In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna
“—because he was just making conversation!”
Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Bullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.”
“Oh my god. So what!” you yell. “It’s not like I was gonna fucking let him!”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesn’t see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.
The car screeches to a halt not even a second later.
You’re pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. “You crazy, fucking bitch!” he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“I got a bitch ass boyfriend, that’s what’s wrong with me,” you grumble.
He ignores that. “You break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?” You shake your head. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.” Though as he says that, he can’t quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, “Scratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.”
“Okay, so I’m gonna walk home,” you say, deadpan. “I’ll see you around, asshole.”
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that he’d let you get very far). “Alright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car — we’re going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.”
A hospital visit later, you’re in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. It’s how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when you’ve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of today’s incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: “push me out instead.”
“Hmm?”
Sukuna’s hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. “Don’t jump out of the car. It’s stupid. Your body’s weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.”
summary: there are two things that everyone in the ER knows about you—you're incredible at your job and extremely hot. the thing that they don't know is that you're dating one of their newest residents and have been for years.
MASTERLIST
pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader (respiratory therapist)
cw/tags: female reader (she/her pronouns used), described as having breasts and wearing a thong and bralette, mentions of cleavage and nipples, hair long enough for the top half to be tied back in a nondescript way. established relationship, typical pitt warnings (hospitals, intubations, chest compressions, sedation drugs, etc etc), swearing, ogilvie being a freak lowkey, very very minor and casual inappropriate conduct i guess (everyone wants you badly okay is it such a crime??), garcia calls you 'hot shot,' HPV in this context stands for 'hot potato voice,' not human papillomavirus lmfao, no smut but a few sexually explicit references
takes place on the fourth of july but absolutely zero reference to any real events of season 2 so no spoilers!
the pitt needs to introduce some respiratory therapists okay or else
OTHER PARTS HERE :)
Dennis knows you’re hot, obviously. Everyone with eyes knows that you’re hot. He still sometimes can’t believe the fact that he gets to date someone like you, even though you’ve been together for years at this point. You were working in a clinic that he did one of his first medical school rotations at, and for whatever reason, you had liked him.
You got a job at PTMC a year later, and you absolutely loved the fast-paced chaos that was the ER and ICU.
When it came time for Dennis to spend a few months at the trauma centre he decided to set some ground rules, not wanting anyone to give him special treatment because they knew he was dating one of their best respiratory therapists. No, he wanted to establish himself as a good student on his own, and he didn’t want to risk anyone making fun of you for being with him, not that he told you about that reason.
You had agreed, hesitantly, but ultimately thought that it made sense to keep things at work strictly professional.
At first, that had been fine. You actually spent the vast majority of your time in the ICU, since the patients up there typically needed more oversight regarding ventilation settings, and most of the doctors in the ER were more than capable of handling emergent intubations on their own. The two of you didn’t even cross paths for the first couple weeks that he was working in the ER, which was different from when he was doing internal medicine and admitting patients to the ICU frequently.
October 30th, 2024
“Fifty-eight year old male, severe SOB and throat swelling, sats eighty-eight on non-rebreather,” The paramedic says, wheeling a gurney through the ambulance bay doors.
“Whitaker!” Samira calls, and he races over, holding his stethoscope so it doesn’t fall as he moves.
“Temp thirty-nine, difficulty swallowing, HPV,” The paramedic continues. “History of type two diabetes, hypertension, and obstructive sleep apnea.”
The patient is propped up on the gurney, not laying fully back, likely because he wouldn’t be able to breathe if he did so. Samira counts down when they make it to the trauma room, hands moving the patient onto the hospital bed. She asks the patient for his name as Whitaker starts his exam, shifting between nurses as they try to figure out what’s going on. He shines his penlight into the man’s mouth, swallows some mild panic, then speaks.
“Drooling, significant submandibular swelling, limited mouth opening,” He says. “Unable to visualize the posterior pharynx, reduced neck extension.”
Mel has her stethoscope to the man’s back, listening carefully. “Lungs sound clear, but we’ve got significant stridor.”
Dennis takes a piece of gauze to wipe away some drool from the patient’s mouth. “Unable to handle secretions.”
“Sats decreasing,” Princess says. “Down to eighty-two.”
“Okay, we’re gonna’ need to intubate, and fast,” Samira says. “Mel, you’re up.”
Mel orders ketamine and rocuronium, then positions herself by the patient’s head. It becomes extremely obvious that this intubation won’t be easy, but Mel attempts it anyway.
“There’s a lot of swelling,” She says.
“Where’s Robby?” Samira asks, and one of the nurses leaves to go find him. The video laryngoscope is inserted, but Mel genuinely can’t see anything on the screen. Sedation starts to kick in, and the patient goes limp.
“I can’t visualize the epiglottis,” Mel says, her voice still calm, but Dennis can see a small amount of panic in her expression as she attempts to insert the tube. “I can’t get it in.”
“Okay, first pass failed,” Samira adds, keeping everyone in the room up to speed. She takes a closer look at the screen, shaking her head. “Page respiratory and surgery, stat.”
Samira gives the intubation a try, but she can’t pass the tube either, and the patient is desatting quickly. “Where the hell is Robby?”
“Stuck with another patient,” Mateo says, replacing the bag over the patient’s face, squeezing it every few seconds.
Rushed footsteps echo across the linoleum floors from outside, and Dennis looks up just in time to see you push the door to the room open, the badge that reads your name and ‘RT’ over a purple background swinging back and forth from your sprint to the department. Dennis sees the way the room relaxes, thanking god that you’re the responding respiratory therapist.
He also sees how good you look.
You don’t have an undershirt on for once, and the slight v-neck of your scrubs shows off a bit more skin than usual. You somehow manage to make hospital issued scrub pants look amazing, and if he didn’t know any better he would think that they had been tailored to your body. The fabric shows off the curve of your ass perfectly.
“What’s up?” You ask, grabbing a pair of gloves, slipping into them as you move to the head of the bed.
“Fifty-eight year old male, severe mouth and neck swelling, two failed intubation attempts,” Mel explains. “Sats down to seventy.”
You do a brief exam, hands feeling up the sides of his neck and jaw, then you look inside his mouth, nodding.
“Okay, I need more pillows under his head, prop him up more,” You say. “Ears to sternal notch alignment, please.”
You take hold of the mask that Mateo was keeping pressure on, using both hands to seal it around the patient’s face as he continues to squeeze the bag. Garcia opens the door to the room, taking in the situation.
“What’s up, party people?” She asks, looking at the patient’s face. “Yikes, we should crike.”
“You know me better than that,” You counter, shifting your arms out of the way as Jesse packs pillows and blankets underneath the patients head. “Can’t let you surgeons have all the fun.”
“What’s your plan here, hot shot?” She asks, an emphasis on hot that makes Dennis look up.
“Let’s add a PEEP valve, ten centimetres,” You say, and Mel jumps into action, grabbing the piece that you’ve asked for and fitting it to the mask. “I need someone on suction, too.”
“Yep, got it,” Dennis says, scrambling a bit with the tube, his hands shaking ever-so-slightly. You’re calmer than everyone else in the room.
“Sats up to ninety-two,” Princess says, eyes flicking over the monitor.
He doesn’t miss the way you look at Garcia, a small smirk on your face as she holds her hands up, letting you work.
“Okay, let’s try intubation again with a bougie,” You say. “Don’t stop with that suction, Whitaker. Princess, can you take over for me?”
The nurse takes your place, positioning her hands over the mask exactly how yours had been. Jesse hands you the laryngoscope, which you toy with for a second, turning the light on and making sure you can see the monitor. Princess pulls the mask off once you’re in place, and you slide it into the patient's mouth.
“Dr. Mohan, can you put some pressure right here.” You put your free hand on the patient’s neck, and Samira moves to copy the action. “Good, right against the thyroid cartilage. Press towards the spine.”
Samira follows the instructions with ease, doing exactly what you’ve asked.
“Up and to the patient’s right a bit,” You add, keeping your eyes on the monitor as you hold steady. Samira adjusts. “Okay, perfect, hold it there. Bougie.”
You take the bougie in hand, and Dennis keeps the suction going, trying to keep the field clear of fluids. You don’t look at the screen for a moment, sliding it past the tracheal rings on feel alone, and then you glance back over, confirming the placement. Jesse hands you the tube when you reach your hand out, and you slip it over the bougie, inserting it into the airway. Dennis watches it on the monitor, a rush of pride swelling over him.
“I’m in,” You say, pulling the bougie out. Mateo attaches the bag to the end of the tube, and the monitor’s beeping comes to a stop as his sats hold steady. "Yellow on end-tidal."
“Sats up to ninety-eight,” Mel says, turning to look at you. “That was awesome.”
She raises her hand, giving you a high-five, which makes you grin.
“Thanks for the assist,” Samira adds, the sentence punctuated by your last name. The door between the trauma rooms open, revealing Robby, who’s eyes instantly land on you.
“Robby,” You greet.
“Oh, good,” He says. “She got your airway, I assume?”
“Sure did,” Samira says.
“She always does,” Robby says. “What’s going on?”
Dennis doesn’t miss the way his eyes trail up and down over your figure. Mel can’t look away from you either, eyes snapping between Robby and your chest. He watches her squeeze them shut for a moment, shaking her head lightly to bring herself back to the case. You pull your gloves off as you walk over to the door, turning to Garcia before you leave.
“When will you learn to stop underestimating me?” You ask, teasingly.
“Never,” Garcia shoots back, a flirtatious smile on her lips. “Keeps you sharp.”
You roll your eyes, then leave the room without a second thought, tossing your gloves into the garbage outside. Dennis stares at the doorway until he hears Robby ask Samira what she plans on doing next.
After that it became extremely clear that everyone in the ER thought you were hot, which Dennis couldn’t blame them for, but it still bugged him. Peoples eyes lingered on you a little too long whenever you were around, movements a second delayed because they were too busy thinking about you. It didn’t matter if you were just checking on a ventilated patient or trying to intubate a critical case, people were always watching.
They also talked about you.
Like, a lot.
It was driving Dennis insane.
And after ten months he just couldn’t take it anymore.
You were elated when he landed an emergency medicine residency at PTMC, as was he, but it also meant that he had to keep watching people pine after you.
The Fourth of July—a dreaded day in the emergency room, one that both of you were working. One of the boarders who had been waiting for an ICU bed desatted an hour into the day, resulting in your subsequent page and arrival to the department. Dennis comes out of a patient’s room, Ogilvie and Joy behind him, to you leaning against the nurses desk, laughing at something Dana had said.
He almost stops walking at the sight.
Your hair isn’t fully pulled back, the lower half out and styled perfectly around your jaw and shoulders. The top half is tied up, slightly frizzed. You’re wearing the typical navy blue scrubs with a white long-sleeve underneath, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your forearms tensed as you brace yourself against the desk.
“Oh, Whitaker and friends,” Dana says, gesturing for him to come over, then she says your name. “These are some of our new med students.”
Ogilvie moves so fast it makes Dennis’ head spin.
“Hi, James Ogilvie,” He says, outstretching his hand for you to shake, an obviously flirtatious smile on his face. “MS4.”
You raise an eyebrow, shaking his hand as you say your name. “Respiratory. Nice to meet you.”
“Uh, this is Joy,” Dennis says, and she gives you a wave. It might be the most enthusiastic thing she’s done all morning.
“She’s one of our best RT’s,” Dana adds. “Can intubate pretty much anyone.”
“Very good to know,” Ogilvie says, still smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smile back, completely friendly, no undertones. “Our entire team is great, don’t ever hesitate to page. We’re happy to help out. I have a patient, but again, nice meeting you.”
You turn away from them, your badge colliding with the desk, unclipping from your shirt and clattering to the floor. You huff in annoyance, bending over to pick it up. You’re flexible enough to not have to bend your knees much at all, a fact that Dennis knows very well, but the back of your shirt rides up just as your scrub pants shift, and he catches a glimpse of your hot pink thong.
Yolanda emerges from one of the rooms behind Dennis, a low whistle leaving her lips when she sees you, not hesitating to walk over as you stand back up.
“Nice thong, hot shot,” She says, and your hand collides with her shoulder in a playful push. You pull the waistband of your pants up, tug your shirt down, clip your badge back on and walk away. Trinity appears in Dennis' peripheral, a smirk on her face and arms folded over her chest as she looks to where you just were. Even Dana’s eyes are wide, and she takes a second before speaking.
“Show’s over,” She says, referring to the handful of people who look like they just saw a ghost, frozen in place.
“Holy shit,” Ogilvie mumbles, and Dennis can finally move again, hands reaching for a tablet so he can pull up a patient’s chart—any chart. “Please tell me she’s single.”
Dennis isn’t sure if the question is directed at him, but Dana answers before he can open his mouth.
“Unfortunately not, Ogilvie,” She says, eyes now focused on her computer, glasses on.
Trinity pipes up. “Yeah, you’d probably be the five hundredth med student she’s rejected if you asked her out, trust me.”
“That doesn’t mean she isn’t single,” James insists. “Maybe she just wasn’t interested in those other med students.”
Trinity clicks her tongue behind her teeth. “Nah, she’s in a relationship, trust me. No one turns down that many people without so much as a stutter unless they’re already spoken for.”
A trauma comes in a few hours later, a smoke inhalation patient. They’re coding upon arrival, one of the paramedics straddling the gurney as they’re wheeled in, instantly gaining Robby’s attention.
“Whitaker, with me,” He says, which means Ogilvie and Joy follow as well. “Page respiratory.”
“We don’t mess around with smoke inhalation,” Dennis says. “Always get RT down here as soon as you can, those airways swell like crazy.”
“As long as it’s that RT from earlier,” Ogilvie says.
Dennis says your name, followed by “and listen when they introduce themselves.”
“How was I suppose to listen when she looks like that?” He asks. Dennis wants to punch him.
“You’re disgusting,” Joy says.
“What?” Ogilvie asks. “You thought she was hot, too.”
“Yeah, but you don’t hear me talking about it.”
The trauma room fills up quickly, and you arrive just as they move the patient onto the mattress, still doing compressions. Dennis doesn’t miss the way Ogilvie looks at Joy when you walk in, completely oblivious to the small interaction.
“Talk to me,” You say, gloving up.
Robby gives you the summary, finishing up just as Dennis takes over on compressions. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, your breath catching in your throat for half a second. His biceps push against his scrubs, his chain dangling in front of him, the way it does when he’s fucking you.
“We—we should intubate right away,” You say, turning back to Robby.
“You read my mind,” He says, and you move quickly. The intubation goes relatively smoothly, all things considered, but the patient remains in asystole.
Robby says your last name, making you look at him. “Switch with Ogilvie.”
You nod, letting Donnie take over with the bag, positioning yourself over the patient and pushing into their chest hard. The arterial waveform spikes sharply on the monitor, dipping as you allow the chest to recoil, then peaks again when you push back down.
“Now that is how you do chest compressions,” Robby says. “Ogilvie, Joy, take notes.”
“Gladly,” Ogilvie whispers, happy to have an opportunity to stare at you.
“Rhythm check,” Dennis says, glancing at his watch. You stop, lifting your hands off the patient’s chest, looking towards the monitor.
“V-fib,” You say, at the same time Dennis does, too. You don’t look at him, but a small smile forms on your face, which makes his heart jump.
“Charge to two-hundred,” He says, picking up the paddles and placing them on the chest. “Clear!”
Normal sinus returns after the shock, making the room collectively exhale. Dennis steps back, putting the paddles away, just as you try to squeeze past him to get to the exit, your services no longer needed. He finds himself taking a small step forward, leaving you with a smaller gap than anticipated, resulting in your ass brushing against his crotch.
“Sorry, ‘scuse me,” You murmur, but you don’t really mean it. Dennis has to stop himself from grabbing your hips. “Page if you need me.”
“Oh, we will,” Robby says.
By the time the patient is stabilized you’re back in the department, just to check on something, but you’ve been roped into a conversation with Samira and Victoria by the water fountain. You’re playing with the cap on your water bottle, fingers flicking it open and closed repeatedly as Dennis walks out of the trauma room.
He’s sanitizing his hands when your water bottle decides to protest the action, a stream of water shooting up and out of the straw as you pull it open again, landing all over the front of your top. Victoria and Samira gasp, as do you.
“Shit, are you okay?” Ogilvie asks, and Dennis feels like he’s rooted to his spot as the med student steps closer to you, assessing the damage. Your entire shirt is soaked.
You let out a slightly humiliated laugh, waving him off. “Yeah, I’m totally fine. Just…cold.”
Your fingers grip the bottom of the shirt, yanking it over your head, revealing your almost equally wet undershirt. You frown when you look down, accepting a handful of tissues from Samira and starting to blot at the fabric.
Everyone in the immediate vicinity comes to a halt, eyes landing on you, his girlfriend, who’s standing in the middle of the room with your nipples on full display. Dennis is pretty sure you’re not wearing a bra, or at least not one of much substance, and that fact is obvious to those around him, too. Robby and Dr. Al-Hashimi stop mid conversation, both of them craning their necks to see what’s going on. Mel drops the pen she’s holding to the ground, the clattering sound ringing in his ears. The patients that line the walls are watching, unable to look away as you scrub the front of your shirt with tissues, completely unaware of what you’ve just done.
The nurses go silent. Cassie comes out of a patient’s room, feet stopping instantly, and Frank almost runs into her.
Something between possession and protection override his jealousy, forcing him to move towards you, stepping directly in front of your chest as he puts his hands on your biceps. You look up at him, then you glance over his shoulder, noticing how quiet everything has gotten.
“Come on,” He says, plucking a few more tissues from the box and holding them against your barely exposed cleavage and chest. You don’t react at all, as though his hand has been there a million times—because it has.
He pushes you towards the bathroom, locking the door behind the both of you. Trinity is the first to speak.
“She’s dating Huckleberry?”
This seems to snap everyone else out of their daze, and people scramble to get back to work, acting as though they didn’t all just collectively lose their minds over a wet t-shirt like a bunch of twelve year olds.
Your cheeks are hot, but you still find yourself making a joke.
“Guess they know we’re dating now,” You say, smiling. He exhales, a tiny laugh escaping.
“Or they think I’m a creep,” He counters, and you laugh this time. He takes his own scrub top off, revealing the tan t-shirt he has underneath and his silver chain, the one that you bought for him on his most recent birthday. “Arms up.”
You listen, raising your arms and letting him pull your shirt off, revealing your lace bralette. He swallows, passing you his scrub top before moving towards the hand dryer that sits on the opposite wall, sticking your shirt underneath it.
You grab a few paper towels, dabbing at the spots on your pants. Dennis frowns at the practically non-existent flow of air from the dryer, shaking his head.
“Pass me your scrub top,” He says, hand outstretched. You do, dropping the ball of fabric into his palm. “I’ll be right back.”
He unlocks the door, pushing it open, stepping back out into the department. Things have mostly returned to normal, but Dennis doesn’t miss the way the small group of people at central go quiet when he reappears, quickly trying to act as though they’ve been working this whole time. He sighs, walking over to the scrubs machine, unclipping your badge and tapping it to the sensor.
He inserts your old top, then dispenses a new one. He raps his knuckles against the bathroom door, smiling when you pull it open, letting him back inside. You, begrudgingly, give him his own shirt back, sliding the navy blue top on while he does the same with the black one.
“Thank you,” You say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it would…”
You trail off, exhaling sharply, your lips curving up in a disbelieving smile. “Be such an issue.”
Dennis shakes his head, grabbing you by your waist, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.
“Not your fault,” He says. “But…maybe wear a better bra from now on, hey?”
“Yeah, yeah, definitely a good idea,” You agree.
Everyone has moved on by the time you open the door, and you walk towards the exit, pager already going off again. Dennis watches you go, so do a few others.
“See you at home!” You call over your shoulder, and Dennis’ cheeks turn pink.
A/N - wow she writes for people other than robby??? it's a miracle
it's just that you have the perfect look, exactly the kind of vibe that pornstar!ghost wants in a costar. innocent eyes, perfectly parted lips when you look up at him, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of the baby doll dress the producers put you in, his mouth waters, fingers itching to grip and grope. he wants to eat you alive.
"I'm excited to work with you," you tell him, voice like bells in his head. darkness starts to fuzz his vision, his zipper biting at his hardening cock.
"'m gonna rip you apart." He grunts.
"what?" your lips part wider and ghosts fist clench tight.
bully!gojo who asks you tell you you're his girlfriend.
you're at the library studying, focused on getting your mountain-load of homework. you had been here for a few hours already and it was dark outside with very few people still around.
looking over a question, you here the doors slide open. lifting your gaze, you tense when you see satoru.
you two hadn't spoken in a while as you had a few tests and he, being satoru gojo, was likely caught up with his friends, money, and whatever else he did that made everyone like him. you look back at your question, pretending to ignore him.
"silly girl, can't hide from me." he says, laughing softly as he sits in the chair next to you. "what's that?"
"i'm not done yet, satoru. please, let me finish this." you say, running your hand through your hair.
he makes a sound of dismissal, grabbing your worksheet and folding it into his pocket.
"i'll just copy my answers."
"b-but i need to understand-"
"then i'll teach you." he says firmly, hand tense against the table. you quieten as he leans back in his chair, sipping on some juice he brought. he positions the straw in front of your face.
"want some?"
"uh, no thank you."
"suit yourself." he sits in the silence comfortably while you shift in your seat. what does he want? normally he's pretty clear on if he wants to talk or make fun of you, but he's not doing, anything?
you finally build up the courage to speak.
"um, satoru. wh-what are you doing here?" his brows furrow and he looks at you, feigning hurt.
"what? i can't hang out with my girlfriend?"
um, what?
your jaw drops, you can't help it. did he just say girlfriend? since when?
"u-uh, what, what are you t-talking about?"
"i'm just supporting my girlfriend as she studies, like a good boyfriend does."
your face reddens, humiliation flowing through you. just another one of his stupid pranks likely, he's probably recording this so he can laugh about it to his friends later.
"n-no, you know we're not, together."
he turns his head to look at you, face completely serious this time. his smile and giggly facade drops and he leans in, making firm eye contact with you.
"i told you, you are my girlfriend. you're not that dumb honey, surely i don't need to explain it again."
you look at him dumbfounded, so confused at this apparent truth. he glances at your stuff spread across the table before he begins to pack it up, ignoring your protests. once he's done, he slings your bag over his back and stands up.
"w-wait, what are you-"
"c'mon, i'm driving you home." he says, already halfway out of the library. you quickly put on your jacket and follow him outside, spotting his flashy car immediately. he unlocks it and opens the passenger door for you, waiting patiently.
"satoru, if this is some kind of prank-"
you freeze when he suddenly leans in and kisses you, deeply. he keeps you there until he finally pulls away to whisper in your ear.
"you ask me any more stupid questions and i'll break your fucking laptop again."
swallowing nervously, you get into the car. he places your bag next to you before happily walking to the driver's side.
after a quick drive to your house, he helps you out of the car and walks you to your front door. after ringing the doorbell, your mother answers.
"oh, hello. y/n, who is this?" she asks.
"i'm satoru, ma'am. pleasure to meet you." he says with his brightest smile, offering his hand. "i'm y/n's boyfriend."
simon ‘ghost’ riley who never bothered learning how to flirt properly so is just horribly blunt with you all the time.
“tits look good in yer top love.” uttered with a straight face over his coffee mug in the morning. “makes me want to fuck ‘em.”
bend over in front of him to pick something up? he's groaning and tipping his head back, palming himself through his jeans with a, “fuckin’ christ love, look at you. perfect fuckin’ arse. c'mere, don't walk away when I'm picturin’ you face first on the carpet.”
it's worse if he's had a few drinks. he can't help but tell the lads how his “missus ‘as the prettiest cunt I've ever fuckin’ seen.” before abruptly leaving so he can go home and see it for himself.
and when he does get home with whiskey on his breath and smoke laced through his clothes? he just pulls you to the edge of the sofa; your pajama bottoms and underwear gone before you can blink. “there she is.” he mutters, spreading you open with two fingers and dropping a kiss on your clit. “there's my pretty little thing.”
husband!satoru : and darling they all look like me
satoru gets the wind knocked out of him.
kind of embarrassing for the strongest but,
you’d just caught him off guard okay?
i mean, who expects to be woken up by their extremely pregnant wife sobbing into his arms and then getting punched in the gut by said wife.
mind you, at three am.
certainly not him.
“ow!” satoru winces, attempting a lopsided smile “you throw a harsh punch, babe” he comments, trying to seize the situation.
“it’s not fair!” you sob, uncontrollable tears continue to stream down your face, “i’m doing all the hard work”
“yes you are” satoru nods eagerly, not wanting to piss you off any further.
“this is my third pregnancy, THIRD, i do everything i bare all the load and they all—“ you hiccup.
satoru sees it coming, he knows exactly what you’re going to say.
“they all always come out looking like YOU” you jab an accusatory finger at him.
your husband tries to open his mouth but you cut him off, rambling now “white hair, blue eyes, stupid adorable smile, it’s all you! i mean am i even a participant in their birth??”
trying not to laugh, satoru raises his hands up in mock surrender “these are all valid concerns” he affirms “but i thought you liked my features”
“yeah i did until now, when there’s two exact replicas of you running around and another on the way” you yawn, sleep already overriding your argument.
you didn’t really mean it, you loved seeing your lovers face in all of your children, but for the sake of sentimentality were you really the last of your generation? an almost extinct species truly.
“i’ll tell my genes to do better, actually you know what i’ll tell them to do worse, they’ve been outperforming recently” satoru speaks while caressing your hair and pressing soft kisses all over your face.
you patted his chest softly, almost feeling bad for punching him and already half asleep “yeah you do that”
he lightly chuckled, smiling at your belly all swollen with none other than another mini-him.
Simon didn't care about the fact that he shared a flat with someone. At all.
He was so non-disturbed about it in fact that he put no effort into acting even half-decent.
It wasn't rare to see Simon jerking off in his room with an open door, or watch the tv with his cock out, that a towel should be covering.
He just... didn't give a fuck.
It was annoying. Sure.
But you weren't gonna leave it that way. If he was gonna be an ass. You were gonna be an even bigger ass.
You made sure to put lipstick on every time you made yourself coffee, taking his mugs, pressing the stain in there real good and letting it marinate for a couple hours. Maybe even days.
Borrowed his towels, since you shared a bathroom, and made sure to use them for makeup removal.
When you put perfume on you also made sure to drown the room in it.
Everytime you were bringing out the trash, you took his boots, which made you waddle... but that's not important, what is important is that you made sure to get them dirty as fuck, mud, sand, rocks in them?
You did your very best to be the absolute ass you could be able to be.
Only for the whole thing to be answered with a dirty pair of your panties on your bed, with a heart on them, made of seemingly semen.
"Got you pretty good, huh?" A very proud voice said from your doorway.
That night you learnt that being an asshole was his way of flirting... and he thought you too... were flirting.
Which is also how you ended up bent over that very bed. Those same panties stuck in your mouth while he rearranged your insides and sucked on your neck like a vampire.
By the time he was done with you, you did feel like all the blood had been sucked out of you.
“You know, if you’re going to be on your phone at work, it better be for something more important than… ‘best drugstore mascara’?”
Jack Abbot frowns as he plucks your phone from your hand. You spin around to look at him, “I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot! I’ll get back to—“
“What does that mean?” He asks, squinting at your still-unlocked phone.
You close your mouth, “Um… that I’m apologizing? For being on my—“
“No, no.” Jack shakes his head, “Drugstore mascara. What the hell is that?”
“Do you not know what mascara is?”
“No— yes. I had a wife, of course I know what—“ Jack shuts his eye, pinching the bridge of the nose. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again, “I’m asking about the drugstore part.”
“You don’t know what a drugstore is.”
“No— Jesus, you’re killing me here. Drugstore mascara. What is drugstore mascara?”
“Oh,” you cock your head, crossing your arms in front of you. “Uh, it’s just cheaper. You can find it at like, you know, the drugstore.”
“Cheaper?” Jack echoes. “Is it good?”
You shrug, “Not as good as the real deal, but I’m not about to drop thirty bucks for, like, a better formula.” You look to Jack, whose face indicates absolutely zero understanding of what you’re talking about.
“Just buy the better one.”
You blink, “Did you forget the thirty dollars part or…?” Maybe you ask that question with a little more attitude than is appropriate, but it’s not like talking to your boss at work about mascara is the most professional conversation. “I’m a resident, Dr. Abbot. I’m not making the kind of cheese where I can just splurge on makeup.”
Jack nods as though he understands, but his eyes are distant. You smile at him awkwardly. Just as the sense to return to charting hits you, Jack asks, “What’s your venmo?”
“Huh?”
Jack reaches into the back pocket of his camo cargo pants. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through it casually, “Give me your venmo account.”
“Why?” You ask, not because you actually don’t know, but to beg for an out. You don’t think your heart can handle the thought of your hot attending giving you money for makeup. Just the thought makes your skin feel tight.
“Thirty bucks is nothing for me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Your knees buckle.
“I can’t let you do that.”
Jack turns back to your phone, still in his grip. He searches for the venmo app, an act that should feel invasive, but you’re too flustered to think like that. He finds your account, then returns to tap at his own device.
“It was your birthday last month, right?” Jack asks. He does one final
“Uh… four months ago.” You look down at your phone, where a notification comes through, lighting up your screen.
Jack Abbot paid you $100.00 - Make-up - Your Venmo balance is now $100.00.
“Happy birthday.”
“Oh my— Dr. Abbot, this is—“
“Nope,” Jack puts his hand up, shaking his head. “Don’t want to hear it. Let me know if you need more, okay? I mean it.”
“Uh, okay, thank you,” your words come out like a question.
“Don’t mention it.”
With that, Jack is gone. You stare at the phone screen, only one thought swirling in your head.
Is Jack Abbot auditioning to be your fucking sugar daddy?
