Summary: A normal ER shift takes a highly unexpected turn when a patient’s homemade brownies hit a little too hard
A/N: Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.
Masterlist
The emergency department was in its usual chaotic rhythm by the time you clocked in. It was one of those days where you were constantly moving, in and out of patient rooms, checking vitals, administering medication, juggling a million other things at once. Voices overlapped from every direction. Someone was calling for labs, someone else was asking for meds, and a paramedic was giving a report too fast for anyone to fully catch.
That was the thing about this place: you didn't ease into a shift, you went in swinging. No warm-up, no pause. Just straight into it.
You’d barely set your bag down when you saw the nurse's light flash for assistance in room seven.
“I got room seven,” you called out, not really to anyone in particular, just enough for the rest of the staff to know it was covered.
You were already moving towards the hall when–
“Hey.”
You glanced over your shoulder, instinctively searching for the familiar voice. Jack was leaning back against the counter, tablet in hand, but he wasn’t really looking at it. His attention was on you, had been since you came through the staff doors. His gaze followed you easily, like it always did, picking you out of the chaos without trying.
It was second nature to him.
“Try not to get into too much trouble today, will you?” he called after you, as if he knew what kind of day you were already about to have.
You snorted, not even slowing as you kept walking. “No promises, babe.”
His mouth twitched in amusement as he watched you.
“That's what I was afraid of,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.
You shook your head, continuing onto room seven, but now with a small smile tugging at your lips. You could feel it, even without turning back– his eyes lingered on you, warm and affectionate.
Room seven was like a breath of fresh air when you entered.
A sweet, elderly woman sat on the edge of the bed, her hair neatly pinned back in a bun and a tan cardigan draped over her shoulders. She looked like the stereotypical grandmother who appeared on television. She smiled as you stepped in, her eyes twinking with a warmth that immediately put you at ease.
“Hello, Ma’am, I saw you needed some help?” you asked, moving closer.
“None of that,” she said with a playful shake of her head. “Please, call me Betty.”
“Betty,” you repeated with a smile. “Alright, Betty. How can I help you today?”
“Well,” she said, reaching for the call button at her bedside. “I hit this because I didn't know if you folks forgot about silly old me.” She laughed softly. “And I've been watching, you all seem so kind to one another.”
You chuckled. “It’s not that we forgot, Betty. It’s just …busy here.” You gestured vaguely at the chos outside of her room. “But I’ll check your vitals again. Your X-rays still haven't come back yet, so we’ll keep an eye on things until they do.”
Betty’s eyes lit up as she reached beside her bed and handed you a blue Tupperware container. “The last doctor forgot to take these,” she said gently. “But these are some homemade brownies I made for you all. You guys work so hard, and I wanted to do something as nice as a thank you.”
You hesitated for a second, torn between hospital policy and her genuine kindness. The container was full of slightly uneven but perfectly golden brownies, the cocoa aroma drifting up to your senses immediately.
“Betty… you didn't have to,” you thanked her, genuinely touched.
“Oh, I wanted to, dear,” she replied warmly, her smile sincere. “I just wanted to make your day a little easier.”
You nodded, carefully accepting the container. Rules be damned, you weren't going to upset this kind old lady.
For a moment, the chaos of the ED felt just a little lighter.
The break room was a rare moment of quiet amid the usual chaos of the ED. It wasn’t often that you were able to sit down and actually relax in here.
You placed Betty’s Tupperware on the counter for anyone who wanted a treat. You couldn’t resist eating one of the brownies; it was warm, sweet, and unexpectedly comforting, the kind of little indulgence that made the chaos of the shift feel just a bit easier.
You returned to your duties, leaving the rest of the brownies safely in the room for the rest of the staff. Completely ordinary, you told yourself. A little chocolate never hurt anyone.
The nurse’s station was buzzing as usual, phone ringing, monitors beeping, colleagues chatting, but you moved through it all with your usual efficiency… or at least you thought you were.
Jack, standing nearby, tilted his head slightly as he watched you file through charts. Something about the way you moved, the little smile tugging at your lips a little too often, made him pause. He was suspicious; you seemed just a little too cheerful for someone powering through a twelve-hour shift.
Dana wandered over, chewing her gum while balancing a stack of charts. She stopped mid-step, squinting at you. Did she just see you laugh at one of your own notes?
“Honey, are you alright?” she asked slowly.
You blinked at her, genuinely confused. “Huh? Oh, no.. I just saw something funny, that’s all.” You waved her concern and returned to sorting the notes, completely unaware of the faint wobble in your step.
Dana exchanged a glance with Jack, leaning in slightly. “Is she okay?” she murmured.
Jack shrugged, still unsure. “I think so. Just a little off. Probably lack of sleep.”
For a while, you continued through the shift, moving through the patients' charts and checking IVs as normal, though this time a little more giggly. You hummed under your breath as you worked, swaying when it involved leaving the desk.
Eventually, the first unmistakable wave hit. You found yourself leaning against a counter, laughing at nothing in particular, flicking pens and notes across the nurses' station without meaning to.
Dana’s narrowed, and this time she knew something was seriously wrong. “Okay..” she muttered, walking over and gently taking your arm. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?” you asked brightly, giggling as you let her guide you down the hall, your fingers brushing along her arm without even realizing it. Each step felt floaty, just a little too easy, and you leaned into her touch more than necessary, smiling up at her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Sit down here,” Dana said, motioning to an empty patient room. “I just want to make sure you’re okay for a second.”
You plopped onto the edge of the bed, still giggling softly, reaching for Dana’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Dana… you’re so nice,” you murmured, leaning closer than usual. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Dana’s eyes widened, then flicked towards the hallway, a frown crossing her face. Something was definitely off. “I need to go get Jack, okay?” she muttered, letting go of your arm and stepping out quickly to call him.
You hummed contentedly, sinking into the edge of the bed, your finger brushing over the soft sheets. The fabric felt impossibly smooth, comforting in a way that made you sigh happily.
“Oh… Jack,” you murmured as soon as you saw him step into the room, your eyes lighting up. “These sheets… we need a pair for home. They’re… amazing.” You wiggled your fingers along the fabric, completely enraptured, your smile wide and dreamy.
Jack knelt beside you, raising an eyebrow but keeping his voice calm. “You want our bed to have hospital sheets?” He couldn't believe his ears.
You tilted your head, still running your hands over the soft fabric. “Not the hospital ones … these. Soft like clouds.”
Jack exchanged a glance with Dana, who had just stepped in behind him, her lips pressed together to hide a smirk. Both of them blinked, trying to make sense of the dreamy, almost floaty expression on your face.
“Baby, are you okay?” he asked cautiously. “You seem different.”
You leaned into him, pressing your cheek against his chest. “You’re so handsome,” you murmured. “I love you so much, even though you snore.”
Jack froze, exchanging a stunned glance with Dana. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is she high?”
Jack ran a hand through his hair, assessing the situation calmly. Why is she high? And how in the world on shift? “Okay… babe, when was the last time you ate today?
“…Breakfast?” you answered thoughtfully, tilting your head like it required serious consideration.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Just breakfast?”
Your face brightened suddenly. “Oh! Wait… some patient! An old lady gave me brownies!”
Jack blinked. “Brownies?”
You nodded eagerly. “In the break room! Jack, you need to try them; they were so good.” You emphasize, trying to figure out why earlier you didn't bother to bring a brownie to Jack so he could try them.
Dana’s eyes flicked to Jack, her lips pressed together, and she whispered, “I’m already on it,” before stepping quickly to go and try to avoid another disaster.
Jack exhaled softly, a mix of relief and amusement washing over him. Now that he knows why you're like this. He let his hand drift to your shoulder as you nuzzled into him.
“How about we go home?” he murmured gently, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Before you get into any trouble.”
You giggled, wrapping an arm around his neck. “Yeah… home to our bed.”
Jack smiled, shaking his head. “Alright, let’s get out of here before you start causing a scene,” He carefully guided you off the bed. In any other instance, he would carry you in this state, but he knew it would draw more attention than needed.
You leaned fully into him, fingers tracing along his shoulders, humming softly. “Are you going to be in bed with me?
Jack nodded and ensured he wrapped his arm securely around your waist, steering you down the hall, subtly dodging busy staff and shielding you from anyone who might notice. You swayed slightly with each step, giggling at nothing and murmuring little compliments about him.
Just as you made it to the emergency exit, Robby appeared, arriving for his shift. You waved lazily, eyes sparkling. “Hey, handsome! You coming with us… or just want to watch?”
Jack shot him a pointed look while his ears turned red. “I’ll tell you later,” he muttered, tugging you gently forward. Robby stood there, clearly flustered and confused, while you giggled softly, leaning into Jack even more.
You pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. “I love you… so much…”
“I know, babe,” Jack murmured, smiling as he guided you toward the exit. “I love you too… however, no more brownies for you.”
He helped you settle into the passenger seat, gently buckling you in. You leaned your head against the window for a second, eyes half-lidded and dreamy, still holding his hand.
“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“I know… so buy me new sheets,” you whispered back, your fingers tracing lightly along his hand.
Jack pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to your forehead. “Alright… home we go,” he said, starting the engine.
You sighed contentedly, your head resting against the seat, fingers still entwined with his. Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy, your body relaxing in the warmth of the car, and the lingering effects of the brownies lulled you toward sleep.
And just like that, you drifted into a peaceful sleep, warm and cared for, Jack quietly keeping watch as the car hummed toward home.
Jack Abbot x fem!reader (little bit of Robby x reader)—in which, Robby doesn't want anything to do with you and his child, but Jack is always here for you, for your kid. He steps up for you.
TW: Robby's an asshole, pregnancy, slow-burn . Jack is a great partner. ANGST
A/N: Credit for the idea belongs to @lunarayletters, my mutual, actually!!!!!
The results of the test stare up at you, the 35 mIU/mL swimming before your eyes, the meaning making your head spin with the implications. You had suspected that you were pregnant, but it’s one thing to suspect it and another to see the results staring you in the face, unmistakable in black and white fresh from the lab.
“Fuck,” you whisper, the paper crumpling just slightly in your hand as the tears well up. You’re both happy and distraught because yes, you want to be a mother, but there are so many conflicting variables and things to consider and things to plan.
And it doesn’t help that this has been the actual shift from Hell, crash carts being called left and right, two Code Hulu-Hoops, three peds traumas and a computer crash that set everything back for two hours.
You know that you’re overwhelmed and tired and that it’s not helping the reveal of this news, of this fact, but your stomach still dropped when you saw the results, when you saw that what you’d been afraid of for the past two days was true.
You’d started to wonder when you began to get sick in the mornings, when the smell of baking cookies made you sick to your stomach when normally it made you relaxed and when the taste of strawberries made you nauseous too.
You’d just hoped you were wrong.
“Hey, hey,” calls out Robby, the main reason you feel sick looking at the results. “Been missing my favourite nurse out here.” His words are light, but his tone is pointed, angry. You know he wants you back out on the floor, smiling and treating patients, being that beaming ray of moonlight, soft and steady and not blinding like Jack called you back when you started here.
“Yeah, sorry,” you whisper, swallowing once, the movement difficult, throat thick, a spiked ball resting in your lungs, pricking you with every breath you draw in. “Just got side-tracked, I’ll be right out.” You lick your lips once, teeth sinking into the flesh of your bottom lip as you crumple the test results in your hand, pulling your locker open and setting it inside, hoping to delay the inevitable.
Telling Robby.
“You okay?” he asks and you can hear the subtle change in his tone, the change from anger to irritated concern. Sometimes, you wonder why you’re with him at all when he’s like this, when everything is wrong with the world, but nothing with him. Where the failings are everyone else and never him. But then you see him on good days, you see him with the peds cases and the babies that get delivered and you see the good. You see the man who asked you out, a bashful, boyish smile on his face.
“Fine,” you say, turning from your locker to him, taking in the deeply etched lines of stress on his brow, the new grey hairs in his beard, the exhaustion in his mahogany eyes. “Just got…just got a little distracted. All good now.” You force a smile, one that feels fake and tired and a little like a plastic, Barbie doll smile, one that isn’t you at all.
And you walk towards him, slipping by him, your shoulder brushing against his belly in the door, your body positioning itself closer to him automatically, without your conscious awareness and you can feel his hand close around your wrist, his hand broad and warm, calloused fingers just gently scraping against your skin.
“We on for tonight?” he whispers, his breath skating along your neck, gentle and heated, awareness of his closeness heating you even as the number 35 spins behind your eyes.
“Yeah,” you whisper, glancing over at him, unable to suppress the feeling of happiness you have over the results. Yes, it’s a lot. It’s stressful and it’s a big change and this has been a shit shift, but you’re happy knowing that you’ll get to be a mother. That you’ll get to hold a child of your own, protect them and give them everything you never had—that unconditional love and acceptance and guidance and support. “We have to talk.”
And then you push past him, heading over to the station where Dana stands, iPad resting on her lower stomach, eyebrows arched and lips downturned just slightly in her worried frown.
“You okay, hon?” she asks you when you’re close enough that she doesn’t have to yell and you nod once, a fast, jerky motion because you feel like a walking paradox. You’re happy and you’re sad, you’re calm and you’re anxious, you’re crying and yet you’re fucking smiling.
“Just surprised,” you tell her, looking around at the centre of the Pitt, at the way everyone moves around like worker bees, centred around the hive of the station. “Didn’t expect it. Kinda scared me…but…I’m happy. I’m excited.”
“That’s how it should be, sweetie,” Dana says, her hand coming to rest on your bicep, moving in a circular motion, her touch soothing. “You tell Robby, yet?” You sigh and shake your head, looking down at your hands, the two of them interlaced, white-knuckling the other.
“I’m gonna talk to him tonight…be bad to talk about it now, today of all days,” you tell her, that small sardonic smile curling on your lips as you catch a glimpse of him, black scrubs and green sweater sleeves, heading into a trauma room, face drawn tight and pinched.
“He’ll be happy, I’m sure,” Dana says, but as you get pulled away, back into the hustle, into the chaos of the ED, all you can think about, the thought lingering in the back of your mind is that Dana didn’t sound sure of it.
She sounded like she was trying to convince you.
Convince herself.
“God,” Robby groans as he settles his body onto your sofa, his eyes closing as his hands come up to his face, scrubbing down as he leans his head back against the headrest, feet propping up on the footstool. “That shift was hell.”
“Yeah, it really was,” you reply, sliding on your socked feet across the linoleum floor of your house to the kitchen, the fridge where you know you still have pizza left over from the takeout you had with Trinity and Dennis last night. You’re too tired to cook, to do anything other than eat cold pizza, your mind not on proper nutrition, not yet.
Not today.
Not when you have to tell Robby that you’re pregnant with his kid and suffer through the coin flip of his emotions—50% chance that he’ll be happy and a 50% that he’ll be angry and react in a way you don’t want to see.
Maybe more 70% on that one.
“You know what would make us feel better?” you hear Robby say, his voice not that far from you, meaning he’s gotten up from the couch, come closer to you. Meaning if you turn around now, you’ll see him. You’ll see those eyes of his, the ones that are a tempest, that can be beautiful and happy and full of warmth, full of love in one moment and then full of irritation and anger and hate in the next.
You realized throughout your shift, that it’s never been your child that’s scared you but rather the fear of seeing the way Robby looks at you change. And not in the good way.
“Robby—” you start, but he cuts you off as you turn around, his eyebrows rising, lips curling up into a smile, one suggestive and yet sweet.
“A nice long shower, together,” he says and you can feel the thickness once again in your throat when you look up at him and see the way he’s looking at you, with such warmth and desire.
“Michael,” you say and already you can see the change in him, the stiffening of his body, the questioning look in his eyes. “We have to talk.”
“About what?” he asks you, taking a step closer, his eyes narrowing in worry, not anger or irritation or suspicion. Not yet at least. Not ever, you hope.
“About this,” you tell him, drawing the test results, the crumpled ball of printer paper from your pocket, smoothing it out as you hand it to him, the paper riddled with creases and wrinkles but the result of 35 still clear. Still bright and black, stark against the white grain of the paper, the meaning obvious.
“You’re…” he pauses, his hand stilling, forearm muscles tensing as he takes the paper from your grip, his fingers curling around it exactly as yours had, the paper changing from his grip. “You’re pregnant?” he asks, his voice high-pitched, slightly strangled and breathy on the last word as if the entire idea has robbed him of the ability to breathe.
“Yeah,” you whisper, tears beginning to line your eyes, hopeful tears. Happy tears. “I’m pregnant.”
He looks up at you then, his expression having dropped, closed off, become unreadable, stoic in a way, his warm eyes now gone cold. “Is it mine?”
“Is it…is it…” you pause, drawing in a breath, chest constricting, body tensing, your veins on fire as if you’ve been shot with epi, which in a way you have. “Is it yours?! What the fuck are you saying, Michael?! Are you accusing me of cheating on you?! I fucking love you and I would never fucking cheat! You know this, you asshole! You fucking asshole!” You can feel the tears falling down your cheeks now, the salt water born of your body searing your skin, sucking moisture out and drying it.
But he is unmoved, simply sighing and running a hand through his hair as he looks down at the paper in his hand. Your hands are curling into fists, the urge to hit something, hit him welling in you because you can’t understand how he can stand there and accuse you of cheating. Something he knows you would never do, something he knows tore apart your family.
“You’re obviously early on…” he muses, one hand rubbing at his beard incessantly as he sets the paper down on your kitchen island, gaze flicking up to you once before looking away. “The medication would be safe in this case. We can get Abbot to sign off on the or—”
“You expect me to get rid of it?” you whisper, your voice cracking, heart slamming against your chest in a way that hurts so much, in a way that tells you it isn’t your physical heart at all. It’s just you.
You hurt this bad.
“You want it?” he asks you, looking up again, his face twisting and shifting and changing into the expression he has in the ED when people annoy him, when the world is wrong and he’s the only thing right.
“Yes, Robby, I want to have my baby. Our baby. I love you and…yeah, I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I toldyou that,” you cry, hands uncurling, slamming down on the island, the noise echoing through the room, skin against granite, the sting reverberating through you.
“Did you stop taking your pill? Did you do this on purpose?” he asks you and it hurts more because of the carefully neutral tone he has, the clinical voice. The doctor voice.
“What the fuck?! What the fuck is wrong with you, Michael?!” you yell, the sound of pulsing and pounding echoing through your head, your blood the sound as it rushes to your head, body feeling weak, but anger too high to ignore. “You think I’m fucking baby-trapping you?!”
“I don’t fucking know!” he yells, his face twisting in anger, in hate, something you never wanted to see on his face. “All I know is that we practice safe sex. So, how the hell did you get knocked-up?!”
“Safe sex, my ass! You’re the one who said ‘oh you’re on the pill. It’s fine if I don’t pull out. It’s 99 percent effective’ Guess we found the other one percent, Michael!” You watch as his hands fly up to his head, fingers digging into the short strands of his dark and greying hair, pulling just a little.
“Fuuck!” he cries, ripping his hands through his hair, letting the hover behind his head, biceps flexing as he closes his eyes, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking do this! I want nothing to do with this! You…”
“Me what?! You have words, Michael. Fucking use them!”
“YOU DO THIS ON YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN!” he yells, his words echoing around the room with the force of a gunshot, like a bomb, the shrapnel from the explosion targeted at you, at your heart. You can feel his words in every inch of your body, each part seemingly erupting with pain, but you don’t even think of yourself.
You think of your baby.
Of how the stress isn’t good for them. For you, for their growth.
“Fine,” you whisper, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, tears continuing to fall down your cheeks, but they feel like nothing, like you’ve just always existed in this state of silent crying, of wet necklines on your scrubs. “Then get the fuck out.”
“What?” He looks at you now, properly but he still doesn’t change, doesn’t move, instead his face locking back down into the neutral, into the carefully bland Dr. Robby everyone knows.
“I do this and I’m on my own, right?” you ask and he nods and you look up at the ceiling, at the white plaster, hand done in the sixties and look back down at him. “Then get the fuck out of my house, Michael. You want nothing to do with this? Then you’ll have nothing to do with this Micheal. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
And even though it’s what you wanted, when he leaves, closing the door behind him, it still hurts. It hurts even when you wish it didn’t. It hurts because you wish he had stayed and asked to talk about it, that he would change his mind when faced with the prospect of losing you.
It hurts because you wanted to be wanted. You wanted to be something he couldn’t actually lose. You wanted to be someone he would fight for.
You wanted to be someone he thought was worth fighting for.
And you sink to your knees, the cold pizza still in the fridge now forgotten, your back against the cool metal of your fridge door. You sink to the ground, shifting until your ass is on the ground, your head in between your knees and you let out every swear word, every curse word, everything you have inside. You let it all out, your breath hitching and voice cracking and giving and heart breaking, mind tearing.
You let it all out because you have to figure out how to move on. How to shove past being alone, being without him.
You let it all out for you. Because you can’t carry this pain with you when you move on.
But most of all, you let it out for your child. Because they need you, all of you, not a shell still holding onto the pain of losing and being lost.
They need you and you have to give them that.
But for right now, it’s okay to just cry.
And you do.
Hi Dana,
Sorry for letting you know this way, but I’ve been promoted up to Charge Nurse in Orthopedics. I sent in for a transfer and they promoted me instead.
I start on Monday and as such, my shifts in the Pitt for the rest of this week will be covered by Matteo. He agreed, you’ll find it on the schedule. It’s best if I focus on getting ready for the changeover.
I’m sorry, Dana. I can’t continue to work in the environment of the Pitt, especially not when I’m expecting. I wish things could have been different. I wish he could have been different.
Thanks for everything.
Your chest feels hollow, scraped clean and made concave, as if your heart has been carved from your chest, only a little seed left behind. Only a little bit still there still beating, held together by hope.
That small little bit of hope that you carry inside of you. The hope that this will get better, that you’ll stop hurting after a while, that eventually it will be okay.
Because you have to hurt to heal.
Or at least that’s what you tell yourself as you cry into your pillow, missing the feeling of his body beside yours, his arms around you.
That’s what you tell yourself, you have to hurt to heal. If it hurts that means it was real. That’s what you tell yourself because otherwise what’s the point of the hurting? What’s the point in this hollow existence if it won’t get better.
You know it will. You know it will get better because it has to. You have too. But not for you, you have a child to worry about, one to raise and care for and love in a way that is unconditional. You have to be ready.
And you will.
You have to hurt to heal and you are hurting so you’re healing.
The world seems brighter again, like the colour is back and the sounds are sounds and light is light. You no longer feel like you’re living in a vacuum, the one thing nature abhors.
You no longer feel hollow, you just feel incomplete. Just a little cracked.
Work helps. The showing up day after day, organizing everyone else, shifting things and fixing problems, there for patients and doctors.
New people help. The new drama and issues and stories help distract you, pull you into a new world, new universe.
One where it’s like Robby never existed at all except for the child growing within you.
So, what can you say about today? The world seems brighter and you don’t feel hollow.
It’s a start.
Jack loved you first, by all accounts in the ED, you should have been with Jack—except that it was Robby who asked you out, who took that step. You said yes because he asked and Jack never did.
Jack loved you first and loves you still. He loves the way you laugh, just a tad too loud, just a tad too long, just a tad too hard. He loves the way you smile at everyone as if smiles take no effort to give out, as if it isn’t giving away a piece of yourself to others.
He loves the way you don’t put up with other people’s bullshit, the way you put them in their place in the most respectful way until respectful doesn’t work.
He loves the way you talk, the way you sigh and the way you roll your eyes. He loves the way you get excited about the things you love, lighting up and going on long tangents, only returning to the world when you realize that you’ve gotten carried away.
He loves you. Everything about you, everything you think is good about yourself and everything you think is bad because to him, everything about you is good and perfect.
He loves you and he loved you first, but he had to watch as Robby swooped in, winning you over and now he’s watching his friend, the man who a little part of him hates for winning your heart, fuck it all up.
“What the fuck is up with you, brother?” he asks Robby now, leaning on the nurse’s station with one elbow, his body facing Robby who’s looking down at the iPad in his hand, glasses sitting low on his nose.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Robby replies, tone distracted as he taps on the screen, doing something and pretending that he doesn’t know. Pretending that he doesn’t realize that everyone in the entire ED knows something happened between you and him. Because you, the ED’s Moonlight, aren’t here anymore.
“Where’s Moonlight?” Jack doesn’t leave any room in his tone for interpretation, there is nothing leading or suggesting, it’s straight and clear and to the point—where the fuck is the woman who loves you? What the fuck did you do to her? Because Jack is under no illusions that you did anything; he knows Robby.
He knows he runs when things get real.
“She, uh…she got promoted. Charge nurse up on Ortho last I heard,” Robby says, looking up, peering at Jack over the top of his black-frame glasses, the glasses you picked out for him, saying they would bring his youth back.
“That’s not what I meant, Robby,” he replies, lifting himself off of the nurse’s station, arms crossing, biceps flexing but not in a display of his toughness, rather because his leg hurts, the time on his feet, on the prosthetic wears at his skin, never enough time for it to really heal in-between shifts. “What happened?”
“None of your business, Jack,” Robby says, but Jack isn’t giving up that easily. He can’t. Not when this about you, about your heart.
“It is my fucking business, Robby, cause I love her too,” Jack hisses, reaching for Robby’s sleeve and pulling him into an empty patient room, closing the door behind them and standing in front of it, preventing Robby from leaving. “What the fuck did you do?”
“Me?! I didn’t do anything,” Robby says but all Jack does is raise his eyebrows, waiting. And it works. “She’s pregnant and I told her I couldn’t deal with it, suggested we could take care of it, she said no. I told her I wanted nothing to do with it and she told me to get the fuck out.”
“She’s pregnant and you left her?!” Jack cries, the feeling inside of him so foreign and so strange that he doesn’t entirely understand it, only that he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the man before him, wants to put him through a fucking wall actually.
“I cannot deal with a kid right now, Jack,” Robby yells, his hand flying out to hit the wall, the bang in the room echoing and strong but Jack doesn’t fucking care, simply walks up to Robby and jabs his finger into his chest.
“Listen here, Robby,” he whispers, finger frozen dug into Robby’s chest, “you’re a piece of shit. You grew up without a mother and now you want your child to grow up without a father. That’s not gonna happen. I’m not gonna make you do anything, but I will be there and you and me,” he pulls his finger back, using it to gesture between them, “are done.” And he turns to go, to walk away and leave Robby behind, leave him to deal with his shit alone and simply find you.
Find you and hold you and let you cry, scream and hit him. Anything to make you feel better.
Anything to make you okay.
“Our friendship is over because of her?” Robby cries and Jack can hear the incredulity in his tone, can hear the disbelief and in response, all he does is hold up the middle finger, saying, “all of this is because you’re incapable of being a man worthy of someone else.”
And he leaves, but not to work, not to care for his patients. No, he leaves for you.
He leaves so that you know you don’t have to go it alone.
He’s here. He’s always here for you.
“Camille,” you call out, spinning around, looking for the new nurse, the one just finished her undergrad, eager and peppy and getting totally slaughtered by Park.
“Yeah?” she calls out and you can hear the worry in her tone, the worry that she’s doing yet another thing wrong—although you did tear into Park for disciplining one of your staff, not his.
“Can you check on the patient in Room 5, please?” you ask her, watching as her face brightens, the girl young and kind, good with the patients simply nervous around the doctor who isn’t nicknamed the Shark for nothing.
“Nice to see you running things,” calls a voice that makes you stop, the world freezing for a moment as you turn around, the sight of Jack strange to you, but not unwelcome.
“Hey, Jack,” you say, stepping out from behind the desk to lean your hip against it, crossing your arms over your chest, a layer of defence, of separation between you and him. “What’s up?”
“I know,” he says and you want to ask him what he knows but you can see in his face that he knows about your child, about your baby, about Robby’s baby. And the break-up. Robby’s side of the story.
“Well, what do you want to say? You here to defend him? Or are you here to encourage me to get rid of them?” You clench your teeth together, grinding them as you raise your eyebrows at him, waiting. Challenging.
And he does what you don’t expect. He steps towards you, his hands coming to rest on your biceps, a steady grip, a soothing grip.
“I’m here to say that he’s an asshole and as the shared friend, in the break-up someone has to get me and I chose you,” he says and the simplicity, the matter-of-factness of his tone takes you by surprise while also not because this is Jack. Jack Abbot, the doctor who on your first shift nicknamed you Moonlight and has refused to call you anything else since then.
Jack Abbot who chose you.
“You just want your cool uncle title, right?” you ask him, unable to prevent the fond smile that curls across your lips as he smirks at you, shrugging before growing serious.
“I chose you because I don’t want you doing this alone. I’m always here for you, Moonlight. You just gotta tell me and I’ll be there. Day or night, hell or high water, okay?” And all you can do is nod, your throat thick.
But he knows, he understands and then he salutes you, disappearing back to the Pitt, to his job and his patients, leaving you sitting with the knowledge that you don’t have to be alone.
You don’t have to do everything yourself.
It’s a few weeks later when you call Jack for the first time, a part of you still hesitant to believe him and his words, sweet as they may be. A part of you that still fears he really chose Robby; he just didn’t want you grieving them both. A part of you that thinks it was a symbolic offer only.
“Jack,” you say when he picks up, “I need your help.”
“What’s wrong, Moonlight? What is it? What do you need? Where are you?” You can feel the smile rising and you can’t help but roll your eyes. “And I can hear that eye roll, Moonie.”
“I need your help with the nursery. It’s kind of hard to paint when you have a baby bump.”
“Two minutes, Moonie,” he says, his words sending a strange feeling coursing through your veins. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”
Jack didn’t lie. He was there in two minutes, arriving as fast as he could, bursting into your apartment, using his spare key that you gave him from your vacation when you needed him to take care for your orchid, carrying a bag of painting supplies.
“Just tell me what to do,” he said and so you did. And he listened to what you wanted, helping you paint, the day filled with laughter and joking and flicking paint at one another, the creation exactly as you always thought it would be one day.
Happy.
You just didn’t imagine it would be Jack.
“I should head out,” he had said at the end of the day, the sky dark and the room painted, a mural of the moon on one wall that he insisted you add because you’re Moonlight, after all.
“You know,” you had replied, “the guest room’s yours if you want it.” He had frozen in his movements for a moment before turning to you, a question in those blue eyes of his.
“You sure?” You had nodded, shrugging, your hands settling on your bump, the baby finally old enough to start showing, your favourite thing to do being rubbing it as if you’re holding and soothing them already.
“Yeah. I still have stuff for you in there from when you took care of my orchid and I did buy more of that cream for your prosthetic. Just in case…so, uh, yeah…it’s yours if you want to stay.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Would I have offered if I didn’t? After all, I’m eating for two and I’m a horrible cook and I mean, guess who isn’t?” you had said, the words so normal and so you that Jack had started to laugh and then he’d nodded.
“Guess I’ll stay then,” he’d said. “Anything you and the little star want in the morning?” You had scrunched your face, thinking hard about it, glancing down at your bump, rubbing it as you thought.
“Nothing specific,” you had said, a grin stretching across your face, “but nothing with chocolate. The little star, here, isn’t craving it, surprisingly.”
“Alright then,” he’d said. “Nothing with chocolate.”
And that’s how it began. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t flashy or showy—it was just there. Steady and calm.
Present in a way that Robby never was.
“Jack,” you whisper, the words carrying across the living room to where he’s dozing in the recliner, The Proposalplaying on your TV. “Jack!” you hiss a little louder, watching as he jolts fast, hands white-knuckling the armrests of his chair, looking over at you and relaxing when he sees that you’re fine.
“What’s wrong, Moonlight?” he asks you and you push past that feeling that spreads through at the nickname, at the tender way he says it, the care.
The love.
“You know you can take your leg off, right?” you ask him and you watch as he freezes again, seeming to do that a lot around you. “I’m under no illusion that you have two full legs, nor do I think less of you.”
“It’s okay,” he says and you shrug, nodding beside his chair where a set of crutches and a knee scooter sit beside it.
“Okay,” you say, voice soft. “But I have supports for you if you want to take it off.” And you say nothing else, simply standing as carefully as you can, the five-month bump no small thing now, heavy and awkward but precious all the same. Your baby has fun pressing on your bladder and you make your way to the bathroom to relieve the pressure and when you come back, you find Jack sitting in the recliner, the leg rest up, his prosthetic leaning against the side of the couch.
And that gives you a better feeling than any of the nicknames in the world.
Morning sickness was only supposed to last for the first trimester, but here you are, second trimester with the bump to prove it, still hurtling out of your bed, the taste and burn of bile welling in your throat, running for your bathroom.
You reach the sink, the only place that’s easy for you to reach, now unable to bend down and throw up into the toilet, just in time, your hands straying to your hair as you gag, eyes watering, bile rising.
“Hey,” you hear Jack whisper, his approach something you hadn’t even heard, his hands replacing yours as he holds your hair back, yours instead gripping the counter as you throw up bile, the awful taste and burn in the back of your throat, in your sinuses, your body rebelling against you.
“It’s okay,” he whispers as you hurl, the force so much that it comes out of your nose, your eyes streaming, the baby kicking against you as if they know you’re sick, in pain and they don’t like it.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he assures you as you gasp, the gagging rising again. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m always here for you.”
Jack is the one who is there for every appointment, holding your hand, who answers yes when the doctors ask if he’s the father. He’s the one you find hunched over a crib one day, assembling it on the floor, squinting at instructions and cursing the tiny writing, his leg not far from him, a chair just across from him for you.
Jack is the one who is there for everything. He’s there when you’re sick in the middle of the night, in the morning. He’s there when you have cravings, when you worry, when you want to pick names.
He’s the one whose there, always.
And gradually, you begin to think of him as the father, as the one because he may not be the sperm donor, but he’s the one whose here.
He’s the one who stayed.
Jack is the one who chose your baby.
Who chose you.
And that means something to you.
“Jack,” you whisper across the living room, your voice carrying to him and he looks over at you, eyes sleepy but filled with love.
“Yeah, Moonie?” he asks you, screwing his prosthetic back on, still finding it the easiest to move around with, to help you with.
“I love you,” you whisper and swallow hard, still unsure why you said it, but really it’s been eight months of him. Of him stepping up to be the father for your child, being the partner for you.
“Thank god,” he breathes out, standing and walking to you, his hands looping under your armpits, helping guide you to your feet, your eight-month bump heavy and exhausting, but perfect all the same. “I’ve loved you since I met you.”
“Really?” you ask him, watching as he smiles in the dark, teeth glinting just lightly with the glow of the streetlamps outside your window.
“Really,” he answers and then he kisses you, one soft and sweet and gentle. One that tastes of hope and love and second chances and family chosen.
One that speaks of the love that lives between you. One that is quiet and steady and present in a way that nothing has been before.
For either of you.
When you went into labour, it scared Jack like nothing ever had before. It terrified him like nothing ever had. The call he got as you drove yourself to the hospital, having timed your contractions, assuring him that you were fine. That it was all fine.
That didn’t stop him from being scared, being terrified. He had just gotten you, only had a month of being someone you loved out loud rather than in silence and he couldn’t lose you.
He had run out of the ED so fast, up to the maternity ward, watching as you walked up, breathing hard, checking in. He had been there as you went into labour, your hand squeezing his so hard, one knuckle dislocated but he never even felt it because he was so in awe in you.
He stayed for the whole thing, cut the cord on the beautiful baby boy, the two of you had agreed to name Andrew Flynn Abbot, a ring on your finger from the night before when he asked you if you would not only be his wife, but make him a father.
He was there for everything, for the birth and the signing of the birth certificate and the travelling home, his stuff moved in a month ago, his clothes hanging in your closet, his things in your house—now his too.
He was there for everything. Every little bit because he loved you first.
And he loves you always.
“You know,” Jack says now, his fingers interlaced with yours as you lie with your head on his chest, curled up in bed, “I have to thank Robby.”
“For what?” you ask him, not judging, just happy, at peace, curled in bed beside your husband, five year old son asleep in bed.
“For giving me my son, my wife,” he whispers and in response you press a kiss to his cheek.
“He didn’t,” you whisper, “that was all you. You stepped up, Jackie and you didn’t have too.”
“Yeah, I did. You’re everything sweetheart. I’m always here for you.” And it’s true. He always is, always was.
Set in 1944, Battle of the Bulge (also known as the Ardennes Offensive or Unternehmen Wacht am Rhein). This is a very dark, historical piece so please be wary before you read. This will be 1/2 since it is taking me so long. Thank you all for your patience ❤️
Edit: I am so sorry to most readers, but the reader would be white/ white passing due to the time period. Please request a black reader in my request box or my DMs for another time period post. I had not meant to be exclusive rather than inclusive with this piece. Thank you @lionesses-are-cool and @flutterdraw-ackerman for pointing this out. Please send me a request in my request box or a dm. I’ll make you both a proper time period piece.
Yandere 1940s Imagines: Oh My Little Soldier Boy
Yandere WW2 Soldiers x Nurse Reader
TW: character death (unnamed), horror, death (detailed in intro), horrors of war, tragedy, feeling of hopelessness, yandere behavior, unhealthy relationship dynamics that should not be romanticized, depressing material, war, forbidden romance due to interracial relations of this time, mentions of racism (due to time period and Jim Crow Laws), and HISTORICALLY ACCURATE (without use of slurs)
Reader is white/ white passing in this piece
Intro:
No matter how many times you washed your white sleeves, they were permanently stained with blood. The air reeked of dust and decay despite how you had thought a hospital would be. Yet you had been shocked of the true conditions of a field hospital with low staff and round-the-clock patients who were near their deathbed. The constant torrent of smoke from artillery fire was your loyal companion outside the cries and groans of the injured men that entered the tents. Each arrived in an endless wave of death and grief.
You had come to aide the front lines after you saw all the posters for you back home, but you failed to understand what exactly the job entailed. And now you had front row seats to the horrors of war.
You did your best not to sob as your hands clasped the only remaining hand of a young man who was no older than eighteen. Most of his limbs were blown off by an artillery shell and he had already lost far too much blood before he had even arrived onto the cot in your tent. His youthful face was a mess of blood, snot, and tears as he cried himself hoarse with what remained of his strength. His hand desperately gripped yours for whatever comfort you could offer him in a tight yet weak squeeze.
“Mom! Mom… please, I want to go home!” His sobs twisted at your chest, his blue eyes wild and glazed from the adrenaline that barely kept him alive. His voice trembled in pure fear, “I don’t want to die, mom. I’m so scared… I don’t want to die.”
You pressed your forehead to his in an attempt to calm him. You couldn’t find it in yourself to promise him he’d make it because he wasn’t going to. You’ve been through this rodeo far too many times before to know how this would play out. Yet that didn’t make your job any easier. You quietly shushed him as you guided him to leave like a mockery of an angel. An angel of death that did their best to comfort the men you did not have the power to save no matter how much you wanted to.
His words of terror repeated over and over like a mantra until the sound of his voice slowly drifted into a whisper and he finally went still. You did your best not to break down at his forever still face. Then you used your palm to close his dull blue eyes into a permanent expression of sleep. You didn’t even know this young man’s name. You never knew their names since the cots were filled as soon as they were empty again. A lot of the patients you had weren’t even old enough to drink, let alone vote. But they were old enough to die.
No one spoke of how this was the most difficult part of your job. No one talked about how horrible it was to witness the death of men who were barely adults yet fought in a war for the cowardly leaders of their countries. The death toll only increased as the war went on and you felt the inescapable feeling of hopelessness choke you. Could you truly make a difference here or have you wasted your time since you decided to come to Europe rather than get married like a normal girl your age?
Yet your patients never let you stew in your sorrow. No. They’d never let their precious nurse fall into darkness alone…
Sergeant Hank Carter (Texas, Rancher)
“Ya did the best ya could, darlin.’ Don’t let it get ya down. Come here, my arms are nice and warm.” Hank’s southern drawl called out to you from his cot in the corner. His tan hands outstretched for you. “Ya can lay yerself on my chest, don’t be shy now.”
Hank was the staff sergeant of the extreme combat division. A reliable and honest man of a tall build with broad shoulders, chestnut brown hair, and warm, honeyed eyes. He was filled with southern charm and a voice that commanded attention, but he was always gentle with you. Especially since you had patched him up so many times over the last two years. And he was still in tact minus his constant run ins with trench foot. He was lucky you always saved his toes from falling off.
“Ya’ve had yer hands on me so many times, I swear yer my wife, darlin’. Not that I’m complainin’ one bit.” He’d always teased. “Maybe after all this, I’ll make ya my wife.”
Hank was a very traditional man who wanted a simple life with you despite your gentle rejections since he was merely just another patient in your eyes no matter how handsome he was.
Hank was rather protective of you when it came to the other patients since he saw the way they looked at you. You’d often hear him reprimanding not only his squad, but the others around him.
“Now y’all know she ain’t a piece of meat, so don’t treat her like one. I’m lookin at ya, private.”
Unlike most of your patients, Hank would willingly die for you without hesitation. He’d always rush to shield you from artillery or gun fire with his own body when the stakes were high in the field hospital. He didn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if you didn’t survive. You were the light in his dark world… the light at the end of the tunnel. A reason to keep fighting in a war that seemed endless.
You often had his warm, strong hands on you whenever you treated his bullet wounds, his honey colored eyes filled with absolute reverence.
“After this ‘ere is over, marry me. I’ll make ya the happiest woman in the world, I swear.” Hank softly told you. “I have a ranch house in Texas that has plenty of space for ya and some kids. I’ll be so good to ya.”
Good luck trying to get him to leave you be, because he’s rather determined to live that idyllic life with you no matter how many Nazis he had to kill. No matter what unspeakable horrors he had to see just to see your face and to feel your gentle touch in him. Hank would do anything to be yours… anything.
Captain Richard Rose (California, Actor)
Richard had been a rather handsome man before he found himself in your care, but the blast from an artillery shell stole his entire life away. He’d no longer be able to be a handsome actor in Hollywood since the right side of his face was now permanently in a scowl. He was a monster. A man with a broken face. The fallen captain of his platoon that had charged into no man’s land without a plan.
Richard would often try to hide his face from you whenever you came to treat him. His blue eyes filled with shame. How could you bear to look at him? The last nurse, one of the newer ones, had fainted at the sight of him. He must be hideous now.
“Don’t look… don’t look.” He’d mutter in a tone you could only describe as utterly defeated. “I’m hideous.”
Yet you’d always reassure him and gently treat his horrific disfigurement. Your soft hands reminded him of kisses of sunshine. Richard was grateful to you. And the more time he spent with you, he fell for you. You were the only one to still treat him like a human being. The only one who didn’t flinch at his face or shy from looking him in his only remaining eye. In his mind, you were his salvation.
As Richard grew more comfortable, he’d rehearse a few lines he used to say in his best works. He was so happy you’d smile and listen to each one. It made him feel more human after he had suffered such a horrible loss of his livelihood. Yet you proceeded to go out of your way to give him hope in his darkest hour and Richard was forever grateful to you.
“There’s a place in Pennsylvania. It’s called Valley Forge General Hospital. I think it is in Phoenixville.” You softly told him as he hung on your every word. You swore Richard looked at you like you hung the moon. “They might be able to repair you, Dick.”
He held your hands as he did his best to kiss them with what was left of his lips. You could feel his visible teeth touching the skin of your knuckles through the gauze you had just wrapped around his head. If you recommended it, he’d go there. He’d fix his face and then he’d return to Hollywood. Maybe he wouldn’t get lead parts anymore, but he could play a villain! Anything to make enough to support you… you’d say yes if he proposed, right? You were always so sweet to him… he’d treat you well!
Richard was also deeply insecure because a lot of the other soldiers also gave you attention. Better looking soldiers. Able bodied ones. Look at him and only him! Richard made more money than all of those scrubs could ever dream of! So choose him! Please.
Private Terrence Jones (Georgia, Dock Worker)
“Ma’am, you don’t have to do so much for me. I’m fine, I swear.” Terrence always tried to brush off his injuries. He was determined to prove he was just as capable as a white man in this time of war. Although he didn’t enjoy your care. It was nice not to be treated like he was lesser than everyone else for once.
Terrence was a handsome African American man from Brunswick, Georgia. He was tall and stocky, as well as an extremely respectful gentleman. More so than any of your other patients.
Terrence wasn’t treated the best at the field hospital due to his ethnicity, so he was shocked you’d actually help him. There were too many injured to all fit into the segregated area so he was overflow into the regular field hospital… so he was often neglected by the white medical staff. So much so that he nearly had his foot amputated from untreated trench foot. Yet you reassured him that he was just as worthy of treatment as the others. He was also a soldier and a patient under your care so you would do your best to make sure he had the same chance of surviving. Plus, there were very few black nurses staffed to properly treat all the injured black soldiers in the field hospital. It was ridiculous how segregation and Jim Crow laws were still present in this time of dire circumstances.
Terrance would always shy away from touch, no matter how much he sought it out. He didn’t want to cause any problems. Nor did he want you to face any discrimination from treating him. Gods he couldn’t bear for you to be called any names that would be along the lines of heinous ones he was designated. Terrence couldn’t bear for you to be treated horribly just for doing your job. He would not forgive himself if you were harmed in any way, even if it was merely verbal abuse. You were one of the few people here that were kind to him. You had saved him from being a cripple, Terrence felt an obligation to protect you in anyway he could.
“I don’t need much. Honest, I swear.” He’d mutter while you bandaged his foot. He was glad his blush wasn’t visible due to how dark his skin was. He’d be so embarrassed if you knew how he truly felt. Of how he loved you despite the societal pressures. “I don’t want to cause you trouble, ma’am.”
“Terrence, I can’t let your feet rot off. You said you were a dock worker and I don’t think they’ll let you work without them.” You sighed while you rewrapped his feet. “So just let me treat you.”
Terrence protects you from any soldiers or nurses who try to make comments about how you treat him and other soldiers of color. Even if it would make him have a harder time in the hospital or out in the field, he still would stand up for you. Terrence would defend your honor!
“You don’t know anything about her! She’s a good nurse and I won’t let you run your mouth about her. Don’t you dare call her that.”
Terrence would sometimes share little tidbits about himself. Like his love of southern jazz music and how he worked at J.A. Jones Construction Company shipyard. He even told you about how he helped construct some of the Liberty ships.
Unlike the others, Terrence knew you’d never be able to have a good life with him no matter how much he wanted to be with you. He would never subject you to ridicule and disrespect for your entire life if you chose him, no matter how much it hurt his heart. Terrence’s love was selfless. He may never be able to have you, but Terrence would do anything for your happiness.
Scout Carmelo Marino (New York, Butcher)
“Ciao, Bella! Did ya come to patch me up? Ya sure know how to make a man weak in what’s left of his knees.” Carmelo was the biggest flirt of all your patients. He’s also the loudest, not just because he’s an Italian American from New York City, but because he is Carmelo Marino.
Carmelo was a field artillery scout so he had the in raid of dangerous job to gather intel and to check terrain for artillery planning. But the young man bit off more than he could chew.
Carmelo had his left leg amputated after he bravely scouted ahead of his squad’s tank for landmines, only to step on a German S-mine or ‘Bouncing Betty.’ He was extremely lucky to only have lost a leg and had some shrapnel lodged into him, but other than that the experience didn’t deter this strong willed flirt.
“I’m glad I lived so I can see your beautiful face here, Bella.” Carmelo winked. “Are ya rationed, sweetheart? I’d like to make a pass at ya if you’re not going steady. I’ll take ya back to New York and show ya my family’s butcher shop on Mulberry street. We got the best meat in Manhattan. Even make our own prosciutto.”
Carmelo sometimes would feign more pain than he actually had just to steal you away from the others. He couldn’t bear to have your heart swayed by another man.
“You’re breaking’ my heart, Bella! I’m in agony over here.” Carmelo held his chest as he put on a show for you. He knew his peers were rolling their eyes at him. “I think a little kiss on the cheek would make it better.”
Carmelo loves to brag so he can make himself more appealing to you, but deep down it’s because he’s terrified you’ll pick one of the other men here. He was only a butcher after all. He didn’t make a lot of money, but he was definitely the only one who always got you to smile. Even though he didn’t know how he’d continue living with only one leg, nor was he sure if he’d ever have the life he once had, Carmelo was determined to not make you worry about him.
“I’ll show ya around downtown Manhattan if ya fly back with me. I’ll show ya all the stops. Just picture it. You. Me. And the swanky stork club.” He winked. “I might fall on my arse, but I used to be a good dancer. Since I don’t have a left foot anymore, I won’t have two left feet.”
Carmelo made it his mission to make you smile and laugh no matter how much his peers rolled their eyes at him, because Carmelo loved you.
He’d often crack jokes or make faces just to see that pretty smile. If he was sent home after this, he will be sending you a fat stack of letters until you reply. Carmelo was determined to make you his!
He may be the son of immigrants from Italy who own a mom and pop butcher shop, but Carmelo was willing to give you the world. All you had to do was say yes and he’d whisk you away… whatever you wanted, he’d do everything in his power to get it for you.
⤿ synopsis: you help keep pittsburgh trauma orderly—until small, unsettling glitches hint at something ominous unraveling. whether the mystery—or your guarded heart—breaks first is the question that will decide everything.
⤿ warning(s): ⚠️ check chapters for individual warnings ⚠️
Sweetheart!fem reader who a peds nurse but works a lot in the ED. Everybody knows that she’s dating someone but know one prys on the subject, but trinity in good trinity fashion try’s to find out who it is. she knows that they work in the hospital as well and low and behold stalking your instagram shows you on a boat with your name in black lettering on the side and a much, much larger man holding on to your waist while your clad in a small pink bikini.
She keeps doing some digging and find a private account under the name ‘BP.ortho’ and a picture of the same boat but with Brendon park standing tall with a much smaller women,reader, standing next to him
Tags: 18+, MDNI, Eventual smut, patient Robert x Nurse Reader, teasing, very unprofessional flirty banter, several HR violations, sevral Hipaa violations probably, swearing, yearning, confessions, makeouts, oral f!receiving, Munch Robert can't be stopped, I dont make the rules, i just enforce them
WC: 2k
“Robert Robertson the Third.”
“Yikes, full name… This can't be good.” He puts down his weights with a clang.
“Leave this gym right now. You can't be in here.”
“Actually, in my defense, I walked in very carefully.”
“Correction, you shouldn't be in here because you're supposed to be resting up.” You glare. “So get back to your bed, or I'll make you myself.” You put up your fists.
“If I promise not to lift anything heavier than my own ego, can I stay?”
“No.”
“You’re only upset because you care. Which is adorable, by the way.”
“Robert!”
“I hear you. I respect your opinion. But consider this—what if I’m built different?”
“I haven't cleared you yet for this reason. You are not built different.”
“If I get hurt, at least I know who’s putting me back together.”
“You're stalling.”
“I’m not as weak as you think. Is this part of your job, or are you just worried I’ll hurt myself without you watching me?”
“I know you'll hurt yourself without me watching you. Do you want a repeat of last Tuesday?” You stomp over to him.
“Careful. If you keep standing that close, I might forget I’m injured.”
“Come with me, now.”
“Alright alright, if you wanted me alone with you, you could’ve just asked.”
You usher him out of the gym and back into his medical bed. You push his shoulders so he's lying down. “Now stay here.”
“For how long?”
“Until I say so.”
“Can I at least get a physical therapist?”
“I will appoint one to you after an allotted amount of time. Perhaps when I clear you for exercise.”
“I survived one injury, and suddenly I’m forbidden from public spaces.”
“Robert…”
“You act like I’m going to bench-press a car.”
“You act like that's something you could normally do. Or are you Phenomaman’s distant cousin or something?”
“Yes, of course, the second option. Definitely the long-lost cousin.”
“Lay the fuck down, Robert.”
He sighs with his head in his hands. “This is humiliating. I look incredible right now, and no one can appreciate it.” He peeks through his fingers at you.
“You look—” Your thoughts derail immediately. He does look incredible—if you ignore the long scar stretching across his chest. The faint, patchy happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband…
Fuck.
“I loooook…?”
Snap out of it, Y/N. Be professional. You’re at work. He’s your patient. A very attractive patient. One you absolutely should not still be treating, because if anyone found out you had a crush on him, it would be a catastrophic HR and HIPAA violation—
Oh god, he's smirking. He 100% knows you're checking him out right now. You need to shut this down.
Immediately.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“All things considered,” you say stiffly, clipboard raised like a shield, “your wounds are healing nicely. Vitals look good. Your eyelashes are long. And you have twenty-one freckles.”
He blinks. “You… counted?”
“Yes, I spend a lot of time looking at your face.”
Fuck.
You really shouldn’t have said that... Traitorous mouth. Backtrack. Now. Abort mission—
“Last time I checked,” he says lazily, “my chest was the thing that was wounded.”
That damn smirk again. One eyebrow quirks upward, smug and infuriating. Damn his dumb, stupid, lean, twink body… dark brown puppy eyes. Horribly distracting veins… Prominent, distracting—God, they were just so visible and easy to draw blood from—and focus!
“I know what you’re trying to get me to do, Robertson. And it’s not working.”
“Is it not?”
“Wipe that damn smirk off your face!”
“Is that a medical order, orrrr…?”
You sigh, the tone of your voice shifting to a more serious one. “I worry about you, y'know?”
“I know.”
“You need to be more careful.”
“I know…”
“I'm serious, Robert.”
He doesn’t joke this time. “I think about that, I do. I also think about how careful you are when you take care of me. Even when you scold me. Your touch is gentle, your heart is kind. You always make time for me—even though I’m an ass.”
“You are.”
“But you can't seem to stay away from me.”
Dammit.
Damn him.
“Am I wrong in assuming that?”
Fine, he wants to do this now? We’ll do it now.
“No, not at all.”
“Am I also wrong in assuming there's something more going on here? Between us?”
“No,” you say, tight-lipped. “Not at all.” Trying not to look at him. Because if you do, you're going to spill your feelings out all over the floor, and you're not sure that's a mess you could clean up right now.
There’s a pause. Heavy. Anticipatory.
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.
“I know,” Robert says. “I’ve known for a while.”
You scoff weakly. “You don’t know anything, Robert.”
“I know the way your hands hesitate before you touch me,” he says gently. “Like you’re afraid you’ll want it too much. I know you volunteer for my checkups even when someone else offers. And I know you pretend not to notice when I watch you.”
Your throat tightens. “That doesn’t mean—”
“It means you feel something,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “The same thing I do.”
You shake your head, more reflex than denial. “It’s complicated, unprofessional.”
“I know,” he says again.
Silence stretches between you, tense and expectant. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
Fuck my big chungus life…
“I think about you when I shouldn’t,” you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I replay our conversations. I worry when you don’t show up on time. I get angry when you’re reckless because I—” You stop, breath hitching. “Because I care more than I’m allowed to.”
His expression softens completely, the teasing gone. “I think about you all the time,” he says. “When I’m hurt, when I’m fine, when I’m being an idiot on purpose just to see you roll your eyes. You make me feel… Treasured. Maybe I want to stay some level of hurt so I don't have to leave here. Leave you.”
You laugh quietly, a shaky sound. “You’re not supposed to say things like that, idiot.”
“Neither are you,” he replies. “But here we are.”
You finally step closer, sitting on the edge of the medical bed. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Your hand lifts before you can stop it, hovering near his arm.
“We can’t keep going on like this,” you say. “Not while I’m your nurse.”
Robert's hand brushes your cheek, and you're stuck, doomed to stare in his eyes as you both gravitate closer.
There are worse fates.
“I don't think you're going to stop me. Because you want this just as bad as I do.”
You can't stop it; you won't stop it. You're too weak, and you're giving in to how good this feels, how natural. Your hand rests against his chest—careful, reverent—and he stills.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, like it's his final act of restraint.
You don’t.
Instead, you lean in.
His lips are warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. His face is rough with stubble he hasn't shaved in days. You don't care. Well, yes, you do; you like it a lot.
When you don’t pull away, he deepens it just slightly, carefully, like he’s afraid of crossing a line even now.
Then something snaps.
You make a small, involuntary sound against his mouth, and that’s all it takes. Robert’s hand comes up to your jaw, thumb pressing just enough to tilt your head back as he kisses you again—harder this time, deeper, like he’s been holding this in for far too long. You both have.
It’s messy. Urgent. All restraint gone.
Your fingers fist in his shirt without thinking, dragging him closer, and he responds instantly, crowding into your space. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of hungry certainty.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, heat pooling low in your stomach, pulse racing. There’s no hesitation now—just breathless need and the way his lips keep finding yours like he can’t get enough. You can't. He groans softly when you bite his lower lip, the sound vibrating straight through you. His other hand slides to your waist, gripping tight, grounding, like he’s barely holding himself together. He isn't.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I think we have a hell of an HR violation on our hands.”
You don’t answer. You just pull him back in.
This time the kiss is slower but no less intense—deliberate, all-consuming. His thumb traces your jaw like he’s memorizing you, and your whole body feels lit up, tuned only to him, to this moment.
You reluctantly part again. His lips linger against yours, noses brushing.
“Pretty sure HR doesn't exist at this company.”
“Yeah, no one cares.”
“Kiss me.”
He grins. “Gladly”
Fuck, his lips were so soft. His tongue was moving around like he was trying to map the entirety of your mouth and commit it to memory. You increasingly become aware of his erection that's poking into your thigh and break the kiss.
“Ok, I realize I leaned in and started this whole really hot makeout thing, but we can’t—”
“Lock the door.” His voice drops.
“We can't.”
“Or don't; your choice.”
“Robert—we shouldn't...” Further protests die on your lips as he trails up your neck to your ear.
“Lock. It.”
“Fuck, you’re the devil.”
“You should listen to him. He's very convincing and will make it worth your while.”
Welp, it was nice practicing medicine while it lasted. You ran to the door, turning the deadbolt.
“Damn you, Robertson.” You say as you drop your pants.
He was buried so far in your pussy you were sure he was going to pass out.
“R-robert! W-wait, you need to breathe! Ah!”
He tugs on you harder, like you're his personal gas mask or something. He doesn't need to breathe as long as he has you. He has your legs splayed straight out over his shoulders while he grips your inner thighs. He makes some kind of short, nonchalant grunt and continues eating.
“This isn't—haaaah—” Fuck, your brain shut off two orgasms ago. What are you even fighting for now?
“I think this is exactly what I need.” Robert presses a quick kiss to your clit before licking his lips. “Gotta get my nutrition somehow, right?”
“R-robert!” You squirm.
“Shhhhh, you don't want someone to storm in here, do ya? They're gonna think you're the one dying in here instead of me.”
You're gonna have a hard time explaining this one to the board.
“OH—fuck!”
His lips suction around your clit again, making you arch further off of him.
“Mmmh, y’think I can make ya squirt again?” Your juices are already dripping down his chin and down onto his chest. His stubble is tickling your pussy lips with every lick and nudge.
You're desperately gripping the sheets in any attempt to ground yourself, but the feeling is too much. And you're too tired to fight it anymore.
“M’cumming!”
“Yes, give it to me.” Your fists balled up into the sheets as you buck your mouth into him shamelessly. You soak his face again. Drained. Spent. And whatever other adjectives are used to describe how tired he made you.
“Fuck yeah, good girl.”
“Wipe off your face, Robertson. That smirk too while you're at it.”
“I don't think you're quite in the position to be making demands, seeing that you came on my tongue three times.”
“Shit… what a mess.” You reluctantly remove yourself from Robert on shaking legs.
“Is riding me the least exerting position? Scientifically speaking?”
“I think that would technically be the spooning position.” You say, bending down to gather your clothes.
“Hmm, I see… We’ll need to try both just to make sure.”
“Robert, your heart.”
“Tch, what about it? I'm not Chase; I can handle it.”
“Is that right?” You cross your arms, leaning forward to stare at his face.
“I think I'm strong enough now, Doc.”
“Yeah? What's that coming out of your nose then?”
“Huh?” You grab a tissue and swipe under his nose.
“Oh, shit. That's clearly all my hard work coming out in the most metal way possible. Blood, sweat, and tears, baby.”
You sigh. “I'm going to run some labs.”
“Can you at least grab me a Twinkie on the way back?”
Ah, fuck it. You’ll take the HR violation. He’s worth it.
A/N: Robert somehow made a miraculously fast recovery and no one found out so you didn't get fired and later got married with 20 kids hooraaayy. Have a good week everyone
inspired by the song "SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK" by joji !
synopsis : after shutting out your feelings for your childhood best friend for years, they start to become more vivid to you. but what happens to those feelings when someone else appears in the picture?
pairing : clark kent x nurse!fem!reader
themes : childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff?tiny kiss, reader jealousy, hurt to comfort, lois lane, love confession, no use of y/n
wc : 3.4k
note : this is my first fic so ignore if it's lowkey ahh but enjoy heheh
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
clark kent, the man you've known since you could even remember to walk. the man you've known because your mothers were the closest pair of best friends. the man you've known because he'd made a promise to himself to always be by your side ever since the day he saw you getting picked on in a playground during the second grade.
he was your other half, like the yin to your yang.
as you and clark grew up together, he also grew with his powers. you were never one to judge. he was scared of what he could become and all of the things he's done, like cut a road in half with his heat vision when you guys were twelve. but that never stopped your bond with him. you told clark that you'd be his number one defender, even if it meant you were his only defender.
you two followed each other everywhere - went to the same elementary school, middle school, and went to universities that were within driving distance.
people would describe you and clark as inseparable.
your feelings for him came soon after you had just started university. clark had gained some sort of "soft" spot for you. not that he never had one, but this one was much larger. every time you would meet up somewhere, the moment his eyes would meet yours, they would glimmer and his face would immediately soften at the sight of yours. clark would set up arrangements to come to your dorm on certain days, and the days he didn't come to yours, you would go to his. you two binged corny romcoms and horror movies while snacking on anything you could find in the nearest convenience stores. it was something you did every week and it was almost like tradition.
you knew you couldn't confess to him. not like this. not when your friendship had just started blooming and is stronger than it ever was. sure you've known him for the longest time, but none of you realized how much you meant to each other until now. telling him how you feel would ruin everything that led up to this very moment.
so, you've taught yourself how to hide your affection from him. you became so good at it that every time clark would mention another girl or ask you for dating advice, you were unfazed.
clark on the other hand was just like any other close friend - he held you in his arms while you cried about something that made you overwhelmed, he would bring you along with him when he would go out with his friends, and he always made sure you had a ride home after your shifts. he never did anything or even hinted the slightest bit that he may have wanted to potentially be more than what you two already were.
and you? you were happy with just the way things were. it felt peaceful. balanced. you never had to worry about a single thing with clark by your side.
. . .
then came lois lane.
a journalist he met when he started working for the daily planet. she was put together, had the confidence of someone who knew their worth but made sure it didn't overpower anyone else's, and she was one damn of a good writer.
your movie traditions with clark never stopped, even when you two started living in your own apartments. not close to each other, but not very far either. just like your universities they were driving distance. on one of your movie nights maybe two months after clark started working at the daily planet, had been the first time he mentioned lois' name. he talked about her like he had never talked about anyone to you before. you felt your heart ache and your stomach feel sick hearing him so mesmerized about another woman.
but you shouldn't care right? you and clark are just friends, you tell yourself. nothing more.
as more months went by, you started to hear her name more often than usual.
eventually, clark started to invite you to go out with him and his friends from work. that meant lois would be there too. each time you went with them, clark and lois would sit beside each other and be laughing at who knows what. they had so many inside jokes that they could spend a whole day together just talking about them. every time they would speak to each other, they would lean in closer so they were able to hear one another within the voices and chatter of the people surrounding them.
you told yourself you didn't mind. you told yourself you wouldn't let your feelings get to you. but maybe they're starting to creep in now? your bond with clark was strong. but you thought maybe theirs is stronger. not to mention, lois also knows about clark's secret identity, which makes everything just as worse. you've had clark all to yourself for so long, but now lois has everything that you have of him, maybe even more.
they've only known each other for months you could count on your fingers, but something about the way they're around each other makes it feel like they've known each other for much much longer. you crave the connection and the bond they have. you feel yourself stare at them deeply whenever they interact without even realizing. jimmy notices it, and so does cat, but they refuse to bring it up.
lois calls out your name from the other side of the table, "how were you able to deal with clark for so long? he's insufferable!" she says in a sarcastic tone. you know she doesn't mind, and you know she loves the way he teases her all the time. "you'll get used to it, trust me." you reply, trying to force a smile onto your lips like you've been doing the whole night.
it's only been thirty minutes since you arrived, but you were more than ready to leave right now. you couldn't stand to be around them for any longer.
you abruptly stand up out of the table, collecting your wallet and your phone in one hand. "sorry guys, i gotta go. early shift tomorrow!" you fake your enthusiasm. "can't blame her, she's gotta get back to her nurse duties!" lois exclaims. clark looks up at you with those glimmering eyes and his face softens. you'd almost forgotten about this look that he gives you ever since you got caught in the midst of him and lois. "shes absolutely amazing at it." he says, not taking his eyes off of you. cat frowns, "com' on, it's literally been less than an hour can't you stay for another thirty?" you nod your head no.
"but it's only 6pm?" clark blurts. you look at his face and see nothing but worry, like he sees right through you and he knows that you're hiding something. "it's a long walk home, and i wanna get some stuff done before i head to bed," you argue. "okay. let me walk you home." he's already made his way out of the table to place himself beside you, ready to walk you out. "it's fine, clark, i got it. you don't have to walk me home." you try to say gently, but it comes out in more of a demanding tone. "yeah clark, she's got it. listen to the woman," lois interrupts. you don't even bother looking at her before turning away from everyone and heading out, leaving clark standing.
. . .
it's a gloomy day in metropolis, and to make matters worse, it's pouring out. you've had a long shift in the hospital, and clark sends you a text.
clark💙 : "don't go anywhere, im coming to pick you up. not in a million years would i let you walk in this weather."
a little smile appears on your lips. for a moment, all your worries about lois had completely shifted away from your thoughts and you felt like you were the only person who was on his mind. you felt wanted.
you: "not going anywhere."
clark was never one to go against his word. if he told you he would do something for you, he'd to it in an instant without a doubt. you were always first on his mind, and he put you before anyone else. you wondered if he still felt that way, though. because with lois now in the picture, his awareness seems to slowly shift towards her.
you wait at the front near the reception in your hospital, looking at the doors from time to time to see if clark had arrived. minutes passed, as more minutes passed, as even more minutes passed. soon enough, it had been hours.
you thought to yourself maybe he'd been stuck in some traffic on the way, but the hospital is less than a 15 minute drive from his apartment.
you'd texted him multiple times, called him repeatedly, feeling like a desperate ex.
you'd given up. you'd given up waiting on him, because the hope you felt when he first texted you that he would come pick you up has now disappeared. you knew now that he wasn't going to show up. you grab your shoulder bag from the seat beside yours and walk out of the doors, rain falling onto your skin in an instant as you scrunch your face, trying not to get any in your eyes.
your walk home was exhausting, miserable, and excruciating. you're drenched from head to toe and every time you take a step, you feel water squeeze out of your shoes. only one thing was on your mind the whole time. no other than clark.
you let your thoughts and your imagination take over, picturing how you two would be if you had just confessed sooner.
the moment you opened the door to your apartment lobby, all the thoughts drain away along with the water. you're hit with a gush of warm air, shivering from the feeling of it as it's freezing outside. you go upstairs to your room and take a shower to clean yourself up.
while you're drying your hair with a towel, you hear a knock on your door. not thinking about who it is, you go to open it while still ruffling your hair with the towel.
as soon as you open the door, you're met with a tall figure, only being able to see his chest until you look up. there he is, your best friend. he's looking at you like you're so fragile and he could break you at any moment if he even says the slightest thing wrong. he scans your face over and over again before breaking the silence.
he says your name ever so gently, "im sor- sorry won't even work. im such an idiot and i completely forgot to pick you up. i got stuck at lois' apartment cos we were worki-" he stops mid sentence as he sees tears start to form in your eyes. at this point, her name is the last thing you want to be hearing right now, and her being the excuse to why clark never showed just made your stomach twist in multiple ways than one. you try to hold in your tears as hard as you can, making sure not to show too much emotion. "it's fine, clark. i made it home anyways." "no, no, no. i should not have let you walk in the rain all by yourself. you could probably catch a cold right now and you're probably so exhausted, and you probably hate me so much for never showing up and i get it-" he was just blurting out anything at this point.
"clark, honestly im fine. i understand the reason why you had to be at lois', but if you knew you had to be somewhere and couldn't pick me up last minute, you could've just texted. i waited hours in hopes of you showing up, but you never did and i felt like such a moron waiting for someone who never ended up coming." you say, almost whispering as you try to fight your tears for a second time. clark doesn't respond right away. he can see that what you said was genuine, and you were right. he could've texted. even one dry text explaining how he couldn't come would've made everything fine, because you're an understanding person and he knows that so fully.
"please, just let me make it up to you. anything." clark protests. you nod your head side to side and look down at the floor beneath both of your figures. "im sorry clark, i think i just need space right now. just go home." the words struggle to escape from your mouth, as you know that's the last thing you wanted him to do. you wanted him to stay longer, for him to hold you in his arms as he apologizes and for you two to figure everything out. but you fight from it. you fight from the urge.
. . .
it's been a week since your last interaction with clark, and you haven't texted or called him at all. you didn't feel the need to. you rarely ever texted clark because you two would see each other everyday enough to say everything you needed to in person.
clark isn't used to getting such silent treatment from you. but this wasn't about silent treatment. you thought to yourself that night that he didn't pick you up, that he was busy with his work, and you were busy with yours. you had your own people, and he had his.
you started to tell clark that you were "busy" every time he would invite you to something, or make plans for your movie nights. of course he was skeptical because you would never refuse seeing him, but he never pushed it because he knows that for whatever reason it is, he would never want to cross a line. so, you missed multiple traditional movie nights, missed multiple dinners, and missed going out with his work friends to bars.
you had a shift off from work. you took this as an opportunity to clean your apartment, watch a few movies, and just have reset day.
it's around the evening and the sun is starting to set above the loud streets of metropolis. you're ready to watch another movie when you hear a knock on your door. loud enough for you to hear over the window you opened for some fresh air.
and there he was. showing up at your door with the unbuttoned dress shirt that's under his suit. hair messy, but still neat enough to indicate he's just gotten out of work but the breeze messed with it a little bit.
"hey." you break the tension. clark scans your face to see if you're in the mood to talk to him, scared you might tell him to leave again. "hey, can we talk?" he asks as his hand makes his way to the back of his neck. he's nervous. you knew him well enough to know that he tends to do that whenever he's nervous.
you open the door wider, signalling for him to come inside. he slowly makes his way in, making sure he takes his shoes off for you as he knows you hate it when people wear their shoes around the house. you lead him to your sofa and sit down before he does. he makes sure the space between you two isn't too big, but isn't also too small. your knees begin to touch, but none of you move.
you look up at his face, and it seems as if he's trying to gather words to say to you.
he finally opened his mouth, "what happened to you? what happened to us? I swear we were just fine the other week and now it's like you want absolutely nothing to do with me. i cant read you anymore, and it's killing me. i have no clue what you want and what i can do to fix this, because you're being impossible right now. i just want us to go back to the way things were." you can start to see his eyes glistening as he tries to avoid eye contact with you because if he does, he'd break into tears before you could blink.
"i think it's just time, clark. you did nothing wrong. we're growing and we're drifting away from each other. you're busy with work and you've found your people, and it's the same for me."
"but you're my people."
you freeze. you became stiff and you genuinely didn't know how to respond. you and clark have always been each others person. since the day you two met.
"i know clark, but it's hard. we're just so busy. you're always writing and interviewing these famous people, while im at the hospital for twelve hours everyday. our lives just don't meet anymore."
clark's face becomes serious. "i know that's not the reason you've been avoiding me. we've had these jobs even before we started drifting and you didn't let a single thing get between us. even if you came home later than usual, you would always make time for me. for us."
you give in. you know you can't hide anything from him any longer. "fine. fine. you're right, clark. that isn't the reason. the truth is, im in love with you. ive been for years, but ive just been so good at hiding it and i never wanted to ruin the friendship we had. and ever since you met lois, ive completely given up. she's everything im not. she's confident in a way of her own, she's smart, she's brilliant, and damn it, she's amazing at what she does. it's like whenever you two are together, everything and everyone around you just gets muted out and you two are in your own world. you tell jokes to each other that only the two of you know, and your bond has grown so strong that i fear it might've gotten stronger than ours. and ive noticed, you started looking at me like i was someone else. like her. and ive told myself that you should just be with her because i cant compete."
that was far from what clark was expecting. it takes him a while to reply, so much silence filling the room that you could hear a pin drop. he begins with your name, "ive loved you ever since the day you comforted me instead of fearing me when i split a road in half with my powers. ive always seen a future with you, no one else. not even lois. trust me when i say this, because shes just a friend. just a coworker. nothing else. and you're right, you don't compare to her because you're much better. you're astonishing at your job, you know exactly what you're doing, and you're passionate about it. whenever im with you, no one else in the world matters. all my problems wash away in an instant. you're like magic. you make me happier than anyone has ever made me and i cherish what we've had throughout the years. no one could ever compare to you. everyone knows that i feel this way about you. jimmy, cat, and even lois. ive just never been able to tell you because ive been scared of ruining the relationship we've created since we were kids. because if keeping you with me meant to never be with you, i would accept it. i can't see my life without you."
you were crying waterfalls. never ever have you thought your best friend felt this way about you. you always thought he only saw you as a friend and nothing even the slightest more, but knowing that he feels the same way, you knew you couldn't ruin it.
you can't even form the words in your head to reply, so you just keep tearing up in hopes you'll find out what to say soon.
clark doesn't wait for your response, but brings you closer to him instead. he cups your face while wiping away your tears before bringing you in to embrace you within his arms. you don't pull away. you don't protest. but you hug him even tighter as if he could be taken away any second.
he pulls away from you after a little while, but still close enough for your lips to almost be touching. "i cant see my life without you either, kent." you manage to get the words out. clark chuckles and wipes your tears again before gently placing his lips onto yours.
About: You have a really, really shitty shift & Gator brings you shower beers.
WC: 6.6K
Warnings: 18+ MDNI; language, medical trauma/CPR, asshole physicians (guess I'll call it bullying?), graphic sexual content (shower sex, oral, overstimulation if you squint, p in v) 👀
You stand at the order counter next to Steve, close enough that your shoulders brush every now as you shift your weight on your aching feet. You order a matcha latte with honey and Steve gets a hot chocolate, and you both settle down in the big cushy chairs in one of the more secluded corners of the cafe.
"Okay, despite the horrible name, this place is really nice."
"See? I knew ya'd like it. Can't always judge something without seeing for yourself, Harrington. Y'know, books and covers and whatnot."
"Yeah, I'll work on it. Cause I'll be honest, Odie still scares the shit outta me. Gator, too."
You swallow dryly at the mention of Gator's name coming out of Steve's mouth, your two worlds colliding in a very strange way.
You and Gator have grown up together in the same town, K through 12 and beyond, not necessarily as close friends but you knew the goings-on of one another at the very least. Then about 8 or 9 months ago your relationship turned into...well, it turned into a mess is what it turned into.
It started pretty immediately with sex. It was right after your transport training shift; Gator had been extra flirty and you didn't need much convincing after a lengthy college dry spell. He was hot, you were horny, and you each knew it was just something you both needed. That part was pretty straightforward.
The messy bits cropped up when Gator would show up in the ED asking for you specifically to help with some bloody knuckles or needing a stitch because some guy at the bar made fun of your dad and he had to knock his lights out.
Or, when it was Gator's birthday five months ago and you were the only one who bothered to remember, surprising him at work one night with a small chocolate cupcake you had baked yourself with a little fondant alligator on top and everything.
Or, when he was openly possessive of you in front of your new coworker, who is quite literally a real life Prince Charming, when no boundaries have ever been set for this thing between you both.
"Odie is just a jolly giant, I swear. You'll see. He just really needs a cigarette, but his wife is making him quit cause they got a baby on the way. G-Gator..." You stumble over his name, not used to saying it out loud I'm casual conversation to other people, let alone to a new coworker you're kinda-sorta on a maybe-date with. "Well, yah, he can be a real prick. And I'd like to say he means well, but...I'm not sure that's always true."
The waitress interrupts you, setting your drinks on the small table between you both. Steve's hot chocolate is piled high with whipped cream and your tea comes out steaming, the warm, rounded mug nestling perfectly in your cupped hands. You nod at her with your most polite smile, silently thanking her for the drinks and the opportunity to think about what else you could say to someone to sell them on Gator Tillman...
"So, are you guys close?"
"We've known each other a long time. Grew up right alongside each other, y'know? Then we work together too, so ya can't help but get to know someone."
Your discomfort over the subject is growing apparent in the tightening of your voice, and you're hoping your vague answers are enough. Thankfully Steve just nods, eyes scanning your face before he gives you a gentle smile.
"Well, he's lucky to have a friend like you."
You huff a dry laugh. "Friends is stretching it."
It wasn't a lie. Did you care about Gator? Yes. Maybe even deeply care sometimes? Okay, sure. But was Gator your friend? No. You couldn't really explain it further than that, he just...wasn't.
Steve takes a sip of his cocoa and something outside catches his eye. His posture changes, as does the expression on his face.
"Don't look now, but your not-friend, Gator? He's here."
"What?!" You hiss, whipping your head around. Sure enough, there he was, striding across the parking lot towards the front door.
He's stripped of his medic vest, just wearing his navy polo that hugs him a size smaller than he probably needs tucked into his tactical work pants that highlight his thick, long, muscular legs. It may just be a bad habit from his days as a sheriff's deputy, but he also wears a leg rig over his right thigh that's a real eye-catcher.
As he walks through the glass doors he pushes his sunglasses up to the top of his head and immediately sets his eyes on you and Steve. He smirks and stomps over to the counter first, leaning over it on his forearms to mumble something towards the barista only she can bear. She giggles flirtatiously and bites her lower lip in response.
You roll your eyes, sipping your tea. When you glance at Steve over the rim of your mug, he's watching you with quiet pensiveness. Neither of you notice as Gator then mozies right over as if he were invited.
"Well, mornin' lovebirds. Don't you two look real cozy?"
"Gator. Could say the same about you and Tish over there." You snip, fresh out of pleasantries for the morning. You knew exactly what this was. Probably all three of you did. "Thought ya didn't drink coffee? Ya know that's kinda what this place is for, right?"
Gator licks his teeth and folds his arms over his chest, cocking his hip sassily at you.
"Nah, I don't. But I saw Kerrington's car out front and thought I'd come say hello. Didn't realize you'd be here, too."
Oh, what a load of horse shit--
"It's uh, it's Harrington. But you can just call me Stev--"
"Sounds good, brother. Well, I'll leave ya to it. Ya back tonight?" He directs the question at you, jaw slightly clenched.
You sip your tea with a slight nod. "Yup. Three in a row. Same as always."
"Well, I'll see ya tonight then. Later, ladies." He flicks his sunglasses back down over his eyes and struts back out of the cafe, wiggling his fingers at Tish as he leaves. She starts to do so back, but when she notices you watching she shoves her hands in her apron and scurries to the back to pretend to do inventory.
"I don't know if he was just ignoring me, or calling me a lady there at the end. And I don't know which is more offensive..."
You look at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Steve. Like I said, he can be a real prick. I shoulda just told him to fuck off the second he walked in, I knew he wasn't here for a G-D latte."
"Hey, don't worry about it. I've dealt with bigger assholes. Besides, I actually don't drink coffee either..."
"You don't?? Well, why'd you ask me out for one?"
"Cause I knew you liked it. And I'm not such an idiot that I won't take a pretty girl like you out for one the second I get the chance."
He takes a long sip of his hot chocolate, eyebrows suavely bouncing once or twice, and when he brings his cup back down he has a glob of whipped cream on his nose and upper lip. A bright laugh bubbles from your lips and you automatically reach over to swipe it away from his face.
His cheeks go red moments before yours do, and you pause for a moment with your thumb over the seam of his lip before pulling your hand away.
"S-sorry."
"No, I appreciate it. Much obliged."
Your heart feels like it's going to climb out of your throat. Steve's stomach is twisting itself into knots that even he couldn't unravel, and he was an Eagle Scout.
"Are you back tonight, Steve?" You ask as casually as you are able, although you can't erase all of the hopefulness from your voice completely.
"I am. Training shift number 2. Will you be the one taking care of me?"
"I'll be there with bells on."
⚕️
"Oh, please, Steve? Pleeease."
"Nuh-uh."
"Please please please please please --"
"No."
"--please please please please please --"
"No, I'm not --"
"--PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEEEEEEEAAEEESEEE--"
"Okay! Jesus fuck--" Steve grumbles and grouchily flicks open the photo app on his phone. He scrolls past pictures of grinning faces, baseball uniforms, graduation caps, and countless happy, treasured memories. There's one you can see of a girl with bouncy hair kissing his cheek that he lingers on for a second longer than the others, and even though you have no right or reason to, you feel a pang of jealousy deep within your core.
Finally you see a flash of blue and red, and just when you lean in to let your greedy eyes get a better look he pulls the phone to his chest tightly.
"Okay, you cannot laugh."
"Steve. I would never." You cross your heart and do the locking-lips gesture.
"And like, this goes to your grave. I'm serious. This is high-level security clearance stuff."
"I'm honestly flattered, honored even, now please show me the goddamn picture."
He closes his eyes and flips the phone around, and your cheeks puff out immediately to contain the giggles that threaten to burst free; there on the screen is one of the greatest sights your eyes have ever beheld.
It's Steve, clearly younger, in a full-on electric blue sailor's suit, complete with a cap and the tiniest shorts you've ever seen on a man. He's smiling weakly in it, probably blackmailed or coerced into even taking the picture, and giving a little thumbs up to the camera with an ice cream scoop in his other hand.
"Ope."
"Shut up." He locks the phone and puts it in his pocket.
"Oh, wow. No, that was really somethin'."
"Cut it out."
"Steve. Could ya excuse me for a sec?"
He sighs deeply, waving you on. "Go on."
You turn in your chair to face away from him and blow a raspberry between your lips, hunching over with a wheeze of laughter. Steve starts chuckling in his seat too, arms crossed like he's still trying to maintain some semblance of his dignity.
"Are you done?"
"Yes, yes. I'm sorry, hon. I broke a swear." You swipe the tears from under your eyes, giggles still breaking through your words. "But to be fair you didn't really warn me there would be so much thigh exposure, and that really did me in."
"Yeah, in an ice cream shop. It was freezing all the time, and I'm running around in hoochie daddy shorts."
"Hoochie daddy?!" You shove his chair away with your foot, laughing so hard your sides hurt. You almost don't hear the double doors slide open, but you mechanically turn towards the entrance anyway like it's a sixth sense.
"Hi, welcome in. Apologies for the hootin' and hollerin', we gotta stay awake somehow in the wee hours. What can we help with?"
It's an older woman, maybe early fifties, with neatly trimmed hair and huge glasses that give her eyes as big as an owl. She has a kind, sweet face, and doesn't seem to be in any outward acute distress, so it's definitely odd for her to be strolling into an emergency department at way past three in the morning.
"Uh, yes, I'm sorry to bother you. I've just been having this stomach pain, taking half a bottle of Tums in a day, and nothing's working. Been throwing up all night, can't sleep a wink, just figured I'd come in and see if I got a bug?"
"Oh, sure. That doesn't sound fun. Ya think it could be something ya ate?"
"Well, haven't really had anything the husband or kids haven't, and they're all fine. Just don't wanna be getting anyone sick."
"Sure, that's fair. So no one else is feeling bad?"
"No ma'am."
"Okie doke, well why don't you grab a seat, I've got a couple of forms for you to fill out here, and I'll let the docs know what's up. We'll get ya back quick as we can."
"Thanks, doll." She walks into the lobby and settles into a chair in the corner, closing her eyes softly with the clipboard in her hands.
"Okay, Dr. Crisp is on tonight. I have a secret for you, Steve -- nobody likes Dr. Crisp."
He nods knowingly. He may not have dealt with Crisp specifically, but most nurses learn pretty quickly that there is always one doctor that just seems to relish in making everyone's lives a little bit more difficult for no discernable reason. Crisp was that for the Walter Mondale Care Center.
"Want me to call him?"
"Nah, wouldn't do that to a friend. Just listen in." You give Steve a wink and dial the doctor's number in your work phone. It rings twice before connecting.
"Yeah?"
"Hey Dr. Crisp. We got a lady in the lobby, indigestion and vomiting, antacids not doing the trick and no one at home is sick. Can ya come take a look at her?"
"How long has she had the pain?"
You cover the receiver end of your phone with your fingers and speak outward into the lobby.
"Ma'am? How long ya been having your stomach pains?"
She startles at the sound of your voice and thinks for a moment, then says, "Oh, um...two or three days?"
You give her a thumbs up and speak back into the phone. "Two, three days."
Dr. Crisp audibly sighs on the other end.
"And she came to the ED for this?"
"She sure did, Doc." You roll your eyes at Steve and his shoulders shake with a silent laugh.
"Alright. Get her in 2, I'll come in and tell her to keep chugging the antacid and cool it on the jalapeño poppers."
You give him your warmest, "thank you", but he hangs up the call before you get the chance.
"Wow. Crisp's a real Grinch."
You scoff, nodding and gathering admission materials for the woman.
"Yah, you could say that. Least the Grinch has a heart. I'm not so sure about Crisp. C'mon, let's go get our new friend settled in 2."
You and Steve walk together into the waiting area and find the woman dozed off again, head against the cool glass of the lobby window. Her form is only half-filled out in scrawled ink.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, we'll get ya over into room 2, okay?"
She says nothing and doesn't stir. Steve glances at the clipboard to get her name.
"Hey -- Mrs. Fitch? I know it's late, but we're ready for you."
Silence. You gently shove her shoulder, then a little harder, then you're feeling for the carotid artery in her neck to find no life thrumming beneath your fingertips.
"Christ. Code Blue! Code Blue! Steve get her down, start thumping her chest I'll get the AED and call it overhead!"
Steve doesn't waste a second, gently guiding the small woman flat onto the floor and opening her blouse to begin CPR.
You run, adrenaline flooding your veins as you slam the CODE button on the wall and grab your closest AED before going straight back to Steve. Hustling footsteps can be heard following suit from all over the department.
You kneel beside Mrs. Fitch and place the pads on her chest while Steve continues simulating the beating of her heart with his hands.
ANALYZING RHYTHM
Steve abruptly stops pumping but holds his hands at the ready to continue the moment it's needed. The seconds feel like hours. Now there are 4 nurses, 2 doctors, respiratory therapists, pharmacists, and more, all buzzing around, all preparing to jump in.
Among those faces is a very annoyed Dr. Crisp.
"I thought you said this was indigestion?"
NO SHOCK ADVISED. PLEASE CONTINUE GIVING COMPRESSIONS.
Steve does so without hesitation.
"That's what she said, we found her collapsed in the lobby in the middle of filling out her paperwork."
"Indigestion can be a sign of a heart attack in women." He said it more like an accusation rather than a teachable moment.
"Right, I just --"
"And why is your trainee the one doing CPR?"
"Steve's qualified, he's experienced, I --"
"Someone switch out with him after this round."
Crisp continues barking orders for medications, interventions, and who he wanted where. He didn't give you any instruction, so you fell into the groove of grabbing things and running labs, busying yourself just outside of the fray and trying to calm the tide of emotions threatening to crash over.
Codes were hectic. Sometimes they brought out the worst in people; anxieties and aggression and the like. You tried not to take things too personal.
Twenty minutes later, they got a pulse back. You let out a long, heavy exhale, gripping your knees to keep yourself upright in some capacity.
Odie strolls by and smacks you twice on the shoulder.
"Quick catch, boss. We'll get her stabilized and up to ICU."
"Thanks Odie, great work."
Everyone spills away as quickly as they came, the stretcher taking an intubated and fragile (but alive) Mrs. Fitch upstairs for more intensive treatment.
"And Steve, wow. You were amazing, quick and calm, I'm really impressed. And grateful."
"Hey, no, it's --"
"I'd like to speak with you." Dr Crisp cuts straight through Steve's words, and both of your eyes snap directly to him. You nod and follow obediently to the doctor's office. It's dimly lit and sparsely decorated, as cold and clinical as he was.
"She could have died in the lobby. What on earth possessed you to leave her with a trainee?"
You shake your head, a little stunned at the tone and immediate accusations.
"Steve isn't a new grad who's never seen a saline flush, Doc. He's experienced, just new to the facility. We're all CPR certified, I don't understand --"
"Listen, it's my name on the paperwork here. I'm the doctor on call. Someone dies tonight, I have to deal with the fallout. So no more playing with people's lives so your new boy toy can have a learning opportunity."
"Playing wi-- I did exactly what I would have done any other night! That was -- that was a beautiful code, if I may be so bold, Dr. Crisp. If Steve hadn't been there, I would have had to leave her to call it, or scream down the hall until someone maybe came along. I don't appreciate you questioning my motivations, and I certainly don't appreciate you insinuating anything about my coworkers and I, or that it has anything effect on my work."
"I can hear you two yacking it up from back here in my office, if you're trying to hide it you're doing a shit job."
Your ears go hot and the edges of your vision get blurry. Through the vignette, you glower at him and grit, "Talking with my coworkers did not impact Mrs. Fitch's care. You were just gonna throw Pepto down her throat. You didn't think it was a heart attack straight away, either!"
His face goes harder, if that was even possible, and the angles in his hollow cheekbones give him a daunting, devilish expression.
"I didn't say that. I would have assessed her and treated her as seriously as I would any patient."
You've always cursed the gods for blessing you with the reflex of crying when you felt anger. You felt that it made you seem weaker, a little weeping willow, when you just wanted to hold your ground and show strength. But, it couldn't be helped. You couldn't wrangle them back, and even now they welled in your eyes and choked up your voice.
"Y-yes, you did. Steve heard. This was no one's fault, doctor. These things just...happen."
"Well, you keep telling yourself that while Mrs. Fitch is upstairs getting ready for a quadruple bypass. Get out."
As you turn to leave you can hear him mutter under his breath, "Always with the hysterics", before you slam his office door so hard you hear one of the single paintings on the wall inside fall off and clatter to the floor.
Good, you thought. I hope it fucking broke.
You're not nearly as chatty the rest of the night, even as Steve tries to regale you with tales of his life back in Indiana, working at the ice cream shop or even as a radio DJ, which honestly sounded kind of cool. In spite of everything, his effervescent charm and his effortless humor, your smile never quite reached your eyes.
Your head was trapped in a self-doubting loop. Did you make the right calls? Was there anything different you could have done? Were there any loose ends? Did you miss something?
"Hey..." Steve whispers, placing a hand over yours at the main nurses desk. "You alright?"
"Fine. Just always a little tense after a crash."
"I get it. Crisp let you have it?"
Your eyes flick up to him, horrified that he may have heard the humiliating conversation.
"Did you --"
"No, no. You just looked kinda pale coming out of there, and I figured it probably wasn't from him offering you the keys to the city."
"Yah, um...kinda put some stuff on my shoulders that has me thinking -- I'm just making sure I did the best by Mrs. Fitch. You know how it goes. We're our biggest critics." You give him another melancholic smile and he nods understandingly.
The rest of the shift swirls by in a haze of overthinking and self-criticism. Charlene is your relief for the day shift, always far earlier than she needs to be. She sees the thick fog enveloping you, and after hearing what had happened she shoos you on home, telling you she can finish out the training shift with Steve for the next 45 minutes.
He nods encouragingly and you thank them both, heading out the doors and hoping the events of the night will stay behind.
⚕️
Gator pulls into the ambulance bay at 6:45 to try and catch you as you come out. At 6:55 he sees Steve walking by himself, instead. He leans out the window of his truck and whistles.
"Where's boss lady?"
Steve squints at him through the harsh orange light of the rising sun, wondering if he should even answer.
"Umm, home. Little early. Rough shift, doc was an asshole."
Gator spits a wad of tobacco-laced spit on the ground.
"Which doc?"
"Uhh...Crisp."
"Mm. 'Kay. Thanks, Herringbone."
"It's Harrington, but-- "
Gator was already peeling away, and Steve was terrified that he just put a man's life in danger.
⚕️
The bus stops about 3 blocks from your place, the rest pretty easily walkable. Typically you liked to let the stresses of the night go in stages while you walked those three blocks.
When you passed Osprey Drive, you'd forget any snide comments, rude remarks, or the little annoyances. They stopped at that stop sign. As soon as you hit Quilling Street, you'd start letting go of the tension in your muscles and shoulders, breathing in the morning air and feeling the coils loosening inside of you. By Hawthorne Avenue, you'd feel a lot more like yourself again, and you knew that by the next stop you'd be enjoying your time at home, work-related shit left stranded in the dust.
That is what you typically did. But after nights like these? Where the stress and bullshit had seeped too deep into your brain and bone, rooting and twisting its way down, wanting to stay for breakfast and mull itself over in your mind until eventually you just passed out from exhaustion? That's the kind of morning this was.
At Osprey, you felt the fresh sting of the Crisp's words. At Quilling you saw Mrs. Fitch's face, pale and slack-jawed on the floor of the lobby. By Hawthorne, you were lower than you were when you stepped out of the damn hospital.
You pass through the gates of your apartment and climb your stairwell to the third floor, but pause when you see the shadow of someone looming near your door. The lights were conveniently out in your stretch of hallway, and even though you had told the landlord about half a dozen times over the last 4 months, no one has come to fix it.
"S'just me." The familiar voice calls out when he sees your hesitation.
"Gator?"
"Ya tell em to come and fix these lights?"
Yeah, that's Gator alright.
"Yes, I told them to come and fix these lights. No one listens to silly little ladies around here, Gator. We're probably just being hysterical." You grumble, not in the mood for his lectures. "I mean, it's not like strange men will just show up in your corridor, standing outside your door like a creep."
You fiddle with your key in the door and flip the light on in your entryway, casting a warm, yellow glow out into the darkened hall. Gator is looking at you seriously, studying the lines in your face. He holds up his hand, swaying a six-pack of your favorite beer tantalizingly.
"Thought ya could use one. Still do shower beers after a shit shift?"
You can't help but chuckle in spite of yourself. Then, to your utter dismay, the tears begin to come.
"Aw, fuck, I don't want ya to cry..."
"Well too goddamn bad, Tillman. A woman trusted me to help her tonight and I let her down. I shoulda listened harder, asked more questions. I didn't..."
Your breath hitches and you aren't able to speak coherently through the hiccuping sobs anymore. Gator reaches in past you and sets the beers down quietly on your entryway table, then with a tenderness you don't often see from him he wraps his arms around your shoulders and rests his chin atop your head.
"Hey, s'alright. C'mon, boss, ya know it's part of the job. People get sick, die even. Sometimes it's just out of our hands."
"I shoulda put my foot down...stood up for myself..."
"And fuckin' Crisp woulda nagged at ya for that and done what he wanted, anyway."
"But at least I wouldn't have laid there and took it!"
"Alright, hey, I know. I got it, I know. M'sorry. It fuckin' sucks, I'm just sorry."
You sob quietly into his shoulder for a few moments, and he doesn't move a muscle or offer any more words of "comfort". He's never been the best at that sort of thing anyway (or so he thinks). Then he feels your arms come up and snake around his waist, giving him the gentlest of squeezes.
"Thanks, Gator." Your words are muffled and garbled by the tears and his shirt, but they go straight to his heart like an arrow.
"Didn't do nothing, just gimme one of your beers and we'll be square."
Your shoulders shake once as a tiny, tearful laugh escapes, and when you pull away Gator is stunned for a moment at how vivid the color in your eyes are after you've finished having a cry.
"Wanna come have it in the shower with me?"
He smiles and leans down to press a quick peck to the tip of your reddened nose.
"Thought you'd never ask."
⚕️
Gator tucks his head into the crook of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses over your skin that were somehow hotter than the steaming water that pelts you.
Most of the gel had washed free of his hair, so it freely tangled between your fingers as you raked them through it. He shudders beneath your touch and your pussy clenches wantingly around nothing. As if he can read your mind, he drags his hand along your inner thigh and through your folds, feeling the heat and slickness coming off of you.
"Christ, so wet."
"Mm-hm."
"This all for me?"
You let out a long, shaky exhale and nod, eyes closing as your head falls back against the tiles. A few strokes of his fingers later, Gator pulls away completely, taking his warmth with him. Your eyes flash open, brow furrowed in confusion.
"Why'd ya stop?"
"You're not with me. Your head's off in your bullshit. I'm doing this for you, so ya gotta come back down here."
Your mouth falls open, and you can't hide all the hurt on your face.
"Oh. Well, I don't wanna be a burden to ya, Gator."
You twist the knob and cut the water abruptly, pushing open the glass shower door and snatching your towel off the hook. You wrap it around yourself brusquely and twirl your wet hair up into a claw clip without once turning to look at your stunned guest.
"What are ya talking about? A burden?"
"I mean, yah. If you're just doing this for me, don't bother. I got a vibrator. Don't gotta waste your time, I'm fine. I'm a big girl. Thanks for the beer, you can see yourself out."
You continue to avoid looking at him as you speak and go about your bedtime routine, swiping face cream over your cheeks and chin and starting to brush your teeth. Gator sighs deeply and steps out, suddenly feeling particularly exposed with no towel.
"Hey, that's not what I meant. I just -- I want ya to relax, y'know? I'm not doing this for me, even though I can't lie and say I'm not getting something out of it, too. Y'know what I'm trying to say?"
You do look at him now, at the vulnerability in his shoulders and the way he cups his hands over his cock so it doesn't distract from what he's trying to tell you. You lean over the sink and spit your toothpaste out, rinsing the brush and letting it clink back into the glass cup.
"M'sorry, Gator. I'm still on edge. Can ya just...for me, right now...could ya be a little soft? I need soft."
His cheeks and ears go redder and he clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably and glancing down at his rigid length still tucked under his hands. His obvious discomfort makes you laugh, which is the first remotely positive emotion since the end of your shift.
"I don't mean physically soft, Gator. Just...talk to me a little softer?"
"I don't really..."
"Oh, please. Ya can't think of anything sweet to say to me? Can't even make something up to get into my pants?"
He scoffs incredulously. "I'm not trying just to get in your pants for the hell of it, lady. I...like being around ya. Think you're funny, and...ya smell nice."
You nod, genuinely impressed.
"Wow, Gator. Two compliments at once? Ya feeling alright after all that? Didn't strain yourself?"
"God, fine. You're nice. You're nice to me, no one is nice to me. You're smart, tough -- you're a good person. And I've always got your back. Y'know that, right?"
His voice drops low and he maintains intense eye contact the entire time he speaks. Your jaw hangs open slightly, the sweetness and honesty behind his words making your heart skip a beat in your chest. You tip your head, gesturing him to come closer. He obliges immediately, standing in front of you in just two long strides.
"Thanks, Gator."
You cup his cheeks in your hands and pull him down to slot your lips against his. He tenderly circles his fingers around your wrists, stroking the skin there with his thumbs. No slapping. No gripping or groping. You wanted soft Gator, so he would give you the softest Gator he could muster.
"Tell me what ya want, then. Details. Wanna make ya feel better." He punctuates each thought with another small kiss against your now smiling lips.
"Take me to the bed?"
Without another word, without even breaking your lips apart, he reaches behind your legs and hoists you up to wrap them around his waist. Shuffling together to the bedroom, he reaches the bed and bends forward, laying you carefully back against your pillows. He peels your towel open, exposing you to him once more, then hovers above you and waits.
He raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"Whaddya want me to tell ya everything?"
He shrugs. "Yah, pretty much. Talk me through it, boss lady."
He kisses under your jaw so softly it's almost just a close breath. It makes you shudder and clutch at his shoulders.
"Mm-okay. That's always good. Maybe...kiss me all the way...down?"
You can feel the smirk on his mouth as he nods and starts trailing his lips over your collarbone and between the valley of your breasts. His eyes look up to watch your face as he takes a nipple between his lips and sucks it lightly, releasing it with a small pop. He moves to the other one and simply swirls his tongue around it in small circles before nipping it gently and continuing his southward advances. His hands grip your waist as he buries his face in your tummy, kissing and laving over the soft skin there before finally lowering himself onto his stomach between your legs.
He softly presses his lips over your clit and when you jolt at the touch with a sharp gasp his cock twitches against the mattress. You're so responsive right now; was it this slow and steady stuff that has you so hot and bothered? Cause he might have to pull out soft Gator more often if it got this kind of reaction from you.
You were soaked, too. He could smell your arousal, taste it on his lips. His tongue flicks out to slowly and softly circle the small, sensitive bud.
"Gator? M-more?"
"More what? Whaddya want, pretty thing?"
His voice was husky and almost just a whisper, the vibrations warm and teasing against your core.
"Um...can ya...can I have your fingers? Please?"
"Jeez, so polite. How could I say no?"
He runs the fingers of his right hand through your slit, gathering some of your arousal to help him ease two through your hole. You're so needy that you practically suck them in, and Gator hisses at the feel of how badly you're wanting this.
"That's a girl. You still want my mouth, too?"
You nod vigorously, head lolling back as he gently sucks on your clit and scissors his fingers in a steady, rhythmic pace.
"Oh, fuck Gator. That -- that feels so good, baby."
Baby?!
He nearly cums in your sheets. You've never once, not a single time in all your times together, used the pet name baby. You were probably just a little high on the moment, lost in the feeling, but goddamnit if it didn't make his heart race a little. His focus centers on keeping up this motion, the one making your back arch and your fingers tug gently at his hair. He can feel how tightly you're squeezing his fingers, your walls beginning to flutter, and with a final cry of his name you come up onto your elbows and clench your thighs over his ears.
He slowly spreads them apart, licking you through the crash of your orgasm until you whimper, "okay, okay." He makes his way back up to you, kissing your forehead first then gently on the mouth, letting your tongue swipe over his lips so you can taste yourself on him.
"Alrighty, thanks Gator." You pant, patting him on the bicep. "See ya tonight?"
Hurt flashes across his eyes, and he actually starts to pull away until you burst into a fit of giggles and tug him right back down on top of you.
"I'm kidding, ya idiot. Could you imagine?"
"God, you're such a bitch sometimes."
"Hey! Soft Gator. We had a deal."
He mumbles under his breath, flipping you over to straddle his hips, "Yeah, I'll show ya soft."
He puts his arms behind his head and watches you, admiring the curves and dips of your body. You lean up to steady his straining cock at your entrance and start to ease yourself down onto him. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, completely enraptured at the sight of you swallowing him up.
As your ass settles onto his thighs, his dick fully buried inside of you, he groans, "Use me, take whatcha want."
Your walls give him a gentle hug and his eyes roll back a little at the feeling.
"You -- what?"
"M'not gonna do a thing. I'm soft Gator. I'm just your little fuck toy, so fuck me. Make yourself feel good. I'll watch."
"Are you gonna like that?"
He arches a brow at you and looks as if he didn't quite hear you correctly.
"Uh, yah. Yah, I gotta pretty lady fucking herself on my cock, I think I'll be alright."
You laugh, still a little breathless, and Gator feels the vibration of it in your soft, velvety walls. You start a slow roll of your hips, testing what is going to work the very best for you. The angle suddenly hits you, dizzying pleasure spreading a pool of warmth through your belly and thighs. You cry out, repeating the exact motion -- leaning slightly forward, hands clawing into Gator's chest, scooping your hips in deep, languid thrusts. Your clit brushes against his curls and pelvis every time, making everything ten times more intense.
It's taking every ounce of Gator's resolve not to rut or pound into you. He thinks he might earn himself a medal when this is over. Or maybe that other thing he's been asking you about for awhile now...
"God, Gator, I'm -- I'm gonna cum again. I can feel ya in my fucking ribcage."
You start a heartier bounce, sliding up and down his cock more frantically and letting his tip slam into your g-spot repeatedly.
"Grab my tits, please. Play with em?"
You don't even finish your sentence before his rough hands are doing just as you asked, kneading and flicking your nipples with his thumbs.
"Yes, baby, yesyesyes --"
There it fucking is again -- baby. Gator's cock pulses, he feels his sack tighten, and he's painting your insides with his hot cum. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood...
...And he doesn't say a fucking word, because you're not done using him. Every slam of your pussy onto his spent cock is blisteringly sensitive. His eyes flutter shut, head falls back into the pillow, and the veins in his neck are bulging out with the strain of trying not to scream your name.
Then you cum for the second time with his name sweetly rolling off your tongue, and that along with the grip of your cunt is enough to destroy his resolve.
"Fu-u-uck!" He draws in a sharp inhale, squeezing your hips and gently but firmly slowing your movements.
As you roll to the side you can see something white and sticky at his base and across your thighs. You touch it, and when you bring it to your mouth and lick it Gator whimpers beside you.
"When did you cum?"
He groans, chest heaving. "Like five minutes ago?"
"Christ, sorry. I woulda slowed down --"
"Why'd ya think I didn't say anything?" He winks at you, that old familiar sideways grin creeping up his lips.
You nestle into the crook of his arm, both of you laying on your backs and looking up at the popcorn ceiling of your apartment.
"Hey, Gator?"
"Yah, boss?"
"...You're a really good friend."
You both laugh at that, though you can't really explain why it's funny.
A/N: Hello my loves, hope you enjoyed our next shift. ❤️ I planned some Gator-centric ones, some Steve-centric ones, some Tillington bonding, etc. so I could expand and not cram everything into one. This was clearly a Gator-heavy 'sode, so I'll try and let our sweet boy Steve have his time to shine in the next one. 💋
