₊✮˖˚ CHLOE. 25 yo. French. Desperate writer. Simp enthusiast. ⊹ Minors kindly go away. Blank blogs don't stay. Sfw & nsfw. ⊹ Only love here. ₊★˚･
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*✺. FICS RECS. ⸻ THE TASTIEST MILKSHAKES. ❪ 牛乳飲料 ❫
⊰ A Knight Of The Seven Kingdoms. ★ Attack on Titan. ❉ Animal Kingdom. ★ Bleach. ★ Demon Slayer. ❋ Free! ★ Haikyuu!!. ★ Heated Rivalry ❉ House of the Dragon. ★ Jujutsu Kaisen. ★ My Hero Academia. ❋ Peaky Blinders. ★ The Last Kingdom. ★ The Originals. ❉ The Pitt. ★ The Shawn Hatosy Boys. ★ Vikings.
Or if you want to wander through the tag !!
*✺. WIPS. ⸻ THE SMOOTHIES SHELF. ❪ スムージー ❫
⊰ He On The Run ft. Charlie Reid, Jack Abbot, Andrew Cody & Brett Richards.
⊰ Honey And Syrup ft. Yuma Mukami.
⊰ Beyond The Hills Of The Keep, Chapter One ft. Matarys Targaryen.
⊰ Beneath A Sky of Basilisks, Chapter One ft. Aerion Targaryen.
*✺. LATEST FICS. ⸻ THE LEMONADES COUNTER. ❪ レモネード ❫
⊰ An Enchanting Siren ft. Makoto Tachibana.
⊰ Rainstorm ft. Kaede Kinjō.
⊰ Butterscotch ft. Hajime Kashimo.
⊰ Brimming With Adoration ft. Rin Matsuoka.
If you'd like to be tagged in any of my fics, don't be shy and ask !
the movie quietly played in the background while they lounged together on the couch, munching on their late night popcorn. his arm heavy around her shoulders while her legs were thrown over his lap as he massaged her calves.
on the screen, some guy got tackled by a cop after maybe the most painfully slow chase she had ever seen causing her to giggle.
sammy glanced down at her. “what?” he wanted to know.
“that guy could’ve gotten away so easily.”
sammy immediately looked at her, a playful offended scowl plastered across his face. “no, he couldn’t.”
“yes, he could! they were literally right behind him and he still stopped to look back.”
“that’s why he got caught.” he said with a chuckle.
she rolled her eyes dramatically. “okay, officer.”
“i’m serious.” he said matter of factly.
“i bet i could have even gotten away.”
sammy scoffed quietly, thumb dragging against her thigh. “you couldn’t.”
“you don’t know that.” she gasped.
“oh, i absolutely know that.”
she sat up straighter, narrowing your eyes at him. “bet you couldn’t cuff me.”
the second the words left her mouth, the room went quiet.
sammy looked at her slowly. making sure he heard her right. “…what?”
she looked away, blushing and trying not to smile. “you heard me.” she knew exactly what she was doing.
his expression changed immediately. he wasn’t joking anymore. her breath catching as she noticed the charged air between them now.
“you’re challenging me?”
“maybe.”
he stared at her for another second before leaning forward and grabbing the remote, pausing the movie.
her stomach flipped at the look in his eyes, his muscles flexing as he scratched his forearm.
“move the table,” he said calmly.
she blinked innocently. “wait.. what, seriously?”
“you wanna test your theory or not?” he said, his voice raspy moving her legs off of his lap.
she laughed nervously, getting up and shoving the coffee table away from the couch. “you’re taking this way too seriously.”
“no,” sammy mused, standing up. “you just don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout, baby.”
she watched him disappear briefly down the hallway then he came back holding his cuffs.
suddenly this whole thing felt like a painfully terrible idea.
“oh my god,” she laughed, backing up with her hands out in surrender. “sammy—”
“what?” he asked innocently, twirling them once around his finger. “thought you said you could get away.”
“i didn’t realize you were gonna go full cop mode.”
“too late now.”
she sighed, adrenaline taking over her as she watched her boyfriend swing his cuffs between them. “okay.. wait you can’t go hard on me.”
“that’s literally my job.”
“that’s cheating.”
sammy just smiled. then he lunged.
she shrieked and darted around the living room before making her way behind the couch laughing uncontrollably, sammy hot on her heels.
“b-baby this isn’t fair!”
“you wanted the challenge!” he laughed.
“noo!! ahhh— you’re going to fast!”
“babe, you’re running in socks.” he said matter of factly.
she barely made it around the other side of the couch before his hand caught her wrist.
“got you.”
“noooo!” she whined, squirming in his grasp trying free herself which only lasted for about two seconds.
sammy caught her fully, one arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her hard against his broad chest. the sudden strength behind it made her jaw slacken as her breath hitched.
“baby.. i-”
“you talk a big game for somebody this easy to catch.”
she could feel him laughing against her shoulder as she struggled halfheartedly in his grip.
“you’re holding me hostage officer!”
“mhm.” he hummed.
“that’s illegal.” she nearly whispered.
“i’ll take the risk.”
heat crawled up her neck when he turned her around in his arms, her back pressed against his chest making them both breathless.
“hands,” he said sternly.
her heartbeat skipped, feeling that familiar clench in her abdomen as she felt his hands grip her wrists tighter.
“you’re enjoying this too much.”
“hands,” he repeated.
she lifted them slowly, laughing under her breath trying to ground herself.
the click of the cuffs made her stomach flip, bitting her lip she felt his chest heave against her back.
“there,” sammy murmured near her ear. “you’re under arrest.”
she leaned her head back against his shoulder. “this feels targeted. i might have to file a complaint against you officer, bryant.”
“you challenged me.”
“i think you were waiting for an excuse.”
sammy hummed thoughtfully. “maybe.”
his hands slid down her arms painfully slow before settling at her curved waist again, completely caging her in.
“you know what your problem is?” he asked softly.
“what.”
“you think because i’m nice to you, i won’t win.”
she swallowed hard.
“that cocky attitude would get you arrested immediately, baby.”
“yeah?” you she trembled.
sammy leaned down just enough for his mouth to brush her ear causing her to shiver.
“baby,” he said quietly, “you never stood a chance.”
summary: sammy bryant is a simp for his pregnant wife.
the low murmur of the police scanner hums beneath the clatter of nate’s half-finished rant about how “nobody knows how to take a corner anymore.” sammy’s driving, knuckles loose on the wheel, when his phone lights up with her name.
he taps the bluetooth with his thumb, speaker crackling to life.
“hey, baby,” he says easily.
there’s a pause on the other end—just long enough for sammy to know something’s up. the kind of pause she makes when she’s gearing herself up for something that feels silly to her but makes his whole chest soften.
“hi,” she says finally, voice soft, lilting. “um… are you busy?”
nate immediately cuts his eyes toward the dash. sammy doesn’t flinch.
“not too busy. nate and i just wrapped a walkthrough downtown. why?”
“you, um…” she hesitates. he hears it, that wobble. that crack that says she already talked herself out of this twice before she even dialed. “you remember that deli we used to go to near our old place in central alameda?”
sammy meets nate’s eye and says without hesitation:
“yeah. we’re close to there actually.”
nate mouths no we’re not? then gives up and just gestures out the dashboard at downtown hollywood forty minutes away from central alameda.
“i was maybe…” her voice drops to this tragic, adorable little near-whisper, “…maybe wanting that spicy italian? the one on the marble rye? with the extra pepperoncinis?”
sammy’s already flicking the blinker on to switch lanes.
“yeah, baby. got it.”
“and maybe the iced tea?” she adds quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. “no, actually, can it be both? the lemonade and the tea? like an arnold palmer? and if they have the cake of the day i kinda want that too. but it’s okay if they don’t, i swear i’ll survive, i just—”
her voice does that thing, trembles right at the edge of a tear or maybe just her hormones spiraling.
“actually never mind. this is crazy. you’re working. i’m sorry, just forget i called, i love you—be safe—”
click.
sammy sighs, but there’s a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he’s already turning onto the freeway ramp.
nate blinks once. twice. then slowly says:
“jesus. even i can’t say no to her when she asked like that.”
sammy huffs out a dry laugh.
“so you see my problem.”
“how many midnight snack runs has she sent you on?”
“none.”
nate blinks harder.
“none?”
“she hasn’t even asked me to fill her damn water bottle,” sammy mutters. “not once. not a single midnight craving. hasn’t asked for anything.”
“oh.” nate exhales slowly, understanding dawning. “so when she does—”
“exactly.”
they drive a beat in silence, traffic parting just enough to give them a smooth path toward central alameda.
“we’re really going forty minutes out of the way to a deli.”
“yeah,” sammy says simply. “yeah, we are.”
“i can’t even give you shit. you were with me when mariella made me go demand a banana split from that ice cream shop during a rain storm at 9:58 p.m. they were out of cherries. she cried. i still don’t think she’s forgiven me.”
sammy grins. nate leans forward, elbows on knees.
“since you’re already buying lunch…”
“for her, not you.”
“i’ll take a turkey pesto. your girl has good taste.”
sammy snorts and rolls his eyes.
“you’re such a simp, man.”
“yeah,” sammy smirks, already dialing the deli, “but i get to go home to her.”
nate huffs a laugh but he’s already smiling too, tapping his phone open.
“i swear to god if they’re out of marble rye, you’re telling her.”
content. brett richards x reader. pørn w/o plot (once again lol). dry humping. unprotected. dumbification (if you squint). praise kink. fingers in mouthhhhh. yeah. 🫡
brett richards who comes over smelling like smoke and sweat from another shift of putting out a forest fire that could’ve gotten real bad.
you liked being able to loosen him up. let him fuck you dumb until he could relax.
he’s pulling off his boots and tugging off his shirt as he eyes you with hunger. you lay back on the bed just in your lace panties palming your boob as you watch him strip.
“keep your boxers on,” you tell him.
the corner of his lips tilt into a half smile as he chuckles under his breath. he unbuckles the belt and lets his pants fall, squinting up at you, “you givin me orders now?”
“perhaps,” you smile.
he grabs your ankle and drags you down to him in one pull. leans over you until his chest presses against yours, hard and warm, dusted with greying hair. his mouth finds yours and a hum bleeds out of him into your kiss. relief and hunger all at once. you smile against his lips, fingers lacing into his dark grey hair.
your mouth opens for him and he takes. teeth catching your lip, spit-slick and shameless, tongue and the wet drag of his mouth until you’re gripping his hair just to hold on.
he pulls your hand away from your boob and replaces it with his mouth.
he suckles your nipple until it peaks hard against his tongue, groaning low against your skin like the sound was pulled out of him.
he switches to the other, mouthing at it deep and greedy, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, until it’s just as red and pulls off with a soft pop that makes your breath hitch.
your thighs start to closes and he smacks the inside of your thigh.
"keep them open."
you do.
he settles between them, grey boxers against your panties. he rolls his hips into yours. the cotton friction makes you gasp, feeling every ridge of him through the thin fabric. he does it again, watching your face.
“brett一”
the corner of his lips tilt up in satisfaction. he hums against your skin and mouths at your chest again like he's feasting. muffled groans bleeding into your skin, stubble dragging rough where his mouth is soft, hips keeping that same grinding rhythm.
you pull at his hair and a deep grunt spills out of him. he finally lifts his head, eyes gone almost all black, mouth wet. he looks at you like he’s deciding something.
“nine days,” you say. recounting the days it had been since your last escapade in your apartment.
“nine days,” he repeats, voice rough. his hips press into yours harder and you inhale sharp.
he pulls back just enough and you take the opportunity. hands planting on his chest, you push him down onto the bed and swing your leg over him.
you settle onto his lap and feel it immediately. the damp patch on the front of his boxers, dark grey fabric clinging where he’s been leaking for you. your hips sink down against it and a groan tears out of you before you can stop it.
brett’s jaw tightens. his hands find your hips.
“yeah,” he says quietly. the corners of his eyes crinkle, satisfaction written into every line of his face.
you roll your hips and feel the wet cotton drag against your panties, the outline of him thick and obvious beneath you. your head tips back.
“god,” you breathe.
his thumbs dig into the soft of your hips, watching you work yourself against him with that infuriating face of his. grey threading through his hair, lines carved deep around his mouth, and still he looks at you like you’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
he flips you before you can catch your breath. back hitting the mattress, his weight settling over you. he pulls your panties down and off in one motion and tosses them in the background.
he settles between your thighs, and instead of pushing in he just pauses. looking at you spread open for him, wet and wanting.
his thumb finds your clit.
“oh–“ the sound jumps out of you.
he rubs slow, easy circles, watching your face with that same dark patience. "need t'get you ready to take me, baby." his voice is low, a little rough around the edges.
"been a while."
"i can take it," you breathe.
"mm." unconvinced. his thumb keeps moving, and he dips two fingers in without warning, feeling how you clench around them. he groans quietly at that. "yeah? feel how tight you are?"
your hips roll up into his hand. he lets you.
"there she goes," he murmurs. "good girl. jus' like that."
he works you open slow, fingers curling, thumb never stopping, until you're slipping wet around him and whining with it. until you're so soft and swollen and desperate that when he finally lines himself up and pushes in, thick and veined and achingly warm, it makes your breath leave your body all at once.
he stills. jaw tight, chest heaving.
“fuck,” he exhales. “so warm. so fuckin’ perfect.”
he starts to move. slow, deep strokes that have you feeling every ridge of him, the thick drag along your walls, your body gripping him like it’s trying to pull him back every time he pulls out.
“brett—“
“i got you,” he murmurs. “i got you.”
he grips your jaw and tips your head back, kissing you messy and unhurried. all tongue and heat, spit slick at the corner of your mouth. you groan into it and he swallows the sound greedily.
his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing lazy circles while he moves, and the combination makes your vision blur. you grab at his forearm, his shoulder, anything to hold on to.
he pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you. lips glistening, pupils blown. “mhmm,” he hums. “you like that?”
“yes—yes—“
“good.” his pace stays frustratingly measured. his hand slides up to grip your face, fingers pressing into your cheeks, holding you still. and then he licks into your mouth. slow and filthy, tongue dragging against your teeth, taking his sweet time. you try to kiss back but he doesn’t let you. just holds you there and takes.
he pulls back with a wet sound and pushes his thumb past your lips.
you close around it without thinking. sucking obediently, tongue pressing up against the pad of it, and the sound he makes low in his throat tells you exactly what that does to him.
“good fuckin girl,” he murmurs.
he leaves his thumb there and drops his mouth to your cheek. your jaw. the soft skin beneath your ear. trails down your throat, sucking a bruise into the pulse point without apology. lower, mouthing at your collarbone, your chest, until he’s got your nipple between his teeth again and you’re moaning around his thumb like you’ve lost your mind.
his hips keep that same devastating pace the whole time. never speeding up. just deep and measured and relentless, feeling you get slicker and softer around him with every stroke.
“brett,” you whine. “please.”
he looks up at you from your chest. the lines of his face cast in shadow, grey hair mussed, mouth swollen. he looks absolutely ruinous.
"there it is," he says quietly.
and then he gives it to you.
his hips snap forward and you gasp, hands flying to grip the sheets. he sets a pace that's immediately relentless, deep and punishing, the wet sounds filling the room obscenely. your thighs are trembling. your eyes are burning.
"oh. oh fuck—"
"yeah," he grunts out, eyes locked on your face.
"there you go."
his thumb presses down harder on your clit and whatever sentence you were forming dissolves completely. just a broken sound spilling out of you instead.
“brett i—i–“ you lose your train of thought halfway through. you try again. “please, ’m—”
“you’re what.” he asks low and amused.
you have no idea. you genuinely cannot remember.
his thumb’s relentless on you. “don’t need you thinkin’ right now anyway.”
“f—fuck, brett—” your hips jerk up uselessly. “‘s too—i can’t—i don’t—”
“i know.” he coos. “i know, baby.” he doesn’t stop.
your eyes roll back. mouth slack, sounds coming out of you that you’d be embarrassed about if you could think straight. but you can’t. there’s nothing left up there. just him and the drag of him and the filthy wet heat of it all.
“jus’ take it,” he murmurs. “there’s my girl.”
it hits you like a wave you didn’t see coming.
your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around him, a broken sound tearing out of your throat as you clench around him and fall apart. vision whiting out at the edges, toes curling, fingers twisting helplessly in the sheets.
he works you through it. slowing down.
“brett—” your voice comes out sweet and wrecked. you’re oversensitive and shaking. “i just—”
“i know.” he tuts, unbothered. “not done with you.”
“i can’t—”
“you can.”
he reaches over without a word and grabs the pillow, sliding it under your hips. the angle shifts and you immediately feel the difference, hips tilted up, legs spreading open just a little more.
he drives into it. again and again, deep and focused, hitting that soft mushy place inside you that makes your whole body seize up and your thoughts go completely white. the sounds coming out of you are barely coherent. you’re saying his name like a prayer.
you think you might be seeing stars. the edges of the room going soft and swimmy.
and then you feel his lips press to your forehead. grounding you.
“stay with me,” he mumbles. you exhale shakily. he keeps moving, chasing that high, his breathing gone ragged against your skin, hips driving deeper, harder against that soft spot.
“come with me,” he grits out.
and your body listens.
you cum with a full body shudder, thighs jerking, a broken sound tearing out of you as you clench around him and your vision goes completely white. your hands fly to his back, nails dragging down and leaving red marks in their wake, something between a sob and a moan spilling out of you.
he follows seconds later with a low curse, pulling out and fisting himself, spilling hot and white across your stomach and your thighs. his whole body shudders through it, head dropping to your chest, a long ragged groan punched out of his chest.
the room is quiet except for the sounds of you both trying to catch your breath.
he lifts his head and takes you in. your hair splayed out and tangled against the pillow, chest heaving, lips swollen and parted. eyes glassy and far away.
he cups your cheek in his palm. thumb stroking slow beneath your eye.
“hey,” he says quietly. the lines around his mouth softening.
you blink up at him. barely there.
he leans down and kisses you. soft this time, nothing like before. just his mouth, pressing once, twice, against your lips gently.
“you did so good for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. another kiss to the corner of your lips. your cheek. “so good.” his thumb keeps caressing your cheek until a tear slips from the corner of your eye.
“too much for you, wasn’t it.” his voice is low and rough at the edges, a little undone himself. his thumb sweeps the wet from your cheek.
you nod slowly.
he makes a quiet sound. almost a laugh under his breath.
“made me so proud, baby.” he presses his lips to where the tear was. then your cheekbone. your temple. working across your face. “so fucking proud.”
another tear slips and he catches that one too.
his forehead drops to yours. eyes closed, chest still heaving faintly, sweat cooling on his skin. the grey at his temples damp. “you’re alright,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”
(sammy bryant x LAPDpartner!reader, post-s03, mention of misogyny, smut, piv, masturbation, breeding!kink if you squint, wife!kink?? idk the guy just want the fantasy het life, srry hes kinda sad and pathetic in the end, MDNI, wc : 1k8, LOOK its porn with a side of plot that will come eventually i guess.)
you're a LAPD detective starting your first day with a new partner — sammy bryant. you hope he’ll be different from his predecessors, ‘cause men don’t know how to behave when paired up with you — the fault on one stupid porn photo shoot you did when you were 21 and didn’t know any better. nobody saw it until two years ago, when TMZ decided to dig up dirt on LAPD’s new star detective… since then, you had to change partner every three month. you know bryant is your last shot at having a normal career before being definitively branded as “difficult” & getting demoted to an office in some backwater town. so. you really want to make this work. you hope he feels the same.
it’s the same ritual every night. sammy knows it by heart now. two hours drive. listen to whatever the radio is spitting. park in front of the house. look for the keys, always stuck in some hidden pocket or in the bottom of the duffle bag. say hi to the nanny. pay the nanny. go upstairs and kiss the kid, asleep for several hours by now. go back downstairs. look in the empty fridge. open a beer. wonder why the fridge is packed with a brand that tastes like shit. crash on the couch, turn on the tv and—yeah, whatever.
a tired hand runs across his face, and sammy wonders how did he ended up here. stuck in this half life. shoveling too much shit in the day and returning to a too silent house in the night. he knows he needs to get some sleep—just to fake a semblance of normalcy to greet his new partner tomorrow. he can't exactly say he's eager to get involved in this mess, considering the outline sal gave him a few hours prior. fucking sal, always dumping his problems on him. he had some favors to return, and no choice but to accept the new detective that some higher-ups put in his hands. you. and now you’re sammy’s problem.
he looks at the tv screen, eyes fixated on the moving pictures, mind oblivious to whatever shit they’re trying to sell. glittering eyes. plastic crap that will change your life. big white smiles. maybe tomorrow is gonna go well. yeah. you’re probably just trying to survive in the midst of the animals that some precincts harbor. no denying that some guys can’t stop thinking with their dicks. sammy can still hear sal, hand clasped on his shoulder, index digging into his chest, spitting his re-heated speech to his face. make this shit work sammy. my hands are tied, ‘didn’t have a choice ok. i only ask for one year and you’ll be free, sammy. one year and you’ll switch partner if you want. she already burned three guys, filling five or six sexual harassment complaints ok. the broad is difficult but i need you on your best fucking behavior all right?
yeah. all right sal. ok.
apparently, sammy was the only one in the LAPD who hadn't heard about your story—or at least, how it ended. your fall from grace. he got the first half like all LA two summers ago—LAPD’s new golden girl, crowned in glory for solving a wave of violent murders incriminating some A-lister. after that, he saw your face on the LAPD’s posters. cute. bright. he missed the part where TMZ leaked some porn photo shoot that you did when you were younger; the sour after taste of triumph. LA fame has a way of always putting the spotlight on the grime you’d rather hide.
his gaze drifts again to the TV. he wonders if the pictures are still on the net. he wonders if they’re really that filthy. maybe he should look. just a quick peek ok. he’s not a creep. he simply wants to form an unbiased opinion on the exact nature of the scandal. before he knows it, his laptop is booted up and google spells in big black letters the title of the article he’s looking for.
“HOT COP HOT SHOTS: LAPD star officer caught spreading her legs playboy style!!! exclusive pictures only on TMZ” ok. why not. classy like a TMZ title. a splash of cheap beer down the throat, he clicks on the link.
the photo shoot is called “at home with peach” and it’s a pornified fantasy of the perfect wife; young, pulpy, no subtlety. the TMZ title didn’t lie—it could pass for the feature pages of a 90’s playboy. the quality is not the best, it feels somewhat amateurish, but fuck, sammy can't help but stare. it’s you, all of you, it’s your flesh on a plate for carnivorous eyes. it’s you, given, glossy eyes and half open porn mouth. it’s you from behind, sitting in front of a vanity desk in a pale rosy negligee. it’s you pretending to remove your make-up—in the mirror, your negligee is open and your tits spill out of your bra in the most indecent way. sammy’s gaze grazes the screen, falls on the ring of your nipple peeking beneath the pink lingerie. heat creeps on his neck, his cheeks. he swallows another sip of his cheap beer and hits next.
it’s you pretending to make the bed and put away some toys in the most impractical outfits, high heels, translucent dresses—you who always slightly lean down to show your tits hanging, defiant eyes and half a smile. it’s you naked under an apron, food all over your lips, you licking and sucking a spoon, mouth and tongue wrapped against the wood, obscene, you behind a fridge door, a man’s shirt barely covering your ass, cheeks bare if not for a neon pink thong, two beers in your hands and a naughty smile on your lips. and it’s you on all four on a pink bed, naked, glittery, back offered to the camera, your ass and pussy suspended in the air, half hidden by a chaste hand. one of your pretty finger is circled by a wedding ring. golden, with a big diamond that sparkles against the color of your pussy. fuck. you’re what? nineteen, twenty? twenty-one at best and sammy feels an hot flash of acid in his stomach—he should be disgusted to see a girl baring her ass for a trashy photo shoot but he’s not. he’s fucking turned on. maybe it’s the sign that it’s been too long since he got some action or—maybe it’s the play house thing that gets him so hard. he finishes his beer and lets his eyes run again on the screen’s pixels, wandering on your shimmering frame. the discomfort in his briefs is getting hard to ignore. fuck you’re so beautiful. suddenly there’s this sharp hook behind his navel; dirty, hot. vicious. it doesn’t take him a lot of efforts to fantasize about you—he stares at your last picture and sees himself coming back home to you, pushing the door of your shared bedroom; you’re waiting for him. in the dim light you’re lying on your side, spread wide, wearing one of his tshirt and nothing else, the fabric bunched under your belly, exposing your pretty ass, same as what he ogles on his screen. in his fantasy, you're a little older, a little chubbier. he stares at you a second before moving forward, and he drops his belt, his tie, and he goes into the bed, with you. he kisses your neck, nose lost against your skin, inhaling your scent like an animal, pressing his body against yours. you squirm against his famished palms and he says shh it’s me, babe, it’s me.
he should go to bed. try to get some sleep. but it's too late. he’s a bit drunk but feels almost high; one hand opens his shirt, one button after another, unzips his pants, his other hand getting lost under his briefs. he feels his cock already dripping so much, and he starts touching himself. slow. he wants to take his time.
he drifts back to you and your mouth that quickly find his. in between sloppy kisses, you say that you missed him, you say you need him, almost pleading in that high pitched voice that he likes. your ass presses against his cock, rocking against the wet mess you’re causing. one of his hand slides to your pussy when the other goes to your lips. you don’t need a word to take his thumb in your mouth, whining and choking on it when he starts fucking with his thick fingers. you’re so tight, burning and writhing against his touch. he says be quiet, babe, don’t wake the kid. you nod but you moan so loud that he has to put his hand on your mouth—just be quiet, can you do that for me? and you say yes, yes yes against his palm, nodding desperately. he laughs and says atta girl, nipping at your lobe and—
sammy is a wreck—biting his fist not to make too much noise, loudly panting, face and ears electric red, his head burning, his hand glistening with precome. it's dripping on his briefs, on his pants, on the couch. he’s making a mess but he doesn’t care, fucking his fist like he would fuck you, your name on his lips. he wanted to last, to savour this fucked up scenario but he’s already on the edge picturing your tight pussy, how good it would feel to run the tip of his cock along your hole, feeling you clench around his cock, taking him entirely—
how good you would look when he manhandles you and presses you on your stomach, bending your frame, opening your thighs with a push of his knees. how good would it feel to bury himself inside you, to press your head on the mattress to smother your cries, to feel your ass against his hips, his cock swallowed by your warmth. he would fuck you like that, deep and slow, until you beg, until the both of you can’t take it, until everything burns, until the ache inside your bellies is too much and you both need the release, please, please, please sammy, fuck me, fuck me hard
and he comes, he comes on his stomach, whimpering, gasping for air, brain saturated with your image, your body, your whole being, you, you, imprinted under his eyelid.
one last stroke, and his cock finally stop pulsing.
fuck.
he spilled everywhere.
he wipes his fingers against his thigh. instinctively, the back of his hand wipes the sweat pearling on his forehead. his body goes lax, head resting against the couch.
he’s spent. one his palm crawls against his chest, feeling his heart running too fast, his lungs filling up too quickly. everything feels like too much. what the fuck did he do. guilt doesn’t take long to set in. he stands motionless for a moment, his chest going up and down, numb, dumb, dazed, senses overwhelmed by oxytocin and shame. and—he takes one deep breath and snaps out of it. he quickly deletes his history, close his laptop and grabs some paper towels, swearing in a low voice, trying to mop up the mess he's made on himself and the couch. everything sticks.
under the shower, the semen residues coil and cling to his skin, his hair. his skin becomes red. he lets his head rest against the tiled wall, lets the water run on his head, his nape, his back. he doesn’t feel clean.
in the sleep he manages to get, he dreams of you, of this fake version of you; under the pink lights, you shimmer like a star.
you’re perched on your balcony, savoring a late night cigarette, admiring the city’s lights from afar. you can’t sleep, all nerves, on edge.
it’s a hot summer in LA, and the nights are endless—soon, the sewers will overflow with everything the city can't swallow. you can feel this uncanny vibe in the air, raw, electric. you wonder if your partner will be up to the task.
a/n: thank you so much for reading <333 i hope you liked it. i don't really have a plan in mind, it's gonna be a slow burn? not really but kind of. like a lot of missed opportunities and tension. what can i say. i just want sammy to play hard to get lmao. and yeah, idk i have a vague idea with a serial killer in the middle of all of that?? i think its gonna be fun. comments & likes are always appreciated <33
pairing: dad's best friend!titus danforth x female reader
summary: you lose a game you didn't even realize you were playing.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), arranged marriage, dubcon, unspecified age gap, referenced devil worship, smut, piv sex, brief painful sex, wedding night sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, breeding kink, dirty talk, possessive sex, possessive behavior, marriage kink, pet names, stockholm syndrome, happy-ish ending?
word count: 2.4k
a/n: i've been struggling to write/finish anything since i posted my chef jack abbot fic, but then the first line of this fic popped into my head and i knew i had to write it. i did not expect to write for titus before pope but i just haven't found the right inspiration yet i guess! this isn't really fleshed out to my normal standards but it's a fun, smutty little read and i hope y'all enjoy it!!
You never thought you'd marry Titus Danforth.
For one, he was your father's best friend.
For another, he was so much older than you.
For a third, you'd already rejected his proposal.
But most of all, you never thought you'd marry Titus Danforth because he was the man responsible for damning your family to hell.
Your father had met Titus when you were in college, and the two had become fast friends. By the time you'd graduated, your father had pledged his undying loyalty—and that of your family—to Mr. Le Bail and his High Council.
In the months and years that followed, you came to learn more about the council as a network of rich and powerful people who helped each other out. It was during this time when you met Titus and his twin sister Ursula.
They were both polite, but when Titus looked at you, there was something covetous and hungry in his eyes; it made you feel like a prey animal being stalked by a predator.
Still, you remained cordial with the Danforths because they were close with your father.
That is, until Titus proposed to you, and you discovered the truth about who, or rather what, Mr. Le Bail was. Then, you ran.
You cut ties from your entire family, changed your name, and moved to some backwater town in the middle of nowhere. For a long time, you lived in fear, thinking your family or one of the Danforths—or Mr. Le Bail himself—were going to show up at your door.
But eventually, your fear settled down, you became complacent, and you set down some roots. Not too many—you didn't date and you never got too close to any of your friends, but you made a life for yourself. It was a half-life, but it was yours.
Until it wasn't.
Until the day that Titus Danforth appeared on your doorstep and you learned you'd never escaped after all. The High Council had known where you were all along, but they'd been delayed in coming to fetch you because your father had assured them you would return one day.
But their patience had grown thin and you knew too much to shirk your duties to Mr. Le Bail. As a daughter of a council member, you were expected to marry and reproduce, to create progeny to continue worshipping Mr. Le Bail and do his bidding in the world.
It was only your father's assurances that you would submit to your duties that saved your life. It was decided that you would marry Titus Danforth, the only member of the High Council who had not yet taken a wife.
You were dragged, kicking and screaming, to the Danforth estate for your wedding. You refused to see your father or any member of your family, so you were stuffed unceremoniously into your pristine white wedding gown by the Danforths’ attendants.
The wedding itself was a small affair, only attended by the closest members of the High Council, and your family. Your father walked you down the aisle to keep up pretenses but as he handed you off to Titus, you turned to him, caught his eye through your thin, white veil, and hissed your parting words to the man who'd given you life.
"I'll never forgive you for this."
Titus smirked at your father as he took your hand in his, looking for all the world like a man who'd won a game no one else knew they were playing. He led you the final few steps up to the altar, ducking his head slightly to speak in your ear.
"I always knew I'd be the one to get you."
It was then that you realized the depth of Titus's deception. After you’d rejected his proposal, he'd conspired for years to make sure you still ended up marrying him. And you'd played right into his hand. You'd given him everything he needed—leverage over your father, a way to steal you from your family, and worst of all, he'd gotten Mr. Le Bail's blessing to do it.
You spent the signing of the book and the wedding ceremony cursing yourself for being so naive, barely paying attention to the lawyer’s words about devotion and duty. You were so deep into your self-recrimination, you barely noticed when Titus turned to you and began lifting your veil. It took all your effort to maintain control of your face and give your soon-to-be husband a look of disdain.
It didn't seem to bother Titus in the least. That covetous, hungry look was plain as day on his face as he stared at your mouth. He barely waited for the lawyer to give him permission before he was grabbing your face and pulling you toward him.
Titus's mouth crashed against yours, and your traitorous body reacted instantly—your belly swooping and a hot, pulsing throb beginning between your thighs. You tried to gasp for air only for Titus to kiss you harder, his tongue invading your mouth and staking his claim so vehemently, it made your knees week.
It was bad enough how good his mouth felt on yours, but the sounds he made, like he was a starving man eating his first meal in years, had lust blooming disloyally in your body.
Your new husband devoured you voraciously, licking into your mouth and stealing the breath from your lungs until you were dizzy and dazed, wobbling so badly on your feet that when he finally pulled away, you collapsed against his chest.
Titus's arms wrapped around your waist, crushing you to him like a child might hold a toy he worried someone might steal from him. His head lowered until his mouth brushed the shell of your ear, making you shiver in his tight hold.
"And now, you're all mine."
Those words echoed in your head as you went through the motions for the rest of the ceremony and reception. While you shook hands and accepted the congratulations of your family and the High Council, all you could hear was the feral possessiveness in Titus's voice.
It shocked you how much you didn't hate it.
You only returned to yourself when the door to Titus's suite at the estate clicked shut, the lock sliding into place with a resounding thud, like the period on the end of a sentence. It marked the end of your old life—and the beginning of your new one.
Titus was on you before you could even turn around or get your bearings. His hands grabbed your hips and spun you to him, his lips claiming yours even more ferociously than they did at the wedding ceremony. He walked you backward until your legs hit the bed, tearing the bodice of your dress so he could reach inside and palm your tits.
Desire warred with disgust in your body, though you didn't fight your husband as he pushed you down onto the bed and climbed on top of you. Titus's eyes glittered with a darkness that had your heart beating faster, your pulse pounding between your thighs when his expression turned greedy and he took his time looking his fill.
You were splayed on the bed beneath him, your tits out, chest heaving from all the breath he'd stolen during his kisses. But that wasn't enough for your new husband. He growled his frustration, got down from the bed and began ripping the skirt of your dress to shreds, until you were bared entirely for him from the waist down.
All of a sudden, you realized the error in your judgement when you'd gotten dressed. Along with the wedding gown, a set of lacy lingerie had been set out for you, and you'd chosen to forgo wearing it. But that meant that when Titus tore through your dress, all that was left was you.
At least you didn't seem to disappoint your new husband.
Titus's hazel eyes blazed bright and hungry as his gaze raked ravenously over your body, taking in the curves of your hips, the plushness of your thighs and line of your legs. His hands settled on your knees, and with surprising gentleness, he eased your thighs open for him, a low, feral growl rumbling in his chest when he laid his eyes upon the delicate petals of your sex.
"This is mine," Titus snarled, his eyes flicking up to yours as if he expected you to protest. His hand cupped your pussy, his palm cool against your heated core, his wedding ring hard and unyielding against your soft, naked flesh. "All of you belongs to me now, but this, especially, is mine."
All you could do was nod mutely, but that didn't seem to be good enough for your new husband, because his face contorted into a furious glare. It was obscene how hot he looked when he was angry, his eyes sharp and narrow as a blade.
"Did you hear me, wife?"
You nodded more vigorously, rushing to say, "Yes—yes, husband. It's yours, I'm yours.” The words babbled out of you so easily, it felt like a betrayal as much as a submission to your new husband.
You'd never thought, all those years ago when you first met him, that you would marry Titus Danforth. Nor did you ever think you'd submit so easily to him as his wife. But that was exactly what you did on your wedding night.
It took very little effort to allow Titus to climb on top of you, to take his cock out when he ordered you, to line up the tip of his thick shaft with your entrance. It took embarrassingly little effort to spread your thighs wide around Titus's broad body and accept his cock into your cunt.
Your new husband pushed deep into your pussy with one thrust, stretching you so quickly that it stung, even as it felt deliriously good to be filled. He claimed your body as wholly as he'd claimed your mouth, wringing a cry from your lips that he swallowed down greedily.
Every part of you—your pleasure, your pain—it all belonged to him.
Without giving you time to adjust, Titus set a savage pace, fucking you into his bed with your wedding dress in tatters around you. He was still mostly dressed, an ascot tied around his neck, his jacket buttoned tight and his pants only undone enough to free his cock. It was as if all that mattered to him had been getting inside you, claiming you, and once he'd started, he couldn't stop.
You held on tight to your new husband as he fucked you, his mouth breaking away from yours only to whisper filthy things in your ear—things about how he was going to use your body in every way he wanted. He was going to bend you over his father's desk, claim you in his sister's bed, set you free in the woods around the estate so he could chase you down and ravage you on the forest floor.
And every time he'd fuck you, he promised, he'd cum deep inside your cunt, right against your cervix, until he knocked you up. He was going to fill you with his seed until it took, and you were going to give him an heir.
But not just the one. Oh no. That wasn’t enough.
On your wedding night, while Titus fucked you for the first time, your new husband vowed that he would keep you pregnant until you gave him a whole horde of children—a whole new generation of Danforths who would serve Mr. Le Bail and carry on the family legacy.
And the worst part was, you'd always wanted a big family.
Your heart squeezed with yearning at the thought of having so many children to love and dote on. It no longer mattered that those children's father would be a man who'd manipulated you into marrying him. All that mattered was that Titus wanted them to, and that he promised to be a good father to them—better than his had ever been.
"Cum on my cock, sweet wife. Let your husband fill you up, let me knock you up. Make me a daddy and I'll give you the world, pretty girl. I'll be such a good dad, such a good husband, just give me an heir."
Titus slipped his hand between your bodies, pressing down on your lower belly and making you cry out as you felt his cock pound into your cunt more acutely. He felt thicker and bigger than before. With more rasping, filthy commands, his thumb found your clit and rubbed, rubbed, rubbed until you saw stars.
The whirlwind of your pleasure built in your body until it unleashed, sending you spiraling through a torrent of euphoria as you came. Your cunt clenched tight around Titus's cock and he grunted, fucking you through your release as he chased his own, finding it a few moments later.
True to his word, Titus spilled deep in your pussy, your inner muscles milking him dry as your body conspired with your new husband to give him the child both of you so desperately wanted.
Once he was wrung out, Titus collapsed on top of you. His weight was a delicious blanket, and your mind was delightfully blank after such an obliterating orgasm. That was the only reason you could think of for why your hands found Titus's hair and your fingers began carding through his silver curls.
You barely knew what you were doing until he gave a pleased rumble. His cheek was pillowed on your breast and he shifted, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, sending little sparks of desire down between your thighs.
"You'll see," he mumbled, his eyes slowly sliding closed, his softening cock still buried in your body. "It's not so bad to be mine."
You held your husband close, taking shelter in his warmth as the contentment from your release abated and you were left with the cold, hard truth of your life. For better or worse, you were married to Titus Danforth, and you had pledged your soul to Mr. Le Bail. The life you'd wanted was gone.
You never thought you'd marry Titus Danforth, but here you were. His wife. The only thing you could do was make the best of it. So that was what you'd endeavor to do.
And it turned out, your husband hadn't been lying—it wasn't so bad belonging to him.
thank you for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡♡♡
Ruyi often doesn't bother to debate and defend herself because as far as she's concerned, the moment when Qianlong turned into this impersonal arbiter of harem affairs, she's already lost. It doesn't matter which side this new Qianlong lands on, she's already grieving the loss of her childhood best friend and confidant who treated her as an equal life partner instead of the weird consort-subject dynamic that harem women are expected to fulfil.
I think for a while she really tried. She's seen Qianlong disappointed by Langhua, Gao Xiyue and to a lesser extent Consort Chun so she empathises that he is in a tough spot where he can't really trust anyone, so she tries to make things easier by earnestly proving to him that she was the loyal partner she had always been. What I think really hurt her is how little Qianlong regarded what they once had. Before everything came crashing down, Qianlong rarely looked back wistfully at what they once had and blamed himself for being arrogant enough to think his love and trust can endure the harem shitshow, rather he absorbed "we used to be childhood best friends" into his calculus of 'who should I believe' every time a conflict arises. Soon Qianlong began to say "Consort Xian and I have known each other for a long time" as dispassionately as him saying that he appreciates Langhua or Consort Chun for birthing children for him. I think at that point Ruyi just lost the willpower because she knew that the old Qianlong was gone and there was no use fighting for it anymore.
summary: robby tells you he wants to keep things casual after you catch him flirting with noelle. he's less enthusiastic when he finds out you've been seeing his best friend. (5k)
characters: michael robinavitch / fem!reader, jack abbot / fem!reader, trinity santos, dennis whitaker, mel king
contents: established relationship, friends with benefits, jealousy, mutual pining, angst, possessive!robby, allusions to smut
FIC #5 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You and Robby were not together. Not officially, and definitely not publicly. You were hardly together privately, if you were being real honest with yourself — aside from a few stolen nights after particularly draining shifts, where he’d show up at your place with takeout and exhaustion sitting heavy in his eyes and promises of distracting you from the hard day; where he’d then wake up before sunrise and leave before you had the chance to miss him.
Casual. That was the point. Because he was an attending, and you were his resident, and Robby had already made the mistake of blurring those lines once before. “It gets messy, sweetheart,” he murmured against your bare shoulder one night, voice heavy with sex and sleep alike. “And when it ends, it… It really fuckin’ ends, you know?”
You didn’t know what he meant by that, actually. You figured he was saying that dating within the hierarchy tends to crash and burn in some way or another, but you didn’t press him on the issue then. Though now you think that maybe you should’ve.
You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.
You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R.
You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.
“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”
Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.
Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose.
“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”
“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”
Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”
Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.
You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.
You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.
“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”
“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him.
He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)
“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.
“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.
Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.
“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.
You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”
The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.
Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up.
“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.
“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”
“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”
“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time— Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”
“I wasn’t—”
A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.
The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)
“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.
You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip.
“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”
You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.
“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”
Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments.
You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.
“Oh, my god—”
“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.
“—That’s what this is about?”
“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”
His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted.
“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”
You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.
“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”
Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out.
You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.
Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours.
“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”
“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff.
Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.
“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”
You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.
Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers.
In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.
“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”
“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”
“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.
You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song.
Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.
“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”
You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”
“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”
“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.
Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.
Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”
“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”
His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”
“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”
Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter.
You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”
“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.
Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.
You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”
“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”
The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.
“Jack,” you echo softly.
The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out.
“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.
The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”
“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”
“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”
Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”
“Eh. Maybe a little.”
You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”
“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.
“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”
“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”
Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.
Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”
“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”
You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?”
“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”
“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”
“Still counts.”
“Does it?” you squint.
Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”
“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”
You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more.
“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”
Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”
Your eyes harden in an instant.
Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.
“It’s casual,” you tell him.
Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage.
“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”
Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne.
For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.
Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.
Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.
You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before.
There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.
Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.
Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.
Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.
You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.
You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.
Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”
“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”
The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head.
“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”
You exhale a soft laugh.
Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’ today?”
“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”
“Brutal,” he scoffs.
“You’re fault.”
“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”
“No,” you answer instantly.
“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”
Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”
“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”
“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”
Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”
Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.
“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”
“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.
“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.
You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.
Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.
“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.
“Am I?” you hum.
“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”
“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”
“You usually only do that at my place.”
Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”
His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can.
Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.
“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”
“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”
“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.
“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”
You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day.
The realization hit him like a truck.
His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.
“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”
Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.
“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.
You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”
“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”
An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”
Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”
Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.
“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”
“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.
“Because being with him made me feel good—”
“I said alright!”
“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”
Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.
Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”
“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”
“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.
“Do what?”
“Act like this is what I wanted—”
The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again.
Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.
“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.
She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence.
“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”
The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you.
“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.
“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”
“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”
Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.
Pope gets mauled by the devil in the middle of the night. (Your cat likes Pope's big chest almost as much as you do.)
click here to join the TAGLIST. / click here for my MAIN MASTERLIST.
warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, cats, awkward!pope, sadboy!pope, he doesn't know how to handle softness but he needs it, no use of y/n or any description of reader other being a loud snorer, domestic bliss, mentions of smurf being the worst mother ever.
rating: 18+. (there's nothing explicit in this but i dont want kiddos on my blog sorry!)
word count: 1.1k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! this is just a short little thing i wrote bc i need andrew to be happy, i wrote this in like forty minutes and i almost didn't post it because of how short it is but i hope you guys still like it! as always pls let me know how we feel!
also available on archiveofourown.
Pope had to learn how to sleep with one eye open a long time before going to prison. His home had never been safe and, even as a child, he was always a light sleeper simply because it was a survival mechanism he developed to survive growing up under Smurf’s thumb. So he wakes instantly to the weight shifting on his chest, entire body locking in place as he tries to figure out what is happening. It’s not you, he can hear you snoring like a truck to the side — Pope would always be surprised that such a delicate woman could make so much noise while unconscious —, and the weight is too light and too concentrated to be a person.
He opens his eyes slowly, just a little, not wanting to let the intruder know he is awake; the element of surprise always does wonders for him— attacking fast and hard before your opponent can understand what is happening is what has saved Pope’s life time and time again. On top of him there is a small pile of black fur. The thing is moving, little arms stretched over Pope’s pecks, tiny claws opening and closing, tugging at the cotton of his shirt. The animal blinks, slowly, and Pope can only tell that its eyes are open when the moonlight coming through the window hits it just right.
The Tasmanian Devil. You told him the cat’s name had been Tweety at first, because he was tiny and seemed kind— He grew up into what you call a ‘terrorist’ with a sweet voice and fond smile, so you renamed him. Tweety to Tasmanian Devil. Sweet to sour.
You did the opposite with him. He was Pope when he first met you— Angry, violent, unstable. You’d taken one look at him and started calling him Andy. A new name, a new identity, a facet of his personality that has always been there but has never been allowed to shine through. Sour to sweet.
The cat never seemed to like Pope very much. And it’s fine, Pope doesn’t like the thing either. He has never owned a pet, Smurf never allowed animals inside the house— Julia had made that mistake once, when they were eleven and an old mutt followed them from school. Pope didn’t see what happened, Smurf had dragged both Julia and the dog outside when she finally came home, but he had held his sister in the aftermath, arms around her shoulders as she cried and cried and cried.
Pope never saw the dog again.
Tec. Tec. Tec. The rhythmic sound of the devil ruining his shirt, its attack slow and coordinated as it keeps digging its claws into his shirt and tugging harshly. It doesn’t hurt— The thing can’t even do that properly, it seems. Pope pokes you on the shoulder twice and is only rewarded with the revving engine sound of your snores. You go quiet by the third poke but you don’t say anything, clearly awake enough to understand something is happening but not enough to realize it is him.
“Honey?” Pope calls out. The devil stops moving on top of him for a moment at the rumbling of his chest before it restarts the assault. “Your devil is trying to kill me.”
You slowly turn around then, hair mussed with sleep and eyes squinting. The cat doesn’t seem bothered by the movement, still clawing at Pope’s chest.
“He likes you.” You say, and Pope frowns at how big you’re smiling. “Just wants to make some biscuits on those big titties of yours.”
You’re making fun of him. Pope is getting attacked and you’re making fun of him.
“Wh—”
“Pet him.” You cut him off. Your own hand comes up to scratch behind the cat’s ear. The thing vibrates, then, a soft crooning noise taking over the silence of the bedroom.
“It’s clawing at me.” Pope says, his hands still firmly by his sides.
“He’s making biscuits.” You say again, just a little more forcefully but he can tell you’re having way too much fun. “Cats only do that when they like you and feel safe. When they’re kittens they do that while they’re nursing to help get the milk out.”
“I don’t have any milk.”
You snort. “Don’t I know it.”
Pope’s face flushes, the reminder of how much attention you’d given his nipples earlier that evening crawling to the forefront of his mind. He raises a hand, carefully, patting his index finger on the top of the devil’s forehead. It keeps crooning, still making biscuits on his chest.
The devil feels safe with him. It’s an odd feeling, but not an uncomfortable one— No one ever feels safe with him. People fear him, and he protects his family with his teeth and bare knuckles, but they don’t feel safe around him. You do, he thinks. He never asked, afraid of the answer, but you shield behind him whenever his brothers get too physical with each other, and you climb on his lap and hide your face on his neck whenever you’re watching a scary movie.
He likes that. It makes him feel useful in a different way. When he protects his family he feels dirty, like a crazed guard dog that is going to be put down the second he is no longer useful. With you, he feels like he matters, like he belongs in your bed and in your house and in your heart.
The devil headbuts his finger and you giggle, pressing a kiss to Pope’s bicep.
“He likes scritches.”
So Pope follows through, gently scratching behind the cat’s ear like you’d done before. His nails are shorter than yours, always trimmed down to the point where he’s one wrong angle away from bleeding, but the cat doesn’t seem to mind. The cat crawls a little closer to his neck, a loud mrrrp sound escaping it.
“He hates me.” Pope says, heart thundering at the noise but you just snuggle closer, your leg thrown over his thigh.
“He’s happy, Andy.” Your eyes are drooping, sleep is about to drag you back. “He would’ve bitten your finger clean off if he hated you.”
The cat stands, its little paws digging on his chest and the softness of his stomach. It twists twice before it plops back down on his chest, fluffy tail swiping over Pope’s face. It’s uncomfortable and so unsanitary that any other day Pope might’ve jumped out of bed but he remains as still as he can, the cat’s purring being drowned down by your snoring, his fingers running along the cat’s spine.
He doesn’t say it but, with the Tasmanian Devil’s weight on his chest, your leg over his and your cold hands gripping his bicep like a lifeline, Andy feels safe too.
You have a huge crush on the night shift attending of your new workplace, Dr. Jack Abbot; he's nice, he's kind, he's always giving you his undevided attention.
Too bad he is married to the day shift attending, Dr. Robby Robinavitch.
click here to join the TAGLIST. / click here for my MAIN MASTERLIST.
warnings: night shift ward clerk!reader, age gap (reader is mid to late 20s, jack is late 40s/early 50s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, fluff, miscommunications, death of a spouse, mentions of food, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, requited unrequited, no physical description of reader, unreliable narrator, shen is a diva and a gossip, jack is a flirt but only when he doesn't mean it, work place crushes, everyone is queer because i said so.
rating: 18+. (there's nothing explicit in this but i dont want kiddos on my blog sorry!)
word count: 4.6k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! no smut on this one, sorry! this is me dipping my toes into writing jack and while i had a lot of fun, i'm sorry if he feels a little ooc to anyone. i'm still trying to grasp his characterization, it's not like the pitt gives us a whole lot to go on with lol as always pls let me know how we feel!
also available on archiveofourown.
Being the ward clerk of the night shift at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center isn’t as bad as you thought it would be when you first took up the job. The hours between six pm and two am are a flurry of movement, people coming out of work with headaches and heart problems and even an alarming amount of gunshot wounds from traffic spouts that get out of hand too fast. But the hours between two-thirty am and five am are the golden hours— The waiting room always ends up empty apart from Earl, a homeless man that comes in to sleep in the chairs whenever it gets too cold outside and Louie, who is a frequent flier from alcohol poisoning and a lot kinder than all the other drunks that stumble into the ER; most people don’t get out of their homes to go to the ER in the middle of the night unless it’s really important and most of the cases you get are properly urgent: Kidney and heart pains, overdoses, drunk driving accidents, the sort of thing that is quick to triage and the doctors are even quicker to treat. Things are so calm during the week that you take up cross stitching to keep you busy, and it almost makes up for the rush of angry patients you get in the early mornings.
The slow hours also bring you Dr. Jack Abbot.
Your relationship with Dr. Abbot starts with him ribbing you for the amount of energy drinks you down in order to stay awake, and then it develops into him bringing you coffee and gently taking the big Monster cans away from you— Coffee turns into pastries, that turn into him sitting on top of the desk and talking for as long as he’s free; sometimes it’s a couple of minutes, something a whole hour if you’re both lucky. You’re not allowed to leave the front desk for longer than fifteen minutes but Jack teaches you stretches and easy yoga poses you can do whenever the waiting room is empty enough to make sure your blood flow is circulating through your legs enough and he’s kind and attentive, complimenting your hair or your make up in a shy, casual tone.
He compliments your lipstick once, a shade of brown that contrasts nicely with your complexion but is still subdued enough that Gloria doesn’t tell you to wipe it off— It’s an expensive one, a Chanel lipstick that you were gifted for your birthday years ago and that you save only for the days you want to feel extra pretty.
Jack stares at your lips long enough for you to feel self conscious about it, debating on whether you should ask him if there’s something on your teeth before he mumbles a ‘color’s nice on you’ and then wipes the smudge on the corner of your mouth that transferred from the coffee cup he brought you. Your front desk companion, María, waggles her eyebrows behind him and you need to duck your face back to your computer to hide the stupid smile you sport for the rest of the night.
It doesn’t take you long to fall for him, and it takes you even less time to notice the thick, dark wedding ring on his finger.
So, you presume that Dr. Abbot is just nice. You’re twenty-something years his junior, just starting on a very demanding job and he’s just being kind, a mentor and a caretaker by nature. María keeps side-eyeing him and joking in private about how he’s never been that nice to her but you simply shrug it off— You’ve met plenty of sleazy men, and you don’t think Abbot is one; he’s never crossed any lines, never been disrespectful and he simply doesn’t seem like the sort of man that would cheat on his spouse.
“Louie Cloverfield.” Jack calls out even though Louie is the only patient in the waiting room, sending you a wink when you giggle behind the glass separation that, quite frankly, sometimes is the only thing that keeps the patients from hitting you. You can feel the weight of María’s gaze as Louie and Jack retreat back into the pitt and you try to ignore her.
“Y’know,” she starts when it becomes clear that you’re not going to speak on it first. “In all my years working here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an attending coming out this frequently to call out for the patients.”
“Dr. Abbot is just trying to raise patient satisfaction for our shift.” You say, eyes glued to the black cat you’re cross stitching. “That’s all.”
“Oh, he’s raising something, alright.”
You laugh and roll your eyes, but your stomach still flutters.
It’s Dr. Shen that brings up the barbecue. He’s very casual when he asks if you’ll be there and you politely decline— You’ve been invited for outings with the night crew before, but you don’t ever go out with them. You know they’re only inviting you out of politeness, because you’re not actually one of them: You’re not a health care worker, you’re not deep in the trenches with them on a nightly basis. You’re just a clerk, the first contact a patient has with the hospital staff and all you’re there to do is take people’s names and file their personal information. Sure, sometimes you can bump someone up the line if they need it, and the job is stressful as all fuck, but you’re not the one saving lives.
Dr. Abbot seems to disagree.
“It would be nice if you went.” He says, leaning back against your desk. He has a small splatter of blood mingling with the freckles on his neck and you need to sit on top of your hands to keep yourself from cleaning him. “I’d have someone to talk to.”
The question about his wife dies just before it slips through your teeth— Maybe she wasn’t invited, you think. You’ve never been to a hangout from work and, maybe, people outside of the hospital simply weren’t welcomed; or maybe she was busy, your brain conjuring up images of a beautiful, capable and well-respected neurosurgeon that was simply too occupied with saving lives to attend a barbecue with her husband’s work friends.
“I’ll be there.” You promise, lips quivering into a smile when Jack beams at you. “Only because I heard that Shen makes the best potato salad this side of Pittsburgh.”
“It is if you’ve had a glossectomy.” Jack snorts and you try to memorize the word so you can Google it later. He gives you a single finger gun before stepping back into the pitt. “Let me know if you need someone to drive you.”
You Uber to Dr. Shen’s house because, despite Jack’s offer, you don’t feel comfortable taking him up on it. He’s a married man, and he’s your coworker— Not directly your boss, but definitely an authority figure in your workplace, a respected man that has been working there since you were in high school. The gossip fodder just isn’t worth it, no matter how much you’d like to climb inside his slick black sedan that is probably more expensive than everything you own combined into a single bill. You think it probably smells like him, the mint of his aftershave and the muskiness of his cologne and you know you’d be heartbroken if it didn’t— Maybe it smells like his wife, something fruity and distinctively feminine, remnants of her presence everywhere: A forgotten lipstick in the ashtray, earrings in the cupholder, an airfreshener picked by her.
Still, you wear the expensive lipstick, and you hope Jack will notice it.
The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive; you’re about twenty minutes late because you’d rather die than be the first one to arrive but you should’ve expected that a group of doctors would be the punctual type. You come through the sidegate as per Shen’s instructions, balancing a case of Ginger Ale in one hand and a casserole worth of tiramiù in the other.
And of course, because it’s just your luck, Jack is the first one to spot you. His head snaps up from the beach hair he’s sitting on the moment the hinges of the gate creak and you’re not certain if it’s a hypervigilance remnant from his army days or if he’s been waiting for someone to show up— You almost hope that he’s been anxious to see you and then the image of the thick, dark wedding band come to mind and you’re ready to swerve him entirely when he grabs the casserole from your hands.
“Hey.” He breathes out, offering you that tight lipped smile of his. “Let me help you.”
Jack does the job of a host that Shen should be doing, asking you if you found the house easily and saying he’s happy to see you as you follow him into the kitchen. Shen is there, deep in conversation with Lena, leaning over the counter with a beer in hand; he throws his arms around you, grinning when he pulls you into a hug and all of your concerns about a pity invite are thrown out of the window.
“Aren’t you supposed to be manning the grill?” Jack asks him, eyebrows scrunched as he puts your dessert in the fridge; it’s clear that he’s familiar with Shen’s house and you wonder how often they have these sorts of gatherings— And how many times you’ll need to attend, sitting there and watching Jack parade his wife around.
“Ellis took over.” Shen shrugs, finally letting go of you. “Apparently she trusts me with doing a cric on a seven year old but not with cooking medium rare steaks.”
You giggle and Jack’s frown turns to you then; he’s by your side in a second, taking your hand in his and almost dragging you from the kitchen with the excuse of getting drinks— You barely pay attention, though, because his hand is warm against yours, dry and softer than you expected it to be; it’s not the first time Jack has touched you. He does it constantly, in fact, a hand to your shoulder or a little poke to your bicep when you look away while he talks and even a pat or two to the head or to the back of your neck whenever your hair is out of the way but this feels different. It’s not a fleeting, small touch that you can excuse as the action of a platonic friend that is a little too touchy; it lingers even when the two of you near the cooler by the pool, and he squeezes your hand for a second before he lets go as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of your hand in his.
You look around, trying to discreetly figure out which one of the attendees is his wife, if she came at all. Ellis is by the grill, talking with her girlfriend; you’ve met the woman once before, when she came in one night because Ellis had forgotten to bring her dinner. And then Dr. Walsh and Mateo are in the corner, talking with Jesse, one of the day shift nurses you don’t know very well, and another man— This one you don’t recognize, but his arm is wrapped around Jesse’s middle and it’s not like he would be Jack’s wife anyway.
It also dawns on you then that, maybe, Jack’s spouse is a husband instead of a wife and you feel a little silly that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind before. Your eyes scan the backyard for any faces you don’t know but apart from a couple of day shifters here and there, there is no one you’re completely unfamiliar with.
“You came alone today?” You ask, taking the bottle Jack hands you, the question slipping out of your mouth before your brain can register how odd it is. Jack’s head cocks to the side a little, visibly confused, but he nods anyway.
“Robby was supposed to come too but—” He waves a hand. “You know how he is.”
Oh. Oh.
“Sorry he bailed on you.”
The intensity in Jack’s eyes is enough to have butterflies erupting inside your stomach. “ ‘S alright. I got you to keep me company, right?”
“Of course.” You smile even though you kind of feel like dying.
The barbecue is a never-ending feast. The potluck style meal is spread across the table outside and the kitchen counter once the dinner table runs out of space and Ellis is just a little manic as she handles the grill, barking orders like it’s the ER whenever she needs another steak or sausage or the platter is too full for the food she just finished grilling. Shen brings out a large stereo at some point, the sun going down and the moon coming up and more and more beer runs when it becomes clear no one really wants to go home. You escape to the living room at some point, needing a break from the noise and the conversation: Everyone does their best to include you but it’s clear you’re not really a part of the team yet— Maybe you’ll never be, because the medical terms and the shoptalk flies right over your head no matter how much you try to keep up; they bring up old cases and old inside jokes, laughing and chatting and no matter how much effort Jack puts into pulling you into the conversation it always feels a little bit like charity.
You take a swig of your Ginger Ale, head tilting back so you can go back to staring at the ceiling. You’re not certain at which point you switched from beer to soda, but you’re fairly certain it had been Jack’s decision rather than yours— He’s been playing waiter for you all day when it became clear you were too self conscious to keep helping yourself to the food and drinks, never making a big case out of it, just making sure your plate was full and your drinks were replenished. The sort of quiet caring you’ve come to expect from him, the same way he always looks out for you at work.
“Taking a break?” Jack’s voice comes from the doorway between the living room and the kitchen and you almost jump out of your skin.
“They get loud when they’re drunk.” You say in return, wanting to bury yourself in the soft cushions of Shen’s ratty couch.
“You get used to it, they’re all harmless.” Jack drops down on the couch next to you with a grunt, adjusting his prosthetic so that it stretches out in front of him; his head tilts back, just like yours. “Except for Lena. She starts to bite after the third tequila shot.”
You bark out a laugh. “I did notice Jesse is watering down her drinks.”
Jack smiles big enough to show his slightly crooked teeth and you’re surprised with how much it softens his face; he doesn’t smile a lot, you’ve noticed, mainly a tight lipped little grin or a twist at the corner of his mouth and the sight of an actual smile on his face makes him boyish despite the wrinkles near his eyes, even more visible with the way his face twists. It takes your breath away for a moment— You’ve always found him attractive, yes, but he’s never been particularly handsome, not in the classic way at least. Charming and kind and competent, yes, but this is the first time that you’re struck by how downright pretty he is.
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence; you don’t have much of a view of the outside from where you’re sitting but the music blasting in the backyard trickles in softly and muted through the glass doors.
“Is that…” You frown, straining your ears to the song. “Is that Madonna? Who’s in charge of the playlist?”
“Cyndi Lauper.” Jack replies almost immediately. “Did I answer that way too fast?”
“Are you the one that put Cyndi Lauper on?” You’re just teasing but Jack’s face turns five shades redder, the tip of his ears burning so bright you think they might explode. “Oh my God, you did! You’re so fucking old, Jack!”
“Hey, now!” He elbows you, still bright red. “She’s a classic.”
“She’s old.” You snicker. “Did you go out dancing to her songs at the clubs in your youth?”
“I did not.” Jack answers, his lips pulling into a smile that is almost self-depricating, his tone just bratty enough to send you into a fit of giggles. “You should see Robby, though. He has a whole dance routine to Time After Time. Used to perform it in our room whenever he was too stressed about an exam back in college.”
Laughter bursts out of you. “He’s going to kill you for telling me that.”
“Only if you babble about it.”
“Oh, I will.” You say, biting down your bottom lip trying to bring some sort of solemnity to your words. “I don’t even need to tell a lot of people. As soon as Shen hears—”
“No.” Jack turns around, pointing his indicator at you. “Shen cannot know about it.”
“Can’t know about what?” Shen asks from the threshold, his face a little flushed from the alcohol and a giant grin on his lips. “You two finally hooked up? I need to know because I’ll burn the couch if you did.”
“What?” You ask, your voice so high the word is hardly understandable. Your eyes bounce from Shen to Jack then back to Shen. “No! Of course not! Jesus Christ, Shen.”
Jack’s eyebrows hike up all the way to his hairline. “I didn’t know I was such a swamp monster. Kinda hard not to take offense to that tone, sweetheart.”
“No— It’s not—” You shake your head, jumping up from the couch. “I would never do that to Dr. Robby.”
“Robby?” Shen asks, his mouth falling open but you barely notice it, your eyes on Jack’s face, hoping he’ll agree with you that he, too, would never cheat on his husband but instead he simply stares at you as if he’d never seen you before.
Jack opens his mouth and then closes tight, his lips pressing so hard against each other you can barely see them. “Yeah, of course.”
You avoid Jack for the rest of the night, or maybe he’s the one avoiding you because you don’t really see him around either— You’re pretty sure he’s gone home but, by the time you’re standing by the curb waiting for your Uber, he’s suddenly next to you, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Let me take you home.” He says and, when you open your mouth to say it’s not necessary, Jack offers you a small, sad smile as if he knows exactly what you’re about to say. “Robby would kill me if I let you go home on your own when I can drive you just fine.”
“Okay.” You say, eventually, because you’re a glutton for punishment and can’t stand the idea of not spending time alone with Jack even when you know it’s only going to lead to your own heartbreak. “Thank you, Jack.”
His car is, just as you expect, a reflection of him. Slick and masculine, clean and tidy and smelling of his cologne. You slide into the seat after Jack opens the door for you, tucking yourself in and breathing deeply when he shuts the door and crosses through to the driver’s seat.
This is a terrible idea. Your own private little hell in the shape of comfortable leather seats and expensive design. It’s an automatic car, the sort you push a button to start, and you think it makes a lot more sense for his leg to drive a car that he doesn’t need to keep switching gears— It also makes you think about how he’d never need to take his hand off of your thigh to switch a gear with a car like this.
You need to keep reminding yourself that he’s not yours, however, and that he is not going to grab your thigh or slip his hand between your legs— You stare at the thick wedding ring on his finger, his hand grasping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white.
“How did you and Dr. Robby meet?” You ask because, although you know hearing Jack talk about his husband is going to hurt, it’s better than the self-destructive thoughts going through your brain. “I didn’t know you guys went to med school together.”
Jack’s shoulders hike up and he seems even more tense than he’d been before, though you can’t quite figure out why; it’s a simple, innocent question that you don’t think is crossing any boundaries.
“That’s how we met, actually.” He answers after a moment of hesitation. “We were roommates in college, though he was a couple of years above me. We sort of lost contact after that, he went into emergency medicine and I went to the military, but… Well, he was the one to recommend me for the position when he heard I was back.”
“That’s sweet of him. I’m glad you guys managed to find your way back to each other.”
“Yeah, real sweet of him.”
You don’t really understand why Jack sounds so bitter when talking about his own husband.
Dr. Robby corners you just outside of the employees only exit about a week after the barbecue. It’s 8:45 am and you are dead on your feet, though you’re starting to get used to staying later and later— Or perhaps earlier and earlier, depending on the point of view. You hold your bag close, your eyes burning and your lower back hurting as he steps in front of you, his hulking frame obscuring the view of the bus stop you’re trying to reach. You can tell he’s trying to be nonchalant, hands shoved in his hoodie’ front pocket, but his face is pinched with discomfort.
“Can we talk for a sec?” He asks, shuffling on his feet; his eyes bounce from your face to behind you, checking in on his ER from afar in the same way you’ve seen Jack do several times.
“Yeah, sure.” You cross your arms over your chest; even though Robby is clearly not trying to be a threat, he’s still big and imposing enough to keep you on your toes— And he’s not your boss, not really, but you know he has enough of a sway with Gloria that your life would become hell at work if he wanted to.
“Why’d you tell Shen we’re dating?”
“I never told Shen we’re dating.” Your face burns with embarrassment and you can only hope that it doesn’t show. “I’m sorry, Dr. Robby, I think you’re talking to the wrong person.”
“Jack was there. He confirmed everything. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a lovely young lady I just… Uh, well, I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that something could happen.”
You stare at him for a long moment, long enough that you can see him growing even more uncomfortable, before your brain catches up to what is happening.
“I never said we’re dating.” You repeat. “Shen implied Jack and I were a thing and I just told him I’d never be someone’s side chick. And I know Jack wouldn’t cheat on you anyway, he really doesn’t seem the type.”
Dr. Robby bursts into laughter and you’re so startled that you recoil.
“Jack and I?” He asks, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he laughs. “We’re not together, kid.”
“Oh.” You would be offended at his laughter if you didn’t feel so relieved. “I thought you two were married. He uhm, he wears the ring.”
Dr. Robby cocks his head to the side, staring down at you as if he could see your entire soul. “His wife died a couple of years ago. I’m not sure he’ll ever take it off, honestly.”
You hear more than you see the swoosh of your bus stopping— It’s ingrained in your brain by now, so much so that you don’t even think before you swerve Robby’s frame and bolts.
“Hey kid!” Dr. Robby yells, but the bus’ doors are about to close and you don’t look back. “Jack likes his eggs scrambled!”
You make it just in time to shove yourself through the closing doors, and you smile all the way home.
This time, you go to Jack first. The ER is busier than ever that night and even the two am lull doesn’t happen— A gunshot wound and a wreck between three cars full of teenagers kept all of the doctors quite busy, and the reception kept piling up so many patients you don’t have time to take your break until close to four am. You find him in the break room, his prosthetic leg propped up on a chair, the rest of his body slumped over the dining table, a half eaten tray of microwavable lasagna forgotten next to his head. He doesn’t look up until you’re sliding the can of strawberry flavored Monster towards him.
“That thing is going to give you a heart attack.” Jack says, his hazel eyes watching you carefully when you plop down on the seat next him.
“Good thing it’s for you, then.”
Jack wipes the can clear with a napkin before he cracks it open, taking a long sip from the energy drink before sliding it back to you.
“Rough shift, huh?”
“Fucking teenagers.” He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Were you reckless like that?”
“No, I was a very good girl.” You take a drink from the can before handing it back.
“Yeah, I bet you were.” The look Jack gives you sends a fire down your spine despite how tired he looks. You shift in your seat, clearing your throat.
“Robby talked to me.”
“I thought you were dating him.” Jack says, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the formica table top.
“And I thought you were married to him.”
He snorts. “I’d rather shoot myself.”
“Me too.” You snicker, feeling more relaxed than you have all week. Jack licks his lips, his eyes skirting all over your face— From your neck to your chin, holding a couple of seconds on your mouth before he finally looks you in the eyes.
“You really thought I’d flirt with you if I was married?”
“You never flirted with me, Jack, and…” You motion to his wedding ring. “How could I not think you’re married?”
Jack blinks. “What do you mean, I never flirted with you? Sweetheart, what do you think I’ve been doing all of this time?”
“Being nice?” You mean it as a statement, but it comes out more as a question than anything else.
“Honey, I’m nice but I’m not that nice.” Jack scratched the back of his neck, his freckles darkening when he blushes. “Maybe I gotta up my game. Haven’t really flirted with anyone other than Myrna in years.”
“I think you’re the only reason she lets the cops bring her back.” You chuckle, looking down at your hands; you’ve been so anxious about this you’ve started picking at your cuticles again and now you feel a little silly for being so up in arms about it. “But yeah, you gotta get a little more aggressive if bringing me pastries and giving me rides is your way of flirting.”
“Maybe I could start by taking you out for breakfast later today?”
You bite down on your lip, hesitating only for a second to gather the courage before you say:
“We could eat at my place, if you’d like. I make really good scrambled eggs.”
The smile Jack gives you could send you into cardiac arrest far easier than the energy drink.
so. both the players of my episode of chicago pd have been loading in the void for the past twenty minutes. i refreshed four times. give it back to me. give voight back. GIVE HIM.
Terry McCandless shall be “arrested” (someone tells me in my earpiece, “because that fucker deserves it”) and Sammy Bryant shall “arrest”.
Because, yes, I still haven't moved on from that “I'll have you in pelican bay so fast you'll be sucking dick by midnight” scene. What can I say? I'm very much guilty and very proud of it.
!! ⸻ SO IF SHIT GOES SIDEWAYS❟ INSTEAD OF COMING TOGETHER WE FALL APART? IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK? WE ARE A FAMILY❟ AND YOU❜RE IN IT SO STEP THE HELL UP.
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