whistle.
“Finally told her, huh?”
She doesn’t look at him. Not even a flicker. She just turns on her heel, already walking away.
“Shut it, Huckleberry.”
But even as she says it, she can’t help the smile tugging at her lips — fingers drifting up to trace her mouth, like she can still feel the ghost of your kiss lingering there.
Dunk (Ser Duncan the Tall) X Fem!TravelCompanion!Reader
Warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, no y/n, mutual pining, accidental voyeurism, fingering, unprotected sex, size difference, praise kink ( i think?), one use of “good girl” (I had to guys), knight/lady dynamic, porn with little plot, not proofread
Word count: 5.7K (*does debby ryan hair tuck*)
You lay in bed, your body scarcely covered by the itchy sheets. You were exhausted. This was the first real bed you’d gotten to sleep in for a few days now. It wasn’t the best quality — you were at an inn, so you hadn’t expected fine sheets or anything of the sort — but it sure beat sleeping on the rough ground.
Unfortunately, exhaustion wasn’t the only thing you were feeling. Your hand traveled down your body, tracing over your stomach before slipping between your thighs. Your legs widened softly as you began to toy with yourself, your eyes closing slightly.
You hadn’t had the luxury of privacy as of late — not with Dunk and Egg sleeping right beside you every night — but now, in a room all to yourself, you found yourself ready to scratch an itch you’d been harboring for what felt like ages.
Your eyelids fluttered as your movements grew more certain, your fingers slipping inside you with ease. Your breathing became labored, your eyes squeezing shut as you allowed images to fill your mind — his hands, his large thighs, the way his blue eyes gazed at you whenever you spoke.
Your free hand moved over the sheets, gripping the rough fabric as your mouth parted softly. The chill nipped at your bare nipples, but you paid it no mind, far too consumed by thoughts of him and the sensation of your own touch to care.
Maybe if you had been paying attention to your surroundings, you would have heard his feet thundering down the hall. He never tried to be loud, but his large size did not make stealth easy. Perhaps if you had been paying attention, you would’ve been able to tug your hand out from inside you before your door came crashing open.
But you hadn’t.
When you heard the door slam against the wall, followed by Dunk’s voice, you startled, your body jerking upright into a sitting position as you quickly yanked the sheets up over your bare frame.
“You hungry? Dinner’s—” Dunk paused, his eyes landing on you on the bed. They widened more than usual.
For a moment, you thought perhaps he could see the flushed state of your face, could notice the way your chest heaved behind the sheets you’d tried to hide yourself with. He stood there in the doorway, practically blocking it with his large frame, his mouth unmoving, his eyes fixed on you.
Then something clicked. He wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring… lower.
Your head snapped down before you could stop yourself, eyes widening as you realized your left breast was completely exposed. In your haste to pull the sheets up, you hadn’t done a very good job.
Your gaze shot back to his just as he finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours. If the embarrassment on your face wasn’t obvious, the deep red flushing Dunk’s certainly was. You tugged the sheets up quickly, covering yourself completely this time, your arms crossing tightly over your chest.
Dunk opened his mouth as if to say something — perhaps an apology for staring so long — but before he could get the words out, Egg slipped beneath his arm and into the room.
“Did the Ser tell you, my lady? The food’s ready, aren’t you—” The young boy paused, the excited tone he’d carried into the room fading as he looked at you. “Oh. Did we wake you?”
The innocent way he asked, as though he were genuinely sorry for disturbing you, made your heart ache. You forced yourself to give him as soft a smile as you could manage despite your embarrassment. But then your eyes flicked back to Dunk’s, and your expression shifted again into mortified horror.
“I’ll be right down,” you managed to squeak out.
Dunk grabbed Egg by the shoulder, guiding the boy back out ahead of him.
“Yes, of course, m’lady, we’ll see you—” His head smacked against the doorframe in his haste to leave, earning a soft ow from him and making you grimace.
He shook his head as if to clear it, then muttered without looking back at you, “See you downstairs.”
You watched him close the door behind him, your eyes lingering on the spot where he had stood before finally turning back to the bed and burying your face in the pillow to muffle an exasperated groan.
Nothing had been said about that exchange — not at dinner, when you three sat together chewing your food in silence, nor in the morning when you mounted your horses and continued on your journey.
You and Dunk didn’t avoid each other exactly, but the ease you’d always felt while interacting seemed to have vanished. You only exchanged words when necessary, and whenever your eyes met, you were both quick to look away, faces flushing as you searched for anything else to focus on.
Luckily for both of you, Egg never seemed to tire of talking. When he wasn’t telling you about his family and sharing facts about the kingdoms — according to him, there were nine, not seven — he was singing songs that were pleasant enough, though some carried meanings you weren’t sure he fully understood.
The journey went well enough despite the lingering awkwardness, and by the time you stopped beneath a tree to make camp that night, you had almost forgotten the ordeal of the evening before.
You nudged at the fire with a stick, trying to keep it alive. Dunk was off with Egg somewhere, presumably gathering more wood. Leaning back, you watched the flames dance while you waited for them to return.
The patter of feet against leaves sounded to your left, and you turned just as Egg came racing toward you.
“Look at what I found!” he exclaimed, finally reaching you.
He opened the piece of fabric he’d been using as a sack so you could see the contents. Your eyes widened at the variety of berries he’d managed to gather.
“Well, look at that,” you said softly. “Well done, Egg.”
You smiled at him, and he beamed in return.
“He wanted to eat them straight away,” Dunk’s voice rumbled from behind him.
You lifted your gaze through the dim light and found him easily in the darkness. Your eyes drifted down to his forearms, catching the way they flexed beneath his sleeves as he shifted the weight of the logs he was carrying. You quickly dragged your gaze back up before your thoughts could wander too far.
“But I thought it best to have you look at them first.” Dunk grunted softly as he dropped the logs beside the fire and dusted off his hands. “Don’t want him poisoning himself by accident.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“Or us, for that matter,” he added with a faint smile.
Your shoulders relaxed at the sight of it. Shaking yourself from your distraction, you turned your attention back to the berries in Egg’s lap.
“Yes, that was wise, Ser Duncan.” You examined the fruit carefully, searching for any telltale signs of danger. “It seems your squire has been paying attention to my lessons. All of these are safe to eat.” You grinned and gently ruffled Egg’s hair.
The boy settled beside you, legs crossed, the bundle of berries resting in his lap. You plucked one from the cloth and popped it into your mouth just as Dunk lowered himself onto your other side. His arm brushed yours as he reached past to grab one as well.
The brief contact made you glance at him. Your eyes met for a heartbeat, and though neither of you spoke, the shared awareness lingered in the air.
Gods, how were you meant to survive this?
After you’d eaten your fill, Egg let out a soft yawn, the day’s excitement finally catching up to him. He settled onto his bedroll with a quiet goodnight and was asleep moments later.
You remained by the fire, watching the flames. Your body was tired, but your mind felt far too awake. Sleep seemed distant.
Beside you, Dunk shifted and pushed himself to his feet. You looked up at him.
“Off to sleep as well?” you asked.
“Oh — uh, not yet,” Dunk muttered. “I’ve got to, uh… take care of something.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion for only a moment before you understood. He needed to go to the bathroom. Dunk always seemed oddly shy about such matters around you.
“Alright,” you said lightly. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary before he turned and disappeared into the trees.
It was unusual for Dunk to take so long to relieve himself. Even on the rare occasions he lingered, it was never for this long. You were beginning to worry.
Then the rain started, sudden and heavy, dousing the fire you had been carefully tending so Dunk could find his way back with ease. Without the guiding light, you were certain he would struggle to locate the camp in the darkness.
You stood beneath the tree, trying to shield yourself from the downpour, your hands twisting together anxiously as you searched for Dunk’s large frame in the shadows. You couldn’t just stand there and wait. Dunk was a good knight and knew his way around the wilderness well enough, but your skills were sharper when it came to tracking and foraging.
What if he had gotten turned around? With the rain falling this hard, it would be nearly impossible for him to retrace his steps before daybreak — and dawn was still a long way off.
“That’s it,” you muttered to yourself.
You cast one last glance at Egg, making certain the boy was still fast asleep and sheltered from the rain, before stepping into the trees in search of Dunk.
It didn’t take you long to find him. He wasn’t far from camp at all. Your eyes caught his frame against a tree almost immediately. He was leaning against the trunk, no doubt trying to shield himself from the rain as he waited for it to pass.
You thought about calling out his name, but with the thunder rumbling overhead, you were sure he wouldn’t hear you. Squinting against the rain, you began moving toward him.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the world around you for a heartbeat. You froze, your heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it — if the light had played tricks on your eyes. But when another flash followed, you realized you had seen correctly.
Dunk wasn’t simply hiding from the rain. He wasn’t lost.
He was touching himself, his hand wrapped around his length as his head rested back against the tree. His mouth was slightly parted, his movements slow and deliberate despite the downpour soaking him through.
Your breathing quickened. You felt rooted to the spot, unable to look away.
Another crack of lightning struck, closer this time, jolting you back to your senses. You turned and ran, racing toward camp as fast as your feet could carry you.
You dropped down beneath the tree, casting a quick glance at Egg to ensure he was still asleep before squeezing your eyes shut, your head falling back against the trunk. The image of Dunk seemed burned into your mind.
“You’re wet.”
Your eyes flew open, a startled gasp leaving you as your hand flew to your chest. Dunk stood beside you, rainwater dripping from his hair and clothes, strands plastered to his forehead. You forced yourself not to let your gaze wander anywhere but his face. He was looking at you with mild confusion.
“Oh — yes,” you managed. “The rain caught me off guard.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing up at the sky. “Wasn’t expecting it either. Sorry I took so long. I was waiting to see if it would ease up.”
The lie slipped from his lips so naturally that it made your stomach twist.
“No problem,” you replied quietly.
“Is Egg alright?”
Grateful for the change in subject, you looked toward the boy.
“Yes, he’s fine. The princeling’s tougher than he looks.”
Dunk grunted in agreement as he lowered himself to the ground beside you.
“We’ll sleep at an inn tomorrow,” he said. “It’ll be more comfortable.”
“Whatever you think is best,” you whispered.
He shifted, turning his back to you as he settled in. “Well… goodnight, m’lady.”
“Goodnight, Ser.”
Sleep would not be finding you anytime soon.
This inn was a bit better than the last one. The sheets were certainly softer. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, dressed in your sleeping gown. You’d learned from last time. A soft knock pulled your attention to the door.
It seemed you weren’t the only one.
You pushed yourself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come in,” you called.
There was a brief silence. You wondered if you hadn’t been heard, but before you could repeat yourself, the door creaked open. Dunk’s head peeked inside, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. You caught the flicker of relief that crossed his face. He stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him.
“Is everything alright?” you asked quickly. “Is something wrong with Egg?”
“Oh no,” Dunk replied at once. “Nothing’s wrong, m’lady. I just wanted to… well, I wanted to— uh— I…”
You rose from the bed, your bare feet padding softly across the floor as you approached him.
“What is it, Ser?” You placed a hand gently against his chest. “You’re worrying me.”
“I don’t mean to,” he said quickly. “There’s nothing to worry about. I just— well— I wanted to—”
“Your heart’s pounding, Dunk,” you murmured, concern lacing your voice.
The sound of his name seemed to steady him. He exhaled and lifted his hand to cover yours where it rested against his chest.
“I apologize.”
Your brows knit together. “Whatever for?”
Now it was his turn to frown. “Well… for the other night. In the inn.”
“Oh. Right.” You blinked. “That.”
“I should not have entered without knocking. I know that now. And I apologize for staring. That was not the right thing to do. I should have left as soon as I—”
“I saw you last night.”
The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them.
“I— you what?” Dunk asked, confusion clouding his face.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze.
“I. Saw. You. Last. Night.” You spoke slowly, not to mock him, but to be absolutely clear.
From the way his eyes widened and his brows shot upward, you knew he understood exactly what you meant. The color drained from Dunk’s face before rushing back twice as fierce. His hand slackened slightly around yours.
“You—” he swallowed. “You did?”
You nodded once. There was no point pretending otherwise now.
“I meant no dishonor,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I would never— I wasn’t thinking. I just—”
His jaw tightened. He looked away first this time, staring somewhere over your shoulder as if he could will himself out of the room.
“I didn’t know what else to do with it,” he admitted quietly. “With… the wanting.”
Your breath caught, startled by his confession — by how deeply he seemed to be affected by you.
“Dunk…” you whispered, your fingers twitching slightly beneath his hand.
Your heart was beating so loudly you were certain he could feel it beneath his palm.
“If I’ve offended you—”
“You haven’t.”
The answer came too quickly to be anything but true.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up again, as though even that fleeting glance felt like too much.
“I am not a man practiced in this,” he said softly. “I don’t know what the right way is. I only know that when I think of you, it feels…” He hesitated.
Your lips parted, your body drifting closer to his without you even realizing it.
“Tell me,” you breathed.
His eyes locked onto yours.
“It feels as if I am burning from within.”
You gasped, your fingers tightening slightly against his chest.
“Dunk…” you whispered again.
He searched your face as though bracing himself for rejection. For command. For dismissal.
“I do not wish you to burn alone,” you said quietly.
His hand flexed around yours.
“You would not ask that of me if you knew what I think when I look at you,” he murmured.
Your pulse fluttered. “Then tell me.”
His jaw worked for a moment, restraint warring with honesty. Then honesty won.
“I think about touching you,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Not in passing. Not by accident. I think about it the way a starving man thinks of bread.”
You slid your hand slowly higher along his chest, feeling the tension there, the strength beneath your fingertips. His eyes darkened at that. At the way you stared at him, eyes full of something not at all innocent.
“Tell me to leave,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “If I stay, I do not know that I will remain a gentleman.”
“I do not want you to leave,” you answered.
His hand rose — slowly, giving you every chance to pull away — and hovered near your cheek before finally, gently, cupping it. The touch was careful, as though you were something precious rather than something he had confessed wanting.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He leaned down then, hesitating only a breath away from your lips — waiting. When you closed the distance yourself, pressing your mouth to his, the last of his restraint broke. His hand wound around your waist keeping you pressed to him.
He kissed you like a man who had held himself back for far too long. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as though you needed something solid to anchor yourself. He made a low sound in his throat when you did, the hand at your waist tightening just slightly. You parted only because you both needed to breathe.
“I thought wanting you from a distance was difficult.” His thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, almost unconsciously. “This is far more dangerous.”
You felt it too — that edge. The way the air seemed charged. The way every small shift of his hand sent a ripple through you.
Your hands slid from his chest to his shoulders, feeling the strength there. Solid. Steady. Real. He shuddered faintly at the contact, as though your touch affected him more than he had expected.
“I do not wish to frighten you,” he said quietly. “If we go further—”
“You will not frighten me,” you interrupted softly.
You lifted one hand to the back of his neck, guiding him down into another kiss. It was rougher this time, filled with the quiet hunger you both seemed to harbor for one another.
Dunk’s hands slipped lower, his broad frame bending slightly as he grasped your thighs. You gave a small gasp at the sudden movement, but you didn’t resist. Instead, you let him lift you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
His boots thudded softly against the floor as he carried you toward the bed, your lips still fused together. He placed his knee against the mattress, lowering you slowly onto the bed, his large frame remaining above you. Your legs unwound from his hips, moving to rest your feet flat on the bed instead. Dunk's hands moved over your leg, pushing the fabric of your nightgown up as he went. His forehead rested against yours as his hands inched between your legs. You gasped as his fingers grazed your pussy.
“You’re wet,” he murmured.
A faint, breathless laugh escaped you. “Second time you’ve said that.”
His lips brushed yours as he exhaled. “It wasn’t what I meant last time.”
“I know,” you whispered, nipping gently at his lower lip. “But I was wet then too.”
He let out a groan at that, his head moving down to place kisses on your neck. Your body arched off the bed as his tongue lapped at your skin and his hand continued to move against you, not teasing exactly but not touching you entirely either. His head trailed down until he got to your chest. He raised himself enough so he could use his free hand to tug your nightgown down enough to reveal your breast. As soon as your skin was free from the cloth Dunk leaned down, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking. Your hand moved to his head, fingers tugging at his hair as you moaned.
The hand that lay on your thigh tensed at the movement, squeezing your skin between his fingers without him even noticing. The action only heightened the sensation, your back arching softly against the bed. A low rumble escaped Dunk as your body pressed into his. He pulled off your breast with a soft pop.
“Gods…” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
Your fingers were still tangled in his hair, your body still warm and responsive beneath him. You could feel the hesitation settling back into him—the part of Dunk that always tried to do the right thing, even now.
“Dunk,” you said softly.
His eyes flicked back to yours, and even though they were blown wide with desire, you could still see the restraint in his gaze. You could tell he was searching for a reason to stop this before it was too late.
Your hand moved from his curls to his face, a finger trailing over his lips for a moment before your eyes lifted back to his.
“Touch me,” you breathed.
“I am,” he whispered, his voice tinged with confusion.
You shook your head softly, your hair dragging against the sheets beneath you.
“No, I mean—” You grabbed the hand resting on your thigh, lifting it from your skin. Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, you guided it slowly between your legs. “Here. Touch me here.”
A faint, almost disbelieving smile ghosted across his lips.
“Here,” you repeated softly, your voice gentler now.
His breath caught, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to your face, searching—always searching—for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might stop him.
He didn’t find it.
Slowly, carefully, his hand moved where you had guided it, his movements tentative at first, as though he feared misreading you. The moment your breath hitched, his eyes snapped back to yours.
“Is that—” he started, unsure.
“Yes,” you whispered, your grip tightening slightly around his wrist. “Don’t stop.”
That was all it took.
Not for him to lose control—not entirely—but for something to settle. His touch steadied, growing more certain, though never careless. Every small reaction from you seemed to anchor him further, to teach him.
Your head tipped back against the bed, a soft breath escaping you before you could stop it. His name followed without thought, quieter this time, but it made his jaw tighten all the same.
“Gods,” he murmured again, almost under his breath.
Your free hand found his shoulder, then his neck, pulling him closer—not just for the contact, but for the closeness, the shared heat of it. He leaned in without resistance, his forehead brushing yours, his breathing uneven.
“You’ll tell me,” he said, voice low, almost strained. “If it’s too much.”
“I will,” you answered, though your body was already answering for you, leaning into him, urging him on.
Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck as he slipped his finger deeper, your mouth opening in a silent moan. Your hot breath mingled with his as he continued his movements.
“More,” you groaned.
“You sure? I don’t want to—”
“Dunk. More.”
The way you said it—like a command rather than a question—made Dunk twitch against his breeches.
“As you wish, m’lady.”
As his second finger slipped inside you, you couldn’t help the groan that left your lips. You buried your head in his shoulder, teeth grazing the strong muscle there as he quickened his movements slightly. Your thighs trembled despite yourself, hands clawing at Dunk in desperation.
“Is it good?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “So good, Dunk. Please don’t stop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, m’lady.”
You weren’t sure if he’d meant to say it so confidently, but it did things to you. You’d grown so used to seeing him shrink back—not in fear exactly, but in a way that showed he knew his place. But now, alone with you, his muscles flexing as he continued to pleasure you, that shyness you’d become accustomed to seemed to have disappeared.
He’d said he didn’t know how to do this, but the way he was working you with such ease told you that perhaps he was underselling himself.
And when he found that spot that made you cry out, your nails digging into his skin as you came undone against his hand, you were certain he had lied about just how much he knew.
His breath stuttered when you cried out, your grip on him tightening as if you might come apart without something to hold onto.You sagged slightly against him, your forehead pressing into his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath. Your fingers loosened their hold, though they didn’t leave him entirely, as if you still needed the reassurance that he was there.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t expect…”
Before he could finish whatever he was thinking, your lips were on his. He groaned against your mouth as you clung to him, your tongue brushing at his lips in search of entrance. He granted it, of course.
The kiss was messy. It was unclear whether it was due to inexperience or overwhelming desire, but you didn’t care.
Dunk shifted, his muscles flexing as he moved. A soft gasp left his lips as his hardness brushed against your thigh. You didn’t pull away, your mouth still pressed to his as your hand slipped between your bodies to caress him through his breeches.
Dunk let out a strained breath against your mouth, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and something deeper. His body reacted before his mind seemed to catch up, hips shifting slightly before he stilled himself again, as though fighting the instinct.
His hand found your wrist—not to pull it away, but to still it, just for a moment. His grip wasn’t firm, just enough to make you pause, to make you look at him.
“We should slow down,” he said again, quieter now, though his gaze hadn’t softened. If anything, it had deepened.
“Is that what you want?” you asked earnestly.
“Gods, no,” he breathed. “But I don’t know if I’ll—”
“Then don’t,” you cut in.
Something flickered in his eyes at that—something close to surrender.
“I want you,” you stated simply, the words making Dunk swallow a groan of need. “And you want me. Well, I assume you do, unless I—”
“Of course I want you,” Dunk cut in, his voice more certain than you’d ever heard it.
You couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across your face. You placed your hand on his cheek.
“Then why should we not?”
Dunk closed his eyes, biting into his cheek for a moment before opening them again.
“I don’t—” He stopped himself, the red on his cheeks deepening before he forced himself to continue. “I don’t want to hurt you, m’lady.”
Your heart tugged at the words, and before you could even think about it, you placed a reassuring kiss on his lips.
“You won’t,” you whispered.
Perhaps you should have expected it. He was a big man—it was only natural to assume that all of him was big—but you were still taken by surprise.
When Dunk finally pulled down his breeches, your eyes widened immediately. But before he could see the expression on your face and call the whole thing off, you schooled your features into calm.
Still, the only thing running through your mind as he made his way back to you was: How in the seven hells is that going to fit?
It wasn’t a simple task, but with some patience, you managed. You tried to keep your eyes from rolling back with every one of his thrusts, but he wasn’t making it easy on you. Not only did he hit the right spot every time—how could he not, when it felt like he was reaching so deep—but he was also incredibly vocal.
His head barely left your shoulder as his hips continued to move against you, so every sound that escaped him was heard clearly in your ear. And the praise—gods, it was driving you insane.
“Feels so good, m’lady… taking me so well,” Dunk groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly enough that you were sure they would leave bruises.
The sound of his voice sent a shiver through you, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you tried to steady your breathing. Every word he spoke seemed to go straight through you, leaving you more unsteady than before.
“Dunk…” you breathed, his name slipping out without thought.
He answered with a low, strained sound, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as if he needed the contact to ground himself. His hands were still firm at your hips, but there was something careful in the way he held you—like he was always just a breath away from pulling back if you needed him to.
“Fuck… could live inside you,” he groaned.
You moaned at that, surprised by the dirtiness of the words slipping from his mouth. Who would have known that beneath Ser Duncan the Tall there was this whole other man?
“Dunk, please,” you moaned.
“What is it, m’lady? What do you want?”
“More,” you whispered. “Give me more.”
“Greedy thing, eh?” Dunk murmured, amusement clear in his voice. “You sure, m’lady? I’m not going to hold back.”
“Ah—ugh—more, Dunk, please.”
“Alright… as you wish.”
You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. As soon as the words left his mouth, Dunk lifted himself off you. You looked at him as he straightened up, brows furrowing in confusion.
Dunk just gave you an easy smile, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs before dragging you closer to the edge of the bed without fully pulling away from you. Once he seemed satisfied with the position, he looked down at you.
“Ready?”
You nodded. Dunk raised a silent brow at you. You flushed immediately, understanding what he wanted.
“Yes, Ser.”
The smirk that graced his face dripped with sin, and before you even had time to process it, he moved again with sudden, overwhelming intensity.
The shift in him stole the breath from your lungs.
Your hands clutched at him instinctively, your head tipping back as the sudden change drew a sharp sound from you. Dunk’s jaw tightened at the reaction, his control visibly fraying at the edges.
“Careful,” he muttered, though it sounded more like a reminder to himself than to you.
You shook your head faintly, your grip on him tightening. “Don’t be.”
That did it.
Not recklessness—but permission.
His movements grew firmer, more certain, no longer testing but knowing. Each shift of him was met with your response, your body answering in ways that made his breath hitch, his composure slipping further with every passing moment.
“Gods…” he groaned, his voice low and strained. “You feel—”
He cut himself off, like even saying it might push him too far.
“Dunk, I’m—I—”
A moan tore through you before you could finish.
“You close?”
You nodded quickly, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto as the sensation became almost overwhelming.
“Yeah? You gonna come all over my cock, huh?” Dunk asked, his movements speeding up. “Gonna make a big ol’ mess, aren’t you?”
“Yes—gods, please, Dunk, don’t—”
“Not going to, m’lady,” Dunk muttered, a groan escaping him before he could stop it. “Go on… be a good girl and come for me.”
That was the tipping point. You cried out his name as you came, your body spasming as you clenched around him. Dunk wasn’t far behind, with one more rough thrust and a groan of your name, he came.
Dunk stilled, a rough breath leaving him as your body relaxed around him, your name still echoing in his ears. Your grip on him slowly loosened, though your hands didn’t fall away entirely, still clinging to him as you tried to steady your breathing.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Dunk finally pulled out of you, a soft hiss leaving your lips as he did. You were still trying to catch your breath when Dunk’s hands slipped beneath you, lifting you with ease before repositioning you in the bed. Once he had you settled, he lowered himself beside you with a soft grunt.
You waited only a second before inching closer, resting your head against his chest. Dunk’s arm wrapped around you in a way that felt natural, almost instinctive.
“Gods…” he murmured again, though this time it was quieter—almost awed.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound muffled slightly against him. “You say that a lot.”
A faint huff of amusement left him, though it was still threaded with something heavier. “I don’t think I’ve ever meant it more.”
That made something warm bloom in your chest, softer than what had come before, but no less intense.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice still rough, but steadier now.
You met his gaze, your lips curving faintly despite the lingering heat in your body. “I am.”
Relief flickered across his face so openly it almost made you smile wider.
“Good,” he said, quieter now.
For a moment, the world seemed to settle around you—no urgency, no rush. Just the quiet aftermath of something neither of you had quite expected, but neither of you seemed to regret.
Your hand found his cheek again, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin.
“We should probably be quiet,” you murmured, a hint of teasing returning. “Unless you want Egg knocking on the door next.”
Dunk let out a low groan at that, his head dipping briefly. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Warnings: Oral (f receiving), penetration (P in V), unprotected sex (obviously), smut, creampie, lots of cuteness, Dunk being the ultimate gentleman, reader is Lynoel’s baby sister, no use of y/n, cursing, kissing, size difference (because come on, this man is a giant), Lynoel and reader being little menaces (in a good way), porn with plot, sibling rivalry (in a healthy, funny way), take a shot every time i use the word unbefitting 🙃
Word count: 5.8k (Seven hells.)
Your throat burns as you swallow another goblet of wine, hand moving to wipe at your mouth as the maroon liquid slips down the edges of your lips. It might be seen as an unbefitting action for a noble lady by others, but this was your tent and you would do as you pleased.
Plus, anything you did near your brother would be considered noble, given that he was always acting unbefitting of his title enough for the both of you.
Your eyes scan the crowd, smiling as you watch people enjoy themselves. You’re just about to ask for someone to refill your glass when your eyes find him.
It’s a miracle you’ve only seen him just now, his head peeking a shoulder over everyone else’s. You gape, unable to control your lust-filled gaze at the sheer size of him.
“Seven hells,” you mutter.
You force your hand to move, hitting your brother’s arm without taking your eyes from the man you’d just found. Lyonel is far too busy talking to a handsome squire to feel your hand on his arm the first time. But when you hit him again — harder this time — he lets out a yelp, turning to look at you with a scowling gaze.
“Sister, what in the devil are you doing!”
“Look,” you whisper, your eyes still glued to the mystery man.
Lyonel’s head whips around. “Where?”
You roll your eyes, your hand moving to grasp at your brother’s chin. With his beard in your grip, you force his head to move in the direction you want him to look.
“What exactly am I—oh.”
Somehow the small oh that escapes his lips describes exactly how you feel inside.
“Oh indeed, brother dear.”
You both gape in unison for a moment before turning to face each other. Lyonel gives you a look — one you know the meaning of immediately. You begin shaking your head.
“No.”
“Sister…”
“I saw him first!”
Lyonel gives you another look, different from the first but still immediately recognizable. You let out a groan.
“It’s not fair,” you huff, your voice low but heated. “I’m the one who found him.”
“It’s my tent,” Lionel replies immediately, lifting his chin as if that alone settles the matter.
You open your mouth in shock, staring at him as though he’d just insulted your blood line.
“It’s our tent,” you correct, your tone sharp.
“Oh yeah?” he shoots back, leaning forward in his chair, eyes narrowing in defiance. “Did you set it up?”
You scoff loudly, folding your arms.
“No. But neither did you, you buffoon.”
“I gave the command,” he says smugly, reclining back like a lord passing judgment.
“Yes, of course,” you mutter dryly, rolling your eyes. “Because that counts.”
You both stare each other down for a moment, as if to see which will break. Normally Lyonel wins — not because he’s the last to break, but because you don’t have it in you to fight him for the mere pleasure of sharing a night with the man you’re fighting over.
But this one. This one is different.
Something about him makes you want to let him linger. You want to have him for more than just one night.
You give your best pout. “You’re not being fair.”
Lyonel, being the good big brother that he is, hates to see you pouting, so despite himself he sighs, sinking into his chair.
“Fine…” he mumbles, and you give him a grin, your mouth opening to say thank you when he continues talking. “We can share him.”
The grin he gives you is not befitting for a Baratheon. If anything, the mischief behind his eyes should belong to a Targaryen. You swat at his arm and he feigns pain.
“Lyonel,” you whisper-shout, hitting him one more time.
“Ow, will you stop that?” He finally manages to grab at your wrist, stopping you from swatting him again.
You tug your arm from his grip as you pout. Lyonel lets out an exasperated sigh as he watches you cross your arms against your chest, sinking into your chair. He lets you mope for a while before speaking up.
“How about he chooses?”
Your brows quirk up, moving to look at him.
“How exactly would he do that?” you question
Lyonel gives you his signature grin.
“We dance, and whoever he favors in the dance gets to have their fun with him.”
This was a good proposition. If there was something you and Lyonel shared, other than your taste in men, it was your ability to dance.
You gave him a wicked smile.
“You’re on, brother.”
Dunk had never had so much attention on him. It was kind of… overwhelming. When he’d been called over to talk to the owners of the tent, he’d thought he would be kicked out immediately, but that had not been the case. He had kept his attention on Lyonel Baratheon as he spoke, but it was impossible to ignore your lingering gaze on him.
Dunk’s eyes had fluttered briefly to you at the feeling of your stare on him, and when your eyes had met his, you let out a soft smile. Dunk’s heart hammered in his chest at the sight.
And when Lyonel had asked him if he enjoyed dancing, a wide grin appearing on the lord’s face as he answered yes, he couldn’t help but notice the glance both of you exchanged at the words.
Dunk wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he said yes to dancing, but this was certainly not it. He had never seen people move in the way you and Lyonel did.
Your movements were fluid and strong, like the current of a river, while Lyonel’s were rough and commanding, like the wind on a storming day. Despite the difference between you, they were both beautiful to watch.
Lyonel chased after Dunk, his movements seeming like a challenge, and Dunk responded in kind, mirroring the lord’s intensity. You lingered around them, flowing undisturbed by the exchange between the two men.
Dunk tried to pay attention to the man before him, his feet thundering against the ground as he playfully fled Lyonel’s advance, but as soon as he saw your dress flitting by, your hair a wild mess as you continued to spin to the rhythm of the song, his attention couldn’t help but shift to you.
You were an absolute sight.
He’d heard of you, of course — the lady of House Baratheon. Everyone in the realms knew of your beauty and fiery tongue. The confidence seemed to be connected to your blood somehow, because Dunk could tell Lyonel had it too, that same sense of unfazed energy that seemed to seep out of you.
Lyonel caught Dunk’s interest in you almost immediately, his own eyes moving to follow your movements as you danced. You hadn’t even noticed Dunk’s eyes on you yet, far too connected to the feeling of the dance to care about much else.
The sight made Lyonel smile.
He wasn’t bitter about losing, because it was clear from the way Dunk’s eyes lingered on you that something about you had clutched at the giant’s heart. And you weren’t even trying so hard. While Lyonel was actively chasing Dunk, you had been lost in your own world, and even so, you’d managed to get Dunk’s attention.
It was a shame he would not have his fun with Dunk, but he was glad to see the reverence for you in the large man’s eyes.
“Don’t just stand there, big man. Go dance with her,” Lyonel shouted softly, trying to be heard over the sound of music mixed with people’s joy-filled noises.
Dunk’s head snapped toward him at the words, wide blue eyes finding his in what Lyonel could only describe as panic.
“What?” the giant questioned, his jerky dance movements faltering for a moment.
“Don’t worry, she doesn’t bite,” Lyonel said, already gripping at Dunk’s shoulders — as best he could, anyway — and guiding him to face where you stood. “Unless you ask, of course.”
And with that, he gave Dunk a push and a pat on the backside, thrusting the giant closer to you.
Your eyes snapped open as you felt something graze you softly, your head lifting to glance at Dunk. His eyes were wide and his expression clearly nervous. You wondered if perhaps the uneasiness in his gaze was a constant in his expression. It certainly seemed to be, given that in the few moments you’d interacted, he was always looking at you with those blue orbs filled with worry.
“Sorry, m’lady, your brother—”
“Never mind that,” you cut him off, your hand moving to grab him. “Dance with me.”
You waited for a moment, smiling at Dunk’s frightened face before he gave you a small nod.
That was all you needed to tug him along with you.
You weren’t sure how long the dancing lasted. Long enough for your lungs to burn and your hair to cling to your temples. Your feet ached inside your shoes.
You let out a breathless laugh as you stumbled toward a nearby chair, nearly collapsing into it. Your hand immediately reached for your goblet, fingers curling around the cool metal before lifting it to your lips. The wine tasted sweeter now.
A heavy thud sounded beside you.
Dunk dropped into the chair next to yours, the wood creaking in protest under his weight. His chest rose and fell quickly, broad shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You turned your head slowly. He was already looking at you.
His cheeks were flushed, curls damp with sweat, blue eyes bright in a way that made something warm curl low in your stomach. There was still that nervousness there — but it had softened. Changed. Replaced with something almost… awed.
You smiled first. He followed a second later, slower, smaller — like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to. Your heart skipped.
You glanced around then, suddenly remembering the reason this had begun in the first place. Your eyes searched for Lyonel.
You found him easily.
He was leaning against a table across the tent, already deep in conversation with a pretty lordling, laughing loudly at something that had been said. He did not once look your way.
Not once.
A slow understanding settled over you. He had seen it too.
You turned back to Dunk, studying him openly now. He shifted slightly under your gaze, clearing his throat awkwardly.
“That was… ah…” he started, still catching his breath.
“Exhausting?” you offered lightly.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Aye, m’lady.”
You leaned closer, lowering your voice just enough that it felt like a secret.
“Would you care to step outside, Ser Duncan?” Your fingers traced idly around the rim of your goblet. “For some air.”
His eyes widened slightly at the use of his name.
For a moment you wondered if he would refuse.
Then he nodded.
“I would like that.”
And the way he said it — soft, sincere — made your chest tighten.
The night air was cooler outside the tent. The noise of the feast dulled behind you, replaced by distant laughter and the rustle of wind through the trees. Dunk walked half a step behind you at first, large hands clasped awkwardly behind his back as though he were escorting a queen instead of simply walking beside you.
You noticed.
“You may walk next to me, Ser Duncan,” you said lightly, not looking at him.
He hesitated — only for a second — before moving to your side.
“Yes, m’lady.”
You hummed softly at that.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You seemed content, breathing in the night air, skirts brushing against the grass. Dunk, however, looked anything but content.
His shoulders were tense. His gaze flickered around as if waiting for someone to shout at him for daring to walk alone with a noblewoman.
“You look as though you are marching to your execution,” you said at last.
His head snapped toward you. “I beg your pardon?”
You smiled.
“You’re frowning.”
He hadn’t realized he was.
“It isn’t proper,” he admitted after a moment, voice low. “Me walking alone with you. I wouldn’t want talk to start.”
You let out a quiet laugh.
“Let them talk.”
That surprised him. You finally looked at him fully then, brows lifting slightly.
“Do you always care so much about what others think?”
His jaw tightened faintly.
“I care about not overstepping.”
The answer was honest. Painfully so. Something in your expression softened.
“And do you believe walking beside me is overstepping?”
He swallowed.
“You are a lady of House Baratheon.”
“And you are Ser Duncan the Tall,” you replied easily. “I asked you to walk with me.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
The silence that followed was lighter now. After a few more steps, curiosity tugged at you.
“So where is it you sleep?” you asked, glancing up at him.
He blinked.
“Sleep, m’lady?”
“Yes. Your lodgings.”
His expression shifted — just slightly — but you caught it. A flicker of embarrassment.
“I’ve no tent of my own,” he said carefully. “There’s an elm not far from the edge of the grounds. I bed down beneath it.”
He kept his eyes forward as he said it, bracing himself. Waiting. For disgust. For polite pity. For distance.
Instead, you stopped walking.
He halted too, confused, looking down at you.
Your eyes were bright.
“You’re a real hedge knight, then?”
It wasn’t really a question, more of a quiet observation. There was no repulsion in it either — if anything, Dunk thought he heard a bit of astonishment in your tone. You glanced up at him, your eyes sparkling with something he couldn’t quite place.
“Would you show me?”
For a moment, he simply stared.
“Show you?” he repeated, as if he’d misheard.
“The elm,” you clarified, stepping closer. “You make it sound… rather nice.”
He felt something shift in his chest.
“Yes,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. “Yes, of course, m’lady.”
And when he started leading you toward the tree, he did not walk behind you this time.
The elm wasn’t far.
Dunk slowed as they approached it, suddenly aware of every crooked branch and every patch of worn grass beneath it. What had always seemed perfectly fine to him now felt… small.
He stopped a few steps away.
“This is it,” he said, almost apologetically.
You stepped forward without hesitation.
Dunk remained where he was, large hands clasping and unclasping in front of him as he watched you take in the space. There was little to see — a thick elm with sprawling roots, a worn patch of earth where he laid his cloak, a saddle resting against the trunk.
You walked slowly around the tree, fingertips brushing lightly over the bark. Your skirts whispered against the grass. You tilted your head back to look up through the branches, following the way they stretched wide into the night sky.
Dunk shifted his weight.
He had seen noblewomen wrinkle their noses at far less.
“It is quite large,” you said softly.
He blinked.
You turned then, looking at him over your shoulder. There was no disgust on your face. No thinly veiled pity. Only something thoughtful. Curious.
“Though perhaps not for you,” you said with a soft smile, referring once again to his large stature. Dunk smiled to himself as you turned back to the tree, your head lifting as you continued to glance at the leaves above.
“It must keep the rain off well enough.”
“Aye,” he answered quickly. “It does.”
You moved closer to the trunk, crouching slightly to inspect the ground where he slept. Dunk’s stomach tightened. Your fingers grazed against the dirt before you pressed your palm into the grass, eyes closing for a moment.
“I’ve slept in worse places,” he added, as if needing to defend it.
You glanced up at him again.
“I’m sure you have.”
There was no mockery in your tone. Only fact.
You rose to your feet and walked back toward him, your expression thoughtful rather than disturbed. You stood there for a moment, your head tilting slightly to the side. It was clear you were thinking about something, but Dunk could not tell exactly what.
“Have you ever been with a woman?” you said after a moment.
That caught him off guard. His eyes widened, his head moving slightly to the side as he looked at you. Your face remained forward, eyes never leaving the elm tree. It was almost as if you had not spoken the words, almost as if Dunk had imagined them.
But then you spoke again.
“It’s okay if you have. There is no shame in it.”
His mouth opened and closed, his brain trying to understand what it was he was supposed to do in this situation.
“I have,” you said simply, and Dunk’s brows raised even more. You finally turned your attention to him, catching his comical expression. “Been with men, I mean,” you clarified.
He didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t. Why in the Seven Hells were you telling him this? Where had this conversation come from? One moment you were talking about a tree, and the next you were asking him if he’d ever been with a woman?
“Have I upset you?”
The worry in your voice made Dunk’s attention snap fully back to you. His eyes trailed over your furrowed brows. Your lips parted softly as if realizing something.
“I have, haven’t I?” you whispered before letting out a soft tsk. “Seven hells, what was I…” You began to turn around, muttering something about being far too direct and perhaps a sort of apology for your outspoken nature.
But Dunk heard none of it.
The only thing he could think of was the sight of your grinning face as you danced with him. The feeling of your hand on his arm as you guided him along. Your soft panting as you struggled to catch your breath after. And your question — Have you been with a woman? — echoed in his head.
You were beginning to move away from him, no doubt embarrassed due to his lack of response. The thought that he might have shamed you — and the realization that you were slipping away from him — finally pushed him to act.
His hand reached out, gripping your arm with ease. You were farther from him, but his large size allowed him to reach you without difficulty.
Your head snapped toward him at the feeling of his hand on your wrist. Your eyes moved from where he held you to his face. You blinked at him, the moonlight casting a soft glow onto your features.
Your mouth parted as if to say something, but before you could, Dunk spoke.
“I have.”
He watched your lips part even more.
“Been with women, m’lady.”
The sigh that slipped from your lips sounded more like a gasp, and Dunk couldn’t help but flush at the sound.
You stepped forward, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. You stared into his eyes for a moment before your gaze flitted down to his lips.
Gods, you wanted to kiss him so badly.
You stepped closer, close enough now that he could smell the faint trace of wine lingering on your breath.
For a moment, Dunk could not speak. His heart thundered against his chest. The hand he held onto you with was damp with sweat — he was sure you could feel it — but you didn’t seem to mind.
You had never hesitated before. Not like this. You had never needed permission. Never needed reassurance.
And yet…you suddenly felt unsure.
Not because you didn’t want him, but because you dreaded the possibility that he would not want you.
“Would you…” Your voice almost caught, and that alone startled you. “Would you want to be with me?”
Of all the things he had expected you to say, it had not been that. Not with that small, uncertain note in your voice. Not when you were a Baratheon. Not when you had carried yourself all night like a storm no man could stand against.
And here you were, looking up at him as though he held the power.
It felt absurd.
His hand lifted before he could think better of it. Large and warm, it came to rest against your cheek, rough thumb brushing just slightly along your skin.
Your eyes closed at the touch.
He exhaled shakily.
“It would be an honor,” he said, and he meant it. Every word.
Your eyes opened slowly.
And then you grinned.
“Good.”
You surged up on your toes and kissed him.
It was not tentative. It was heat and wine and breath and hands fisting into fabric. His other arm wrapped around your waist instinctively, pulling you closer, as though afraid you might disappear if he did not anchor you there.
You kissed him like you had decided something. Like you had chosen him.
And for a moment, Dunk forgot every rule he had ever tried to live by.
When you pulled back, breathless, you did not give him time to recover. Your hand slid into his, fingers lacing tightly.
“Come,” you murmured.
He followed.
Of course he followed.
You led him back toward the elm, toward the worn patch of earth and the cloak laid carefully against the roots. Your heart was pounding now, not from dancing but from anticipation.
Dunk slowed.
“Here?” he asked, voice rough.
You turned to him, brows lifting slightly.
“Yes. Why not?”
He glanced at the ground, then back at you.
“It isn’t… befitting,” he managed.
You laughed softly — not cruelly, but genuinely amused.
“I don’t care.”
And the way you said it — so certain, so unbothered — made something inside him finally loosen.
You stepped closer again, hands finding his chest.
“Do you?”
His answer came in the way he kissed you this time.
Your fingers gripped his tunic at the intensity of the kiss. The soft hiss you let out as your back struck the elm’s bark was swallowed by Dunk’s eager mouth. You didn’t know where his sudden confidence had come from, but you were enjoying this new side of him.
One of his hands moved to brace against the tree as he crowded you, his other hand gripping your chin, guiding your mouth to stay fused with his. He stepped closer, and the movement made you feel him against you.
Gods. He was already hard.
You were about to slide your hand down when he suddenly pulled away.
You stared at him, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. And before you could utter so much as a word, he had dropped to his knees before you.
His hands found your waist, caressing you through the fabric of your skirts as he looked up at you — not hesitant, but intent.
“May I?”
“Yes…” you breathed, your head falling back against the tree as Dunk’s hands began to gather your skirts in his grasp.
His movements were swift, the worry and hesitation you’d seen him display all evening now completely gone. You barely had time to adjust to the cold air against your skin before Dunk was leaning in, his tongue moving to lick at you. You gasped, a hand gripping at his hair immediately.
One of his hands pressed against your stomach, keeping your skirts lifted as he continued his ministrations. Your hips bucked against him unconsciously, chasing the pleasure and causing his nose to brush against your most sensitive spot. You let out a moan, your head twisting to the side at the sensation, the rough bark digging into your cheek as you did.
“Ser Duncan,” you whined, the use of his title causing him to twitch beneath his clothes. Even so, he forced himself to pull away enough to speak.
“Just Dunk, m’lady,” he whispered against your skin, his face still partially concealed by your skirts.
“What?” you whispered, prompting him to lift his head so he could look at you. His mouth was slick, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip to keep quiet.
“It’s just Dunk, m’lady,” he said simply. “For you, I’m just Dunk.”
The way he said it — so completely devoid of pride, so ready to lay himself bare for you — made your brows furrow. Your hand rose to his cheek, a soft smile touching your lips.
“My Dunk,” you sighed.
Dunk let out a low groan at your words, his eyes locked on yours as his hand inched higher along your leg. He watched your mouth fall open in a quiet cry as his fingers slid into you.
Your walls fluttered around him, your body unaccustomed to the sudden intrusion. But as soon as he began to move his fingers, the initial flicker of discomfort on your face melted into pleasure. He continued to watch you as he quickened the pace, soft grunts leaving him while you moaned his name.
Your hand moved to grip his hair, gently guiding his face back to where it had been before. Dunk didn’t hesitate, his tongue joining his fingers as he continued to draw you closer to your high. It didn’t take long — not with the steady rhythm of his touch and the heat of his mouth against you.
When his free hand left your stomach to lift your leg over his broad shoulder, shifting you to a deeper angle, you were undone. You cried out his name, nails digging into the bark behind you and into Dunk’s scalp as pleasure crashed over you, juices covering his face as it did.
You sagged softly against the elm, your breath coming in short bursts. Dunk remained beneath your skirts for a moment longer, his hand moving slowly up and down your thigh in a gentle caress.
Once you had managed to steady your racing heart, your hand drifted to Dunk’s shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze meant to signal for him to rise.
Dunk understood your request, his hand moving to set your foot gently back on the ground before pulling your skirts down from over his head. He rose with ease, one hand coming up to brace against the tree beside your head as he looked down at you.
You offered him a satisfied smile, one of your hands lifting to his face. Your finger brushed at the wetness smeared along his chin before you brought it slowly to your mouth. Dunk watched the motion, his body visibly shaking at the sight.
You grinned up at him then, your gaze dropping pointedly to the unmistakable tent in his trousers.
“Your turn.”
You had barely moved an inch before Dunk’s hand gripped you. You looked up at him, face wide with confusion.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he began, desperately trying to keep his thoughts in order. “It’s just that… well… I don’t think I’ll last much if you do.”
You couldn’t help but smile at his confession.
He gave you a shy look. “And I’d… uh… well, I’d much rather be inside you.”
Your brows raised in surprise. Dunk caught the reaction immediately, already beginning to stammer.
“If—I mean—if you’d let me, of course.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped from your mouth. The sound made Dunk’s brows shoot up. But you were quick to reassure him.
“Yes, Dunk. Of course I’d let you,” you smiled, hand caressing his cheek. “Actually, I was hoping you’d ask.”
“You were?” he questioned, clearly surprised.
Instead of answering him, you pushed yourself up and pressed a kiss to his lips. Dunk groaned against your mouth, large hands moving to hold your waist. Once you broke the kiss, your foreheads rested against each other for a moment before Dunk pulled back. His hand moved to grasp yours, slowly inching toward where his bed lay.
“Where are you going?” you asked softly.
Dunk looked at you, then at his cloak.
“I thought you ought to lay down.”
You followed his gaze, a look of amusement flashing over your face before you looked back at him.
“No need. Here is fine.”
Dunk glanced at the ground beneath your feet, scattered with roots and broken branches.
“Here, m’lady?”
“No, Dunk,” you answered with a laugh, your hand lifting his head so he was looking at you. You let go of his hand and leaned back against the elm’s trunk. “Here.”
Dunk began to shake his head.
“But, m’lady, it’s—”
“Unbefitting?” you interrupted. “And your tongue inside me wasn’t?”
Dunk’s mind froze for a moment, the bluntness of your words catching him off guard.
“But… you—”
“Yes?”
“You’re a lady. You should be treated as—”
“No, I’m not,” you cut in, making Dunk’s brows furrow even more. You stepped closer to him.
“If, to me, you are just Dunk and not Ser Duncan the Tall, then to you I am just me, not a lady of House Baratheon.”
Dunk continued to gaze at you, uncertain.
“Lust knows not the bounds of titles, Dunk,” you said simply. “Nor does love, for that matter.”
Dunk took in your words. He wasn’t certain he fully understood, but now was not the time to dwell on meaning — for him or for you. There would be time later.
For the first time that night, Dunk’s resolve steeled. He stepped forward, the movement lacking any hesitation. Once he was close enough, his hands moved to your waist, pressing you gently against the bark so he could lean down and give you a searing kiss. When he lifted you with ease, your legs wound instinctively around his waist.
Dunk shifted, one of his hands moving to wrap around your body as the other worked on untying his breeches. You continued to kiss him as he did, your arms wrapping around his neck, your tongues brushing together.
Dunk pulled back just enough to free his mouth from yours, his forehead resting against yours as your breaths mingled.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” you sighed back.
That was all he needed. With one swift movement Dunk lined himself up and began pushing himself inside you. Your brows furrowed, nails clawing at his shoulder at the intrusion. He was thicker than the men you had been with before so the pressure was overwhelming. Even so the pain didn't last.
Dunk moved slowly, trying his best not to hurt you. Every gasp you let out made him want to pull away, but the way you clawed at him stopped him from doing so. With one last shove he settled completely in you, his head moving to rest on your shoulder as he willed himself to not cum too soon.
“Gods you… fuck you’re so warm,” Dunk muttered, more to himself than anything.
All you could do was whine softly, your fingers threading into his hair as you adjusted to the size of him. Your walls fluttered around him, making his job of staying still a lot harder.
“Dunk,” you sighed, voice barely audible over your beating heart “Move.”
So he did. He tugged back slightly, pulling back as much as he could without leaving you fully, before plunging back in. You back hit against the bark as he began to thirst into you. He started off slow at first, perhaps afraid of hurting you but it did not last. Soon enough Dunk was practically pistoling into you.
You had lost the ability to talk, the only sounds that left your mouth were gasps and moans. Dunk wasn’t much better, with each powerful thrust a grunt escaped his throat. But that didn't mean he couldn’t talk too. If anything the longer he was inside of you the more he talked.
“Gods… you feel incredible.”
“That’s it… let it out. Sound so lovely for me.”
“Gods, what have I done to deserve this?”
The praise seemed endless, and all you could do was bask in it. Dunk was barely holding on, you could tell by the way he twitched against you. Despite your own scattered thoughts, you forced yourself to lean closer, pressing your mouth near his ear.
“Cum Dunk,” you whispered.
“I shouldn't," he reasoned. “Not inside.”
“Please. I want it,” you murmured against his ear, nose nudging softly on his cheek "It's okay I promise."
He knew he should not do it. It was unwise. Dangerous even. But you had asked him, and he would give you the moon if you asked.
“Okay,” he sighed. “I need you to cum first though, are…are you close?”
“Just cum Dunk.”
“But you’ll-”
“If you do, I swear I will too…just…please” you groaned.
Dunk nodded, his hands shifting so he could better hold onto you before he sped up his movements. His mouth dropped open in a silent groan as he came. You followed after him, the feeling of his seed spilling into you triggered your own orgasm. A shout of his name slipped from your lips before you sagged against his body, locked limbs finally relaxing.
Dunk's seed seemed never ending, it kept flowing out until it started to spill down your thighs. It didn't surprise you though, not with his stature. Once it seemed to have finished, Dunk’s dick softening inside you, he pulled out. You whined softly as your feet hit the ground, thighs aching from having been locked against his large waist for so long.
Before you could even think about what had just happened, Dunk pressed a soft kiss to your lips. You accepted it, hand splaying across his chest as you kissed him back.
“Can I stay with you?” you asked once he pulled away.
“I… I don’t think that would be wise, m’lady,” he whispered shyly. “People will come looking for you, and I’m not so sure they’d be kind if they found you—”
“Tangled in the arms of a hedge knight?”
Dunk smiled at your tone, his nose brushing against yours as your foreheads stayed pressed together. You let out a sigh, hand moving to tangle your fingers with his.
“Then come back with me,” you said softly. “Sleep in my tent with me.”
Dunk pulled back at the words, looking at you with unfiltered surprise.
“What?” you asked. “It’s not like my brother would care.”
Dunk opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.
“And don’t dare say it’s unbefitting. I couldn’t give less of a fuck.”
The laugh that escaped Dunk was unexpected. It caused a large grin to spread across your face. He moved his free hand to your cheek, thumb brushing over it as he continued to stare at you.
“Alright.”
He could not deny you anything. If you’d asked him to walk to the ends of the earth, he would follow without hesitation — if only to see the beautiful smile plastered across your face.
“Good,” you said, moving toward where you had come from, your hand still clasped in his. “Come on, then.”
And with that, you both walked back to your tent, hands tightly entwined. For the first time that night, Dunk couldn’t be bothered with what others thought. All that mattered was your hand in his, and the promise of something more lingering in the air.
Warnings: mutual pining, overheard conversation, making out in the workplace, physical intimacy (kissing/touching), sharing a cigarette as foreplay, med student/resident dynamic, age gap (hinted at), no use of y/n
Word count: 3.9K The Pitt masterlist
a/n: i need this man to need me as much as i need him (it's a lot you guys, i need him a lot 🫠)
“Those things will kill you, you know?”
You don’t even have to turn to know it’s him — you can tell just by his voice.
A soft smile spreads across your face as Jack comes up beside you. You take a drag, releasing the smoke into the night sky before finally glancing over at him.
“You gonna tell on me to the patients?”
Jack lets out a soft chuckle, lips curving into that sideways smile of his.
“Not if you let me bum one off you.”
You grin at that, hand moving to grab the pack from your scrub pocket. You open it, a soft shit leaving your lips when you realize it’s empty.
“Sorry, Jack. This was the last one.”
Jack just shakes his head, waving it off like it’s no big deal.
“Probably for the best.”
You bite your lip for a moment, glancing down at the cigarette still burning between your fingers.
“We can share,” you say, pausing when Jack looks at you, brow slightly raised. “If you don’t mind swapping spit, I mean.” Your voice drops into a teasing smile.
Jack’s eyes move from your outstretched hand — the one holding the cigarette out to him — up to your face, lingering on your lips for a split second.
“I mean…” Jack huffs a soft laugh, eyes flicking to your mouth before he can stop himself. “Yeah. I’d love to swap spit with you.”
The line lands halfway between teasing and absolutely sincere — the kind of thing he says lightly, but his voice betrays the honesty beneath it.
He stares at you a little too long. It’s that quiet, loaded stare that makes you wonder if he knows exactly what those words are doing to you, or if he’s just being his usual cheeky self.
When his fingers brush yours as he takes the cigarette, skin bumping against skin, you almost visibly shudder. And when he doesn’t break eye contact as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a drag, you have to physically stop yourself from whining.
If this had been anyone else—literally anyone else—you wouldn’t be reacting like this. Wouldn’t feel your pulse jump every time Jack’s fingers grazed yours as he passed the cigar back. Wouldn’t let your gaze linger on his lips as he took another drag. Wouldn’t feel that sudden rush of heat sweeping through your body.
Because the truth was that you wanted him. Wanted him for longer than you’d cared to admit.
It wasn’t clear when the crush started.
Maybe it was the first time you noticed his stupidly strong forearms while he showed you how to place an IV. Or maybe it was the proud smile he gave you after you managed a difficult procedure without his help. You didn’t know exactly when it began—but you remembered the day you realized it clearly.
The realization hit you during one of your many night shifts together. Things had been normal enough until you told a joke—just something stupid that made you smile—and Jack had laughed so hard he had to brace a hand on your shoulder. His hand was warm. Even through the barrier of your scrubs, you felt the heat radiating against your skin.
It was enough to make you walk away and splash cold water on your face like some teenager.
Oh, and to make matters about a thousand times worse? This man is a fucking silver fox. The gray in his beard, the streaks in his hair — they ruin you. Completely. You spend entire hours pretending you’re not staring at his jawline or the way his curls cling to his forehead after a particularly rough shift.
So sharing a cigarette with him?
Yeah. Sure. Why not?
Let’s just add fuel to the entire bonfire already burning in your chest. Great idea.
You try to play it cool. You really do. But your brain is doing laps around the fact that you’re basically mouth-kissing him by proxy. Every time you take the cigarette back, it feels more intimate than it has any right to.
Jack exhales his next drag to the side, slow and controlled, and his eyes flick down to your lips again before he looks back up. And that look alone makes you almost do something reckless. Almost.
“Jack! Hey—Jack, we need you inside!”
You both jolt a little at the shout coming from the double doors. It’s one of the new nurses, out of breath, waving him over.
Jack gives you a look that says duty calls without needing a single word, then hands the cigarette back to you before jogging inside. And just like that, you’re alone again in the cool night air.
You stay frozen for a moment, staring at the space where he’d been, trying to convince your heart to stop beating so loudly you can practically hear it in your skull. A tiny piece of the cigarette crumbles and lands on your finger, burning you just enough to snap you out of it.
“Ow.” You wince, staring down at the cigarette still between your fingers, its ember glowing steady and uncaring.
You lift your hand like you're about to flick it to the ground—but pause. Instead, you take one last drag, slow and unsteady, before snubbing it out and making your way back into the ER.
The lights inside feel too bright after the quiet outside. The hum of monitors, distant beeping, clipped conversations — all of it blends together, but your pulse hasn’t settled. You’re still replaying Jack’s fingers brushing yours like some kind of masochist.
You head toward the nurses' station, pretending you’re totally normal, totally composed, totally not about to combust.
Jack’s bent over a chart, forearm flexed as he scribbles something. His hair is a little mussed from running back inside. And when he glances up and spots you walking in, the small smile he gives you is so soft you feel it in your knees.
“Thought you’d ditched me,” he says lightly.
You roll your eyes, desperately ignoring the way your stomach flips.
“As if you’d survive two hours without me.”
He chuckles — that stupid, warm, fond sound — and your heart does that annoying skip again.
You want to stick with him, want to trail behind him just so you can keep an eye on him as he works. Just to watch him a little more. Unfortunately, you don’t get your wish, because before you know it, you’re both being called to help with different cases.
“Fate seems to like separating us today,” you joke, not expecting anything from it.
“Seems like it,” Jack answers, giving you one last look before starting toward where he’s needed. “It’s rather unfortunate.”
You don’t have time to answer him before he steps behind a curtain, but the smile that spreads across your face could probably blind someone with its brightness.
Things had been going smoothly for most of the rest of the shift. Even without seeing Jack, you’d been able to handle your patients with quiet confidence, checking vitals, giving instructions, and managing small procedures with precision.
You felt confident. Sure of yourself. And then something changed.
You were in the middle of assisting with a minor procedure, improvising slightly to keep the patient comfortable, when a sharp voice cut through the hum of the ER.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Emery Walsh’s tone was crisp, deliberate.
You froze for half a second too long. “I… I just—”
“This is not how this procedure is supposed to be done. You don’t have the authority to make these changes,” she continued, her eyes narrowing.
Your stomach sank, heat rushing to your cheeks. You opened your mouth to explain, but the words seemed to vanish.
And then — unexpectedly — a familiar presence loomed at your shoulder.
“Emery,” Jack said, calm but firm, his voice carrying in a way that made everyone stop. “She made the right call.”
You blinked. Jack? You hadn’t even realized he was anywhere nearby. You hadn’t seen him in a while, so you’d assumed he was busy with patients or with some other med student.
“She’s still learning, yes,” Jack continued, eyes locking on Emery with an intensity you hadn’t expected from him, “but in this moment, what she did kept the patient safe and prevented further complications. I stand by her.”
Your heart jumped — not only because of his words, but because he was defending you. Jack, who never seemed to have an issue with anyone and always acted as if everything was fine, was actively defending you to another doctor.
Emery raised an eyebrow, clearly weighing whether to argue, but Jack’s gaze was unwavering, commanding. “Understood,” she said finally, a slight edge of respect creeping into her tone. “Make sure you document it properly.”
Jack’s attention shifted back to you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Come on,” he murmured quietly, just for you. “Let’s finish up before I have to chew someone else out.”
You exhaled a shaky laugh, feeling a mix of relief, disbelief, and something else entirely — the kind of rush you only got when Jack Abbott was with you.
You walked through the ER, eyes scanning the place for Jack. Your brows furrowed when you didn’t see him anywhere, shoulders lifting in a moment of worry. Maybe he had already left. But he hadn’t said goodbye—and Jack always said goodbye. That meant he was probably still here, hidden somewhere you couldn’t see him.
You were halfway down the hall when a familiar pair of voices stopped you in your tracks. One was unmistakably Jack, calm but laced with that edge you’d come to recognize. The other… Robby.
A small smile lifted on your face—you were glad to have found Jack so you could give him a proper goodbye. But just as you were about to turn the corner and step into their field of vision, one of them said something that made you freeze.
“So, how’s it going with your girl?” Robby asked.
You could hear Jack sigh softly.
“I told you she’s not my girl.”
“Yeah, sure thing,” Robby replied, his tone clearly sarcastic.
Your chest constricted. His girl. Jack had someone. And it wasn’t you.
Of course you should have seen it—he was handsome, charming, older, it was likely he already had someone outside of the ER. But… what about all those little moments? The glances, the grazing of skin, the flirty words, the long stares? Had your brain been distorting everything, making you think your feelings were mutual?
Your back leaned against the wall, a soft frown tugging at your lips as you told yourself Jack didn’t share your feelings. Just as you were about to push off and leave the ER before breaking down in the hallway, Jack said something else.
“I almost told her,” he sighed. “A couple hours ago… we were sharing a cigar—”
“I thought you quit smoking?” Robby interrupted.
“I said I’d try. Anyway, that’s not what’s important right now. She gave me this look, brother… I swear to God, I almost pulled her into a kiss right there in the ambulance bay.”
Your heart stutters. It hits you all at once—he’s talking about you.
“Maybe you should have gone for it then,” Robby says, and you hear Jack scoff in return, lowering his voice.
“…Come on, Robby,” Jack says, voice low and careful, but impossible to ignore. “You know I can’t do anything about it. That would be… highly unethical. I mean, you, of all people, should be telling me not to go for it.”
Robby chuckles softly, the sound carrying just enough to make your stomach twist. “Man…I’m the worst person to give advice on something like this. You should know that by now.”
You don’t know exactly what Robby means, but it’s clear Jack does, because you hear him let out a laugh—an incredulous, yet somehow relieved sound. You’re so caught up in the realization that Jack likes you that you almost forget you’re hiding, like some weirdo, listening to them talk. At any moment, they could turn the corner and catch you.
As if to remind you of reality, you hear footsteps and voices drawing closer. Panicking, you dart in the opposite direction, nearly running into a couple of nurses who give you strange glances as you rush past.
Jack’s been wandering around for a while now. After his conversation with Robby, he remembered he needed to say goodbye to you before leaving, but he was having a hard time finding you. He was starting to think you’d already gone home, just as you walked out of one of the rooms.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Jack says the moment your eyes find his.
Your eyes widen a little as he walks toward you, the words he’d said to Robby echoing in your mind. Your heart flutters at the soft grin he gives, and you can’t help but return it.
“Good. Because I need you.”
He blinks—a small, subtle shift—but you notice it. Jack always reacts the most when he says nothing at all.
“Need me for what?” he asks, standing before you.
“Our last patient,” you say.
His brow furrows. “Our shift ended thirty minutes ago.”
“I know,” you reply, a corner of your mouth twitching. “Come on.”
You step back into the room you’d just slipped out of. Jack follows after you, glancing up at the number on the door before stepping inside.
“I didn’t know we had any patients… here.”
His words trail off as his eyes land on the empty bed. Then they move to you—standing beside it, hands fidgeting together.
“Well, you’re right. We don’t have a patient here.” You try to sound calm, but your voice betrays you, thin with nerves.
Jack’s brows pull together immediately, worry flashing across his face as he moves toward you with purpose. He takes hold of your arms, warm hands wrapping gently around them, and your gaze snaps to where he’s touching you.
“Hey,” he says softly, steady as ever. “Look at me.”
You lift your eyes to his, stomach flipping at the tender, searching expression there.
“Is everything okay? You seem nervous. Did something happen? You know you can talk to me, right?”
You almost feel bad. It’s clear that your nervousness is making Jack worry. But you can’t bring yourself to speak just yet. You stare at him as he tilts his head slightly, questioning you with a soft raise of his brows.
A small smile creeps onto your face, and you bite your lip, trying to contain it. You fail miserably, of course—you can tell just from the look of surprise on Jack’s face. Your gaze flicks from his eyes to his lips. It’s quick, but Jack catches it.
“God, this is ridiculous,” you say with a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I have no problem looking at someone’s internal organs, but the second you stare at me like that my brain just… short-circuits.”
Jack’s brows pull together in surprise, his hands still resting firmly on your forearms. He doesn’t even seem aware he’s gripping you a little tighter. Truth is, he’s nervous too—he’s always a little nervous around you—but there’s something different in the air now. Charged. Inevitable. It makes him a little unsteady in a way he’s not used to.
You inhale slowly, eyes sliding shut for a beat as you try to steady yourself before forcing your gaze back up to his. You let your eyes trace the shape of his face, lingering longer than you probably should, committing every detail to memory. And then—because pretending isn’t sustainable anymore, because wanting him is starting to feel like a physical ache—you speak.
“I overheard you talking with Robby.”
Jack’s eyes widen just slightly, enough to tell you he knows exactly what part you heard.
“Why didn’t you?” you ask quietly. And when he gives you that look—confused, thrown—you clarify. “Kiss me, I mean. Why didn’t you kiss me?”
Jack’s face shifts—surprise, relief, embarrassment, something warm and unguarded flickering all at once. By the time he settles, he looks… happy. A little shy, even. Jack Abbott. Shy. Wild.
He avoids your gaze, which only makes you poke a finger gently against his scrub top, right over his chest.
“So?” you whisper, looking up through your lashes.
A soft flush creeps over Jack’s cheeks, something you’ve never seen on him before.
“Wasn’t sure if you wanted me to, I guess,” he says quietly, his thumbs brushing your arms without him seeming aware of it.
You let out a sound—half laugh, half breathless disbelief. His head snaps up at the noise, eyes catching on the grin spreading across your face.
“Jack, I literally made a joke about swapping spit.”
“Yeah, I know,” he mutters, flustered, “but I wasn’t sure if it was just… you know. A joke.”
You shake your head softly and press your palm to his chest, letting the weight of his words settle. You stand there for a long moment, holding onto each other, not quite sure who’s going to push this over the edge.
“If you had been sure,” you say finally, “would you have done it then?”
Jack’s lips twitch, that signature sideways grin threatening to break free. One of his hands slides up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before settling gently against your cheek. His thumb sweeps once across your skin. You know the look on your face is dangerously close to love-struck, but honestly? You can’t bring yourself to care. You want him—you’ve wanted him—and from the warmth in his eyes, he feels exactly the same.
“Yes,” Jack murmurs. “If I was sure, I’d have done it without a second thought.”
You step closer, breath brushing his lips. Close—so damn close—just waiting for him to meet you halfway.
“I want you to,” you whisper, barely audible.
“What was that?” he teases, even though he absolutely heard you.
You narrow your eyes at him, all mock annoyance. Your hand fists in his scrubs, pulling him down just enough.
“I said,” you breathe, moving until your nose nudges his, “I want you to.”
The sound Jack makes is practically ripped from him—a low, involuntary groan, the kind a man makes when patience has officially left the building.
Then his mouth is on yours—urgent, hungry, finally.
Your arms loop around his neck instantly, pulling him flush against you. His hands slide to your waist, hauling you in until your chest is pressed to his. You bury your fingers in his curls as he deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing your lips in a question you answer without hesitation.
Jack kisses you like he’s been waiting months for permission. His hand cups your jaw, the other gripping your waist firmly enough that you feel grounded and dizzy at the same time. You let out a small sound into his mouth and Jack responds by pulling you impossibly closer, like he’s worried you’ll vanish if he loosens his hold.
His tongue slides against yours, slow but sure, confident but still a little shaky around the edges in that way that only he ever is with you. You feel his breath catch when you tug gently on his curls, and the soft groan he lets slip sends a shiver through your entire body.
It’s messy and sweet and urgent and perfect — the kind of first kiss that makes you forget you even have lungs, the kind that hits you low in your stomach and high in your chest all at once. When you finally break apart, it’s not because either of you wants to. It’s because oxygen is a thing, apparently.
Jack presses one last quick kiss to your bottom lip like he can’t help himself, his forehead dropping gently against yours as you both try to steady your breathing. You stay like that for a moment — chests rising and falling in sync, breaths mingling, his fingers still resting against your cheek, your hands still looped behind his neck.
And then reality creeps back in.
Jack opens his eyes first. You feel the shift in him before you see it — the awareness settling in, the sudden realization of exactly where the two of you are. His gaze flicks around the room, and the image is almost comical: two fully grown adults, in scrubs, making out in the middle of an empty patient room like teenagers hiding behind the gym.
He pulls back just an inch, eyes wide, cheeks flushed in a way that feels deeply unfair because he looks good like that.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “We’re… actually at work.”
Your laugh comes out soft and breathless and a little hysterical. “Yeah,” you whisper, lips tingling. “We really are.”
Jack scrubs a hand over his face, then immediately reaches back out to touch your waist like he can’t stand not holding you for more than two seconds. His eyes dart once more to the open doorway.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing that in here,” he says, voice low and still rough from kissing you.
“Probably not,” you agree, even though your body is already leaning into him again like it didn’t get the memo.
Jack notices. Of course he notices. He huffs out a soft, helpless laugh, forehead resting briefly against your temple.
“You’re gonna get me fired,” he murmurs, and the way he says it sounds nothing like an accusation and everything like a man who would still gladly let you ruin his life if you asked nicely.
You smirk, sliding your hands down from his neck to his chest.
“Then maybe,” you breathe, “we should relocate before someone finds us.”
Jack looks at you for a long moment — that same charged, inevitable look he had before kissing you — and then nods once, slow, lips curling.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s do that.”
The two of you don’t say much after that—just these ridiculous, breathless grins that you try and fail to hide from each other. Jack bumps his shoulder into yours as you head down the hallway toward the lockers, and the second you’re out of full view, he steals another quick kiss. Soft, warm, way too short. It leaves you both laughing under your breath like you’ve just pulled off a heist.
“Stop smiling like that,” you whisper, swatting lightly at his arm.
“I literally can’t,” Jack whispers back, leaning closer as you walk. “My face is broken. You did this. This is your fault.”
You’re trying to shush him, but you’re grinning just as hard, and anyone with a pulse could read the energy radiating off both of you. It’s honestly a miracle you make it to your lockers without lunging at each other again.
You grab your things and the two of you walk back through the ER side by side, fully convinced you look completely normal—just two coworkers heading out after a long shift. But people have eyes. And you and Jack are nowhere near as discreet as you think.
As soon as the door swings shut behind you, Dana leans back in her chair, smirks, and goes,
“Someone’s getting lucky today.”
Robby doesn’t even look up from the chart he’s pretending to read.
“Please. They already did. Did you see his hair?”
Dana snorts. Robby allows himself a tiny satisfied smile, quietly pleased his friend finally got there.
And then they both just… go back to work like nothing happened.
Warnings: no use of y/n, mutual pinning, workplace romance (attending/resident), kissing, physical intimacy, flustered reactions, teasing/flirtation gn!reader, age gap (not specified but there is a use of "kid" when Robby refers to reader)
Word count: 1.5K
a/n: what is it with me and writing this man not giving a shit about what people say about him lmao
You know those shirts people wear with something silly like I’m with stupid and an arrow pointing to the person next to them? Or the ones that say She’s my sister so the kiss-cam operator skips over you?
Yeah, those shirts that make the operator’s life easier and save you from an embarrassing moment in front of thousands?
Honestly, you’re starting to think you should’ve bought one.
Anything to avoid exactly what you’re risking right now: being caught on camera next to Robby, chief attending physician at the Pitt.
Your boss.
The man you’re absolutely not supposed to kiss.
The man you’ve wanted to kiss for… longer than is remotely appropriate.
You try to focus on the field, but your eyes keep jumping up to the massive monitor hanging from the ceiling.
It’s already happened three times.
Three times the camera has almost landed on you and Robby — you hold your breath, trying to decide your next move, only to watch it settle on some couple a few rows behind you.
You should be praying the camera never lands on you.
You’re at a game with your boss. If the camera goes to you, you’ll be forced into an awkward, public situation you can’t undo. It would be unethical, it would get him into trouble. But there’s a tiny, reckless part of you that keeps hoping for it, just to see his reaction.
Even if the camera landed on you, you tell yourself, you’d have to make some kind of excuse. Kissing Robby is not, and will never be, an option.
Apparently the universe didn’t get that memo.
You’re lost in thought, eyes fixed on a gum wrapper in your lap, when murmurs ripple through the crowd.
At first you don’t notice — you’re too wrapped up in imagining what Robby’s mouth would feel like on yours — but then you feel a weight, a heavy gaze that forces you to look up.
And there you are. On the giant screen.
You and Robby. Clear as day.
It takes a second for your brain to process what you’re seeing: that is your face on the big screen. And yes that is Robby beside you, his head turned toward you, like he’s been waiting for this.
Your expression must read panic, because the camera catches it and broadcasts it to the whole stadium. You turn to Robby, eyes wide — obviously worried. He looks unusually serene. His face is almost a blank slate and you can’t read what he’s thinking.
You’re about to mouth He’s my boss — the universal sign for “not these two, move it along.” You’d rather deal with whatever awkward fallout that brings than be stuck kissing him in front of everyone.
But before the syllables are about to leave your lips, Robby speaks.
“You gonna leave me hanging, kid?” he asks softly.
The entire section cheers.
You snap your head to him.
“Robby,” you breathe, stunned.
He laughs — quietly, warmly — and leans an elbow on the armrest like he’s settling into a scene he’s been waiting to watch play out.
Suddenly the whole world shrinks to the few inches between your faces. You lean in, giving him one last chance to pull away, to shake his head, to say he’s joking.
He doesn’t.
He just smiles and leans in the rest of the way, letting his lips find yours.
The stadium erupts.
People are screaming and cheering and wolf-whistling, but it all melts into white noise. The only thing you feel is Robby’s hand sliding to your cheek, warm and steady, and the way his lips move against yours like he’s pouring months of unsaid things into one impossible moment.
The kiss is deeper than you expect — hungry and certain and so much more than a bit for the camera.
When you break apart, you’re breathless. Robby rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing, and the crowd unleashes another wave of awwwwwwwwwwwww loud enough to shake the rafters.
Mortified adrenaline floods you as you look up at the monitor and see yourselves up there, ridiculously exposed.
Flushed, you give the camera a tiny awkward wave — then immediately bury your face in Robby’s shoulder. He laughs, chest shaking, one arm instinctively curling around your back like this is the most natural thing in the world.
The camera finally moves on.
The crowd shifts their attention.
But you don’t.
You stay tucked against him, your arm sliding around his in a way that feels dangerously natural. Like you’re not the resident and he’s not the attending. Like you’re just… two people at a game, kissing because they wanted to.
You let yourself stay in that illusion for a moment longer, because you know exactly what’s coming. The video will hit the internet within minutes. Someone like Santos — chronically online — will find it immediately. It’ll get shared. Reposted. Passed around the ER. And eventually, it’ll make its way to the higher-ups.
You’re both in for it.
But right now?
Right now, Robby is warm against your side, still smiling like he doesn’t regret a damn thing.
And that matters more than anything else.
The next morning, the illusion shatters the second you badge into the ER.
You can feel it. That weird… ripple.
Nurses at the desk who usually don’t look twice at you suddenly flick their eyes up. Two residents stop talking mid-sentence as you walk past. Someone’s phone glows with a paused video frame — two blurry silhouettes on a stadium screen, leaning in.
You don’t need to squint to know exactly who it is.
By the time you reach the lockers, you’re sweating under your scrubs. You keep telling yourself it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s FINE — you’ll deal with it, you’ll talk to him, you’ll write an incident report if you have to — but the knots in your stomach won’t loosen. All you can think is: We’re screwed. He’s the attending. I’m the resident. They’re going to eat us alive.
You inhale. Exhale.
Close your locker, pull out your phone.
Professional distance, you remind yourself, thumb hovering over the screen. Don’t look it up. Don’t be an idiot.
But the internet has other plans.
The video finds you.
It pops up at the top of your feed before you even touch anything — some random account reposting it with a caption like ER staff kiss-cam?!?. Your stomach drops straight through the floor. You should scroll past. Delete the app. Throw your phone into the nearest biohazard container.
You should.
You don’t.
You tap it.
The video plays — muffled cheers, bright lights, your own stunned face blown up thirty feet tall. And there he is beside you, smiling like he’d been waiting for you to look his way.
The moment your lips meet, the crowd roars again and you feel it like it’s happening right now — the warmth of his hand, the way he kissed you like he meant it. Your chest tightens, painfully fond, embarrassingly soft.
That’s exactly when you hear him.
“Well,” a familiar voice says from behind you, low and amused, “we do make a cute couple.”
You freeze.
Your soul leaves your body. You pivot slowly, prayer already loading in your brain.
Robby is leaning against the row of lockers like he’s posing for a magazine shoot he didn’t mean to do — arms crossed, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes absolutely drinking in your reaction.
He nods to the phone still in your hand, screen paused on the kiss, the giant monitor behind you both.
“That’s a good shot,” he says softly. “Could’ve been a movie poster.”
You blink at him, heat rushing to your ears.
“Robby— everyone’s seen it. The whole hospital— we’re going to get in so much—”
He steps closer. Close enough that the rest of the locker room dissolves.
“Hey,” he says, gentle in a way that hits harder than the kiss. “They’re talking about it because they don’t have anything better to talk about. I’m not worried.”
“You’re not—?”
“Not even a little.”
His smile widens, just enough to be devastating.
“And I’m definitely not sorry I kissed you.”
Your heart does something illegal. And Robby? Robby just gives you that maddening, warm, completely unfazed half-smile like he didn’t just detonate your entire circulatory system.
He pushes off the lockers, stretches a little like he got a good night of sleep and definitely didn’t kiss his resident in front of a stadium.
“Anyway,” he says casually — casually, like his words aren’t still echoing down your spinal cord — “don’t be late for rounds.”
You’re still trying to reboot your brain when he starts walking away, hands in his pockets, whistling. Actually whistling. As if he didn’t just imply you make a cute couple. As if he didn’t say he’s not sorry he kissed you. As if the whole hospital isn’t probably watching that video on loop like it’s the Super Bowl halftime show.
He turns the corner. Doesn’t look back.
You stay frozen in place for a solid ten seconds, staring at the empty spot where he’d been standing, wondering if you hallucinated the whole thing.
