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19 i support women’s rights & wrongs🧘🏽‍♀️

[kafurscoffin]

Hello everybody.

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[inkdippedquills]

hoarding you

Pairing: Jack Abbot x tattooed!fem!reader (attending) Summary: Jack Abbot likes knowing. He likes knowing about you. He likes hoarding information about you, in fact. WC: 3.2k || Rating: E (Explicit) Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Smut, Intimacy (emotional and otherwise), a little silly.

-- -- --

You knew how you looked. Tattoos covered your arms (and legs—though no one saw those at work), small silver studs decorated your ears and nose. You’d had an eyebrow piercing at one point but after a stray limb from a seizing patient caught it, you’d removed most of your facial piercings. The tongue piercing was smaller, almost discrete if someone wasn’t looking for it. 

It was always interesting to watch people square your appearance with your affect. You didn’t think you were intimidating or overtly mean, but strangers tended to give you a wide berth. In your new attending position you hadn’t given much thought to it. There was little time to think about how someone who didn’t actually know you perceived you. 

Still, you knew people noticed. Jesse had asked about a tattoo on your forearm, Dana had asked about the tongue piercing, and Trinity had been taken by the constellation of metal in your ears. 

“Do you have a sec?” Abbot asked, coming by your work station. You had been reviewing a CT scan for your abdominal pain patient when he approached. 

Jack had been one of the few people who hadn’t made a comment about your appearance. He never seemed to take notice of the ink on your skin nor the metal through your body. You supposed he blew you out of the water body modification wise, though that joke stayed safely ensconced in your own head. 

“Yeah, what’s up?” You asked looking up at him. 

“We have a patient with a really bad infection in her piercings and she’s…well, she doesn’t…let’s just say I think you would give her peace of mind.”

You grinned at him. “Why do you think that, Dr. Abbot?”

He gave you a flat look and walked towards the curtained off beds. Snickering, you followed. When you walked in, Jack easily introduced you. Sitting on the rolling stool, you asked, 

“What seems to be the problem?” 

A cursory glance didn’t show you any piercings that looked infected. She had a nose ring. A couple cartilage piercings, but none that seems angry.

“I got two piercings a couple weeks ago and I think they’re infected,” the young girl said. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. 

“Which piercings?”

“Nipples,” she said quietly, her facing turning bright red. 

“Ah, those can be tricky to heal,” you said nodding. “I had to get mine done twice.”

Jack cleared his throat and said, “I’ll leave you to it. Grab me if you need it.”

“Can you send Princess our way?” You asked. 

“Got it,” he called quickly exiting the curtained bay. 

You looked at your young patient, and said, “I don’t think he enjoyed learning that my nipples are pierced.”

It thankfully elicited a laugh out of the younger woman, so by the time Princess came in, she was enough at ease you could examine the piercing sites. They were infected and based on the look, whoever had done them hadn’t done a good job. 

“Where did you get this done?” You asked lightly. 

“A place near campus. They were doing it for $25 each,” she told you. You were proud your face didn’t show it, but a nipple piercing for $25 should have been the girl’s first warning. 

“I’ll give you the name of my girl if you want to get them done again. The metal your piercer used isn’t body safe which is why you’re having such a bad reaction.”

“Oh. Will it hurt as bad the second time?”

“Mine hurt worse the second time,” you laughed. “My boyfriend at the time went with me and I think I broke his hand.”

You and Princess finished taking out the offending jewelry and cleaning the wounds before giving her care instructions. It would be more than six months before she could try again. Based on the look on her face, you doubted she was going to try again. 

“How long did it take to heal?” Princess asked once you both were at the nurses station. 

“Didn’t finish healing the first time. But probably close to two years before they stopped bothering me,” you told her. 

“What took two years to heal?” Trinity asked. You noticed Jack a few steps away ignoring the personal conversation. 

“My nipple piercings,” you told her. 

“What happened the first time?” Princess asked. 

“In med school I got in a car accident and they had to take them out for imaging. By the time I was able to get them back in a few hours later the holes were closed. Pierced them again when I passed Step 3,” you said. 

“That sounds so painful,” Princess shuddered. 

“What do people you sleep with think about them?” Trinity asked. 

“Most haven’t really cared one way or another. They don’t really make me more sensitive, but my current partner loves them,” you said. 

“Oooooh,” crowed Princess. “You’re dating someone?”

You caught Abbot staring at you from the corner of your eye. You lowered your voice, but suspected he could still hear you. 

“Maybe? He’s nice, clearly attracted to me, but I’m not sure he really wants something serious. Could be just a way to get his dick wet,” you said shrugging. 

“Does that bother you?” Princess asked. 

“Haven’t decided yet,” you said, mostly honest.

“Speaking of,” Trinity said. “Did you hear that Lupe’s cheating ex-wife sent her flowers on Valentine’s Day?”

“The fucking nerve,” you scoffed. When you glanced up Jack had disappeared. 

-- -- --

After your shift, a rare day shift for you, exhaustion weighed heavy on your bones. You adored your job; there was rarely a day you weren’t excited to go to work, especially now that you were paid appropriately. The nipple piercing conversation had turned into a shift long gossip session where you and Princess had pulled more info from Trinity about Whittaker’s farm widow, Garcia, and even some information on Mel. 

It had been a good shift, but your circadian rhythm was shot. By the time you got back to your house, the idea of doing anything more than collapsing face first into bed was too much. Still, you were covered in hospital germs and starving. 

A frozen meal and quick shower later, you were curled up on your couch in an oversized tshirt watching some random comedy when your doorbell rang. It was highly unusual to say the least. 

Next to your couch was a baseball bat your dad had jokingly-not-jokingly given you, and for the first time in half a dozen years you were grateful for the gift. The baseball bat in hand, you walked up to your front door. To your surprise, Jack stood on your doorstep. 

Forgetting about the bat in your hand and your lack of pants, you opened the door confused. 

“Jack?”

Without preamble, he walked in and boxed you against the wall. The door shut behind him and you heard him turn the lock. 

“You have a baseball bat in your hand,” was the first thing he said to you. 

His lips were only millimeters from your own, the heat from his body seeping against yours. You could feel the density of his body pressing against your own. 

“We didn’t have plans,” you told him. “Didn’t know who was at the door.”

“So you were going to hit them with a baseball bat without wearing pants.”

“A nice sight before I hit them so hard they see stars,” you nearly whispered. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs, desperate for action and movement. This moment was so similar to the first time Jack had kissed you, it was like your body recalled and yearned for the same feeling. His fingers ghosted over your wrist before he gently tugged the bat out of your hand, setting it down against the door. 

The ghost of his touch trailed along your upper thigh and every nerve stood at attention, focusing on the featherlight contact. You yearned to yank him close to you, fingers closing around his shirt collar, but his stare had you frozen. 

His eyes, bright and seeing, felt like they had pinned you in place. You weren’t sure what he was looking for. You weren’t even sure what he was wanting. All you knew is that you might vibrate out of your skin if he didn’t actually touch you soon. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked. 

He took a half step forward, firmly pressing you against the wall, the length of his body holding you still while his hand played with the bare skin of your thighs. There was a tattoo on your upper thigh of a switchblade, it was one of Jack’s favorites. Whether it was intentional or not, his fingers always lightly ran circles over the skin it laid on. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked. It wasn’t technically an answer to your question, but it answered enough. With a small nod, his lips captured yours. 

One hand stayed on your legs, tracing patterns slowly up your body, while the other cupped your face. Jack was never an indecisive man. He knew what he wanted and knew how to get it. Tonight, it seemed like he wanted to bury himself in your body—as though he couldn’t be close enough to you. 

His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin. Kissing Jack felt like the first plunge on the rollercoaster. For a split second you felt your body lose understanding of gravity, which direction was up, and, sometimes, even how to breathe. There was always something that shocked you back into awareness. Tonight, a quiet growl that seemed to emanate from deep in his chest reminded you to wrap your own arms around him. 

When his lips moved off your own, trailing down your jaw and neck, you found the air to ask, 

“Why the sudden visit? I thought we weren’t meeting up this week.” 

“Maybe I missed you,” he mumbled. He wasn’t so much kissing your skin, as pressing his lips and face against you. 

“You saw me today.” 

“That’s different. I can’t pin you to the wall and make out with you at work. You’d kick me in the balls.” 

Your chuckle turned to a gasp as he nibbled on your ear. 

“I would do that,” you hummed. “Can we move this to the bedroom?” 

“Lead the way.” 

Your house wasn’t huge; it was just you, so there was no need for a million extra bedrooms or bathrooms. What it lacked in size, it made up for in coziness and a nice warm scent of cinnamon filling every inch of the place. Jack loved being at your house; more than that, he loved being with you at your house. 

When you walked into your bedroom, he stripped off his shirt and sat on the bed while you kneeled and helped him remove his leg and pants. The pants were haphazardly discarded over your shoulder while his leg was placed against the end of the bed for easy access later if he wanted it. Jack preferred to keep his limb sock on when not using the prosthetic to keep his leg from swelling too much, so you placed a simple kiss on his knee instead of rolling it off him. 

When you looked up at him, there was a soft gentle look on his face that he couldn’t have hidden if he tried. 

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbled, grabbing for you. 

Pulling you up on the bed, you allowed him to drape your body over his own. He was thick and dense with muscle, but soft and warm too. He cared more about strength than appearance. His arms, the same ones you drooled over when no one was watching, wrapped around you and pulled you close against him. 

For a while, he just held you against him. The frantic energy from earlier having abated. Soft touches and a strong grip had you gently kissing the side of his neck while he soaked in the contact. Every so often Jack would hold you like this, like he craved human contact. 

“Are you okay?” You found yourself asking. 

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, shivering slightly and your lips tickled his skin. 

“Are you still going to fuck me?” 

“Yes.”

“Normally this level of cuddling is for post-sex,” you continued. You awkwardly wrapped your arms under him, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“Long day, I just want to hold you for a minute.”

“Okay,” you replied. Jack was weird and this certainly wasn’t the strangest thing he’d done. 

At some point both you and Jack ditched your shirts. It was more intimate than any of your past hookups—the way that Jack held onto you, fingers dancing along your skin. Despite the caressing of your tits, it wasn’t groping. His touches felt sweet…reverent even. 

He paid special attention to the metal on your nipples. Each tender manipulation made you moan against his lips, which rarely left yours. This no longer felt like a frantic hookup. Instead, Jack was treating you like you were special, like he wanted this to mean something. You were too drunk on the feeling of his body against yours to pay it much mind. 

After a punch out groan from Jack when your thigh brushed his erection, you reach down and encircled his dick with your hand. His fingers stuttered along your skin and nipple. Releasing your lips, he muttered a quiet, 

“Fuck.” 

“Feel good?” you asked, nipping at the underside of his jaw. 

“You make me feel so good,” he whispered, hoarse. “Please, sweetheart.” 

“Please what?” You taunted. 

“Keep going,” he moaned, attacking your lips again. 

The handjob was probably too dry, but the way Jack’s hips drove against your fist made you think he didn’t really care at the moment. Minutes passed as you pumped Jack’s erection while he toyed with your nipples, all the while nipping and kidding at each other. 

“You’re so hard,” you mumbled in between kisses. 

“You do that to me,” he replied. 

Impulsively, you let go of his erection and rotated your hips so he was nestled at the core of your legs. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned. You were on your sides now, one of your legs thrown over his hip. It was a bit of an awkward maneuver, but you managed to reach around your bodies and help him slide inside of you. 

“You do that to me,” you repeated. “The sounds you make, Jack. God, I’d listen to them all day.”

The stretch was delicious. Jack was more girthy than most of your previous partners (of which there had not been many). The slow pistoning of your hips against each other elicited a warm glow from deep in your stomach, radiating outward. The pace was slow and unhurried, the both of you whispering quiet words of encouragement to each other. 

“Just like that,” you said. 

“Feel so good around me,” he replied, softly. 

It was almost lazy, the pace you both had set. The point was not orgasm but instead the connection between the two of you. Occasionally, one or both of you would pause and luxuriate in the feeling. Your skin was so sensitive that you could feel the ghost of his touch. Each caress and featherlight contact sent shockwaves through you. 

There was not enough of him to satiate your own hands. Each expanse of skin freckled and a little rough deserved attention and veneration. Your nails lightly scraped along his ribs and he arched into your touch, gasping against your mouth. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. It almost sounded like, I love you. 

The caress of his hands along your waist and back elicited an eruption of goosebumps in their wakes. There was no part of you that Jack Abbot had not touched, caressed or kissed. He felt all encompassing; it was overwhelming in the best way. Despite the gentleness, you felt claimed by the man. It was as though he was imprinting his very essence onto your body—convincing it never to let another person make you feel this way. 

You could only hope he felt the same. 

The evening continued like that. Touches, slow pistoning movements, and tender kisses to every inch of available skin consumed you. You weren’t sure if you orgasmed or even if he did, but at some point, you both separated. It was less of a true separation and more of a natural end to your coupling. He bundled you close to his chest; you could hear his heart’s slow, rhythmic thump. 

“Can I say something and you promise you won’t judge me?” Jack asked, breaking the peaceful silence. 

“No,” you replied. 

“No?”

“Men say that and then say heinous shit,” you replied, idly tracing your finger between freckles on his stomach. 

“And do you think that’s what I’m going to say?” He asked. He sounded mildly offended. 

“Probably not, but I want my options open.”

“You’re fucking difficult,” he grumbled. You buried your face against his shoulder to hide your grin. 

“C’mon, tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Please?” You drawled. 

“Not a chance.”

“Ugh, fine, I promise not to make fun of you,” you huffed. 

“Thank you. Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

He pinched your arm lightly. The way you both were tangled up with each other, meant his lips were brushing the top of your forehead. You felt him exhale and say, 

“I feel kind of jealous that I’m not the only person who knows about your nipple piercings.”

“What?” You asked, chuckling. 

“I liked that I knew something about you no one else did,” he mumbled into your hair. 

“You’re the only person from that hospital who’s had their dick in me,” you replied. He snorted. 

“I guess that’s true.”

“You know what I sound like when you’re fucking me into my mattress,” you hummed, pressing a soft kiss on his bare chest. “You know what I sound like when I’m choking on your dick.”

“Christ,” he hissed. 

“You know what I feel like, when I sit on your face,” you continued trailing a finger up his stomach. “I think you have plenty of me to hoard.”

“Hoard?” He asked. 

“Is that not what you’re doing?”

Jack hummed and thought about it for a moment, “I guess I am. There’s rarely a moment where I don’t think you would make it better.”

“Romantic for a hook-up there, Abbot.”

“I think we both know that’s not all this is. Certainly not after tonight,” he whispered, pulling you up to lay on the pillow next to him. His eyes, bright and clear, bore into yours. Legs tangled together, he grasped your chin between his forefinger and thumb to pull you closer to his lips. “I don’t just want my dick wet. I want you. I want all the parts of you that you don’t share.”

“Hoarder,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. 

“Proudly.”

He kissed you gently, encompassing your body with his. It was impossible to tell where he ended and you began. It wasn’t sexual; neither of you were gearing up for a second round despite your state of undress. Instead, he seemed to soak in how your naked body felt pressed against his. 

Jack Abbot cared about you and after tonight, you wouldn’t doubt if he loved you. 

-- -- --

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[trinsantosgf]

[goldsainz]

# FRANK LANGDON — DR. PROTECTIVE !

MASTERLIST !

REQUEST !

001. SUMMARY !

✶ a patient gets aggressive with you which leads langdon to step in your defence.

002. WARNINGS !

✶ you’re referred to as “Dr. LN” once. aggressive male patient. no actual physical harm happens, just verbal insults.

word count : 1,5k

gif from @rhaenyratargeryen

It isn’t uncommon for patients to be irritated by the time they’re finally out of the waiting room and into triage. Most of them have been waiting for hours—waiting and waiting until time blurs together. 

Still, there are moments when that frustration turns into something uglier and whoever is standing closest ends up taking the hit.

Right now, that someone is you, stuck trying to manage a combative patient who refuses to cooperate, lashing out at the very person trying to help.

“Sir, please, you need to calm down and let me finish assessing you,” you say again, voice strained but measured, like you’ve been repeating the same sentence on a loop for far too long. Your hands hover where they’re supposed to, careful and clinical, painfully aware of every inch of space between you and him.

“No!” he snaps, jerking back on the bed. His voice is loud enough to turn heads. “I’ve been waiting for over eight hours, and all you’re gonna do is feel me up? That’s it? No labs, no tests, nothing?”

Your stomach twists, heat crawling up your neck despite the calm you force into your expression. “I am not “feeling you up”,” you say, a shudder slipping through before you can stop it while still trying to keep your tone even. “I’m doing an initial assessment so I can get you the best care possible and determine the next steps.”

He lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, eyes narrowing as he looks you over. “That’s just bullshit. Are you even a real doctor or are you just some stupid intern?”

“If you don’t let me conduct a proper physical exam, I can’t order any further tests,” you finish, forcing the words out evenly despite the tension coiling in your chest.

The man in front of you exhales sharply, a frustrated breath that sounds more like a growl, his anger vibrating just beneath the surface.

You reach for your small penlight, fingers steady by muscle memory alone. You don’t switch it on until it’s raised, angled toward his face to assess pupil response—and then the light is slapped clean out of your hand.

You flinch back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat as the flashlight clatters against the floor. Your gaze drops to it, your pulse roaring in your ears.

In what feels like a millisecond, Langdon is at your side.

He moves without hesitation, one hand guiding you back as he steps forward, placing himself squarely between you and the patient. The shift is immediate as the man’s posture falters when he realizes he’s no longer the biggest presence in the room.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Langdon asks, his voice unnervingly calm, all sharp focus and quiet authority.

You take a breath before answering, grounding yourself. “I was attempting to conduct a physical exam for Mr. Smith,” you say after a beat. “There’s mild upper abdominal tenderness and signs of respiratory distress.”

“I’m sure you’d like proper care, isn’t that right, Mr. Smith?” Frank says, the edge of his tone skirting sarcasm.

The man only hums in response, his initial shock at being confronted by a male physician quickly giving way to the same smug defiance as before.

Frank doesn’t rise to it. If anything, his expression hardens. “Then here’s how this works,” he continues evenly. “You behave, or I have security escort you out.” 

He lets the silence stretch just enough to have Mr. Smith squirming on the gurney. 

“You’ll go to another hospital, sit in another waiting room for several more hours—which I’m guessing you’d rather avoid. So, you’re going to let Dr. LN do her job. Or you’re leaving. Am I clear?”

“You can’t treat me like this—”

“Am I clear?” Langdon repeats, his voice sharper now, stripped of all patience.

“…Yes,” the man grunts out.

“Good.” Langdon turns to you, the edge in his tone softening just enough. “I’ll observe, just in case—but based on what I’m seeing in his chart, this could be pancreatitis or a pulmonary embolism.”

You nod, already back in clinical mode. “I was about to order blood work and imaging. Maybe a chest X-ray, too?”

Langdon considers it for a beat. “Best to avoid unnecessary radiation in a fifty-year-old if we can,” he says evenly. “But it’s your patient so do as you see best.”

You tap briskly at the screen of your tablet, ordering the tests—and a few more—partly for clinical thoroughness, partly to placate your patient.

“Can you tell me what’s going on,” Mr. Smith snaps, his voice climbing, “or do you think I’m dumb and won’t understand?”

You don’t look up right away. “I’m ordering the tests you asked for, Mr. Smith,” you say, lips pulled into a tight, professional smile. “Dr. Langdon is assisting me in considering all possible diagnoses. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes,” he huffs, then sneers, “but fix that smile, sweetheart. No one likes a sour-looking woman, right?”

He turns to Langdon, searching for validation only to watch the smugness drain from his face when he finds none.

“Mr. Smith,” your fellow doctor says coolly, irritation finally bleeding through, “you’ve already interfered with your physical exam by almost hitting your doctor. Now you’re harassing her. Are you that eager to stop being a patient here?”

“I didn’t hit anyone!” Mr. Smith snaps. “She didn’t warn me about what she was doing and caught me off guard. I’m hardly at fault if she’s incompetent and lacks basic manners.”

You take a slow, steadying breath.

“Alright, I’ve already ordered your labs,” you say evenly. “I’ll be back once the results are in. Please remain here while you wait.”

You and Frank step out into the hallway at the same time, the door closing firmly behind you.

“Could’ve moved him out here,” Frank mutters as he shuts it. “Freed up a room.”

“I think he would’ve charged at me if I tried,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Then we’d have had a great excuse to kick him out.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “That would’ve been nice.”

He steps closer and reaches out, fingers closing gently around your arm, stopping you in your tracks.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice lower now. “That was a close call. I know he only knocked the penlight out of your hand, but still.”

“Just another day on the job.” The joke falls flat even to your own ears.

“It’s not okay,” Frank says firmly. “Don’t hesitate to call for help—or even security.”

“I promise, I’m fine,” you mutter, suddenly aware of how close you are standing to each other. “But it’s nice seeing you worry instead of being all cool and collected.”

He tilts his head, a dumb smirk tugging at his mouth. “You think I’m cool?”

You slap his arm lightly and huff a laugh. “Only sometimes.”

“Oh, you wound me.” He presses a hand to his chest in mock pain.

“Your ego can handle it.”

“My ego can handle anything,” he says, then sobers. “What I can’t handle is one of the best doctors here being belittled—and you just taking it on the chin.”

You swallow, eyes drifting to the patient board glowing nearby, names and needs stacked endlessly.

“Langdon, I appreciate you looking out for me. Really,” you say softly. “But I’m fine. There will always be disgruntled patients. I don’t really mind it anymore.”

“Well,” he says, voice gentler than you expect, “I do.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You can’t begin to explain the rush of relief you felt the moment he stepped into the room—how his presence alone steadied you after Mr. Smith had come far too close to hitting you. The adrenaline hasn’t fully faded, and a tangle of emotions curls tight beneath your ribs.

“I’m serious,” he says quietly. “Any day, something could happen—and I don’t think I could handle not having you around.” He exhales. “This place would be a lot more unbearable without you.”

“Didn’t know I was so special,” you joke weakly, unable to stop the small smile that breaks through anyway.

“You are,” he murmurs, almost under his breath. “More than you think.”

You hold each other’s gaze for what feels like far too long—long enough to forget where you are—until a voice cuts through the moment.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Dana says, barely masking her amusement, “but you two better get back to work before Robby scolds you.”

“Right.”

“Sorry!”

You and Langdon blurt out at the same time, then split off in opposite directions.

“See you around,” he calls after you. “And remember what I said.”

“As you wish, Dr. Protective!” you shout back, rolling your eyes—only to break into a wide, uncontrollable smile once he’s out of sight.

NOTE : got this req from the lovely syd so i hope i did it justice and you all like this! i’m very obsessed atm with the pitt so i don’t know if i should watch tell me lies or not, has anyone watched it? and is it good? one of my friends recommended it but idk if i should watch or not.

[augustvandyne]

Can I please have a fic where the female reader (a doctor) and Cassie McKay have been dating secretly for like 8 months and somehow it ends up coming out that they’re dating at work?

coffee stains -- c. mckay

cassie mckay x fem!doctor!reader

wc: 4.6k

summary: cassie and you have been secretly dating for 8 months. what happens when you get into a nasty fight with a patient and she's the last to hear about it?

warnings: angst, so much angst, violence, slightly suggestive at one part but no smut, probably medical inaccuracy, age gap (r is 29, cassie is early 40s), if I'm missing anything let me know..

a/n: I was going to make this no angst and just do it like someone finds them kissing, but I think I did that with a lucy fic in the past and I didnt want to do a repeat and this idea just came to me five seconds ago. also, this definitely got away from me.. let me know what you think!

The day starts out like any other–you come in at seven am sharp to see a bright eyed Dana Evans already waiting at the nurses station. Her eyes brighten even more when she sees you enter the Pitt, or whatever Robby likes to call it. 

“Sweetheart! I cannot begin to describe how glad I am to see you!” She smiles wide and gives you a side hug as you round the desk. You let the bag on your shoulder tumble onto the ground, retrieving your water bottle before stuffing it under the desk. 

“Dana.” You give a warm smile back. “A delight as always.” 

You straighten up from your crouch on the ground, placing the metal bottle on the desk. The loud clink makes your head pound. 

“Hey, you okay?” Dana looks at you in her concerned fashion. She was like a mother to you–like a mother to everyone who was doomed to the pitt. Everyone came to her for advice and she would sit and listen like she wasn’t needed anywhere else. “You’re a little pale there, sweet girl.”

She caresses the side of your face, and you just nod. 

“Probably not enough sleep last night. You know how the dogs are.” You let out a small chuckle. It wasn’t a complete lie, to be fair. You were up late last night, but it had nothing to do with your dogs. And everything to do with a certain redheaded resident. It didn’t help that you had to leave long before she woke so you could shower and let the dogs out at your place. 

“Amen to that. My husband tried to pull that shit on me last month, remember? I told him no way in hell.” She gives you a smirk before realization crosses her face. 

The look makes your stomach drop. She didn’t know, did she? I mean, you guys were so careful. You took precaution to lock any room the two of you were in alone just to make sure no one saw you. You never came in at the same time as Cassie. And you never let your eyes wander to her ass for too long at a time. 

With your age gap, some people would probably disapprove. Cassie being in her early forties and you in your late twenties. Granted, you would be thirty here in a few months. But that was besides the point. Well, you could kiss goodbye to the quiet bubble Cassie and you currently lived in. If anyone found out first it would surely be Dana– 

“Hey, did I lose you there?” She frowns and dips her head down closer to you. “You’re worryin’ me here today.”

“No, no.” You do your best poker face, anything to keep your secret from being spilled out at the nurses station. “I’m fine. I promise.” 

You aren’t sure if you add the extra affirmation for Dana or yourself, but it’s all the same. 

“I really– really didn’t get much sleep last night. And something's telling me I’m gonna be here late tonight.” You blow out a rush of air, trying to soothe your anxiety. 

“If you need a moment, let me know, alright?” She gives you a look that has you immediately nodding your head in agreement. “You know me, I need my cigarettes and all. Wouldn’t mind if you asked for one.”

“Very thoughtful Dana, but you know that–”

“Kills the body, I know.” She laughs as you both finish the sentence together. “I am a nurse, you know.” 

“I know.”

“Anyways, before Robby gets here and you part ways,” She turns quickly and grabs the cup of coffee off the desk. “McKay dropped this for you a while ago. She just wanted me to make sure you got it.” 

You falter and let your lips break out into a cheesy smile. She got you coffee everyday, you don’t understand why today of all days your chest fluttered more. Even after nearly nine months of dating, she still manages to make your heart beat quicken and your face flush. 

“You guys are close..” Dana trails off as you take a big sip of the heaven-in-a-cup. 

“We’re friends.” You shrug and do your best to stay composed. Even though the only thing you want to do right now is grab Cassie from whatever she’s doing right now and sneak her into a closet with you. “Close friends.” 

“I’m sure.” Dana’s smirk returns to her face. “The closest.” 

“It’s not like th–”

“Ladies.” Robby grunts out in a greeting, making you jump, your coffee going down the front of your scrub shirt. 

All three of you take turns looking at each other, eventually bursting out laughing. 

“I’m so sorry, L/N.” Robby takes in the front of your scrub top, the coffee dripping down the front of it. “I didn’t burn you, did I?”

“No, of course not. It’s okay, Robby. It was mostly cold anyway.” You sit the cup back on the desk. “Good thing I always bring an extra pair with me, just in case. I’m gonna change quickly, wait for me for rounds?” 

“Of course, you’re my best resident.” Robby winks. 

You head off to the locker room, punching in your code quickly to get your extra scrub top. You pull your top over your head, folding it nicely in your locker, praying to God you remember to grab it before you leave. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I love that you’re undressing for me, but couldn’t it wait until we got home?” You turn to see your girlfriend standing against the wall, a smirk plastered across her lips. 

“Show isn’t for you, McKay.” The light shines in your eye and you smirk back at the woman. “But that can be arranged.” 

She gasps, “At work? You're a dirty girl, Dr. L/N.” 

She steps forward and grabs you by the hips, her eyes shifting between your eyes and your mouth. Cassie leans forward and places a kiss on your lips, loving the way your mouth opens for her. 

After pulling away, she places a finger under your chin so she can lift your face to look at her. 

“Did Dana give you the coffee I got for you?” She takes a step back just in case someone decided to walk in at that moment, and you missed her heat. 

“Yes.” You smile at her, looking her up and down. No matter how much time passes by, you will never not think she looks good in her scrubs. Or anything, really. Nothing. “And thank you.”

“You were gone when I got up. Figured you’d gone back to yours.” She smiles again, her dimples making an appearance. You couldn’t tell if you loved her dimples more or the way her hair brushed over her eyes. 

“Yeah, I did.” You smile as you reach for the clean top. “Had to let the dogs out. And shower.” 

She pouts as you pull the top over your head, your exposed skin now hidden by the black scrub top. 

“You could’ve showered last night, you know?” She gives you a look that makes you want to fall to your knees in the locker room. You shut the locker and turn to Cassie, giving her your full attention. “Or were you too preoccupied?” 

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. Her blue eyes are so captivating. They make you want to do unholy things. But also make you want to question your entire life. Like what is a girl as gorgeous as her doing with you? The way her dimples come out when she smiles, and the way she looks at Harrison and you, like she’d burn the world down for you. And her hair is just so gorgeous. Maybe she’ll let you braid it tonight, just so you can run your hands through it. 

“What are you thinking about?” She tilts her head, searching your eyes. Add the way she cares about you to the ever growing list of things you love about her. 

“Just how much I love you.” You shrug as if it's nothing, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. You press a kiss to her head between strands of hair. 

“God, you’re so unfair.” Her hand snakes its way to your neck to hold you there for a second even though she knows she shouldn’t. Not here at the hospital. 

“You’re one to talk, Cass.” You lean your head back to get a look at her face. “I'm on about five hours asleep because of you.” 

She has a knowing smile on her lips, shrugging. 

“Sorry, baby. I just couldn’t get enough of you.” She bites the inside of her cheek. She looks around the two of you, landing another kiss on your lips. 

“I guess I can forgive you. This time.” Your eyes are lidded over, a mix of exhaustion and lust taking over your body. “But you should probably back up before I pin you against the lockers.” 

“Maybe that’s exactly what I wanted.” The twinkle in her eye suggests just that. 

You let out a laugh and place a wet kiss on her cheek, side stepping her to exit the lockers. 

“Wait.” You stop so Cassie can catch up to you. “I have a proposition for you.” 

“Oh yeah? And what is this proposition?” You squint at her before checking the time on your watch. “I have to go soon or Robby’s gonna come looking for me. I’ve been gone for almost ten minutes.” 

“Okay, okay. Here goes nothing.” She looks genuinely nervous, and in return worries you. She wasn’t going to, like, break up with you right now was she? In the middle of the locker rooms? “How about.. Instead of you having to leave so early for work you just.. Move in? With me.” 

“Oh, thank god.” You let out a nervous chuckle that has Cassie raising her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I thought you were about to break up with me.” 

“Oh.” She frowns. “Did you want me to?” 

“No, no, no.” You grab her wrists and pull her closer, her body flush against your own. “I just said I was thinking about how much I loved you. I wouldn’t say that if I was tired of you, okay?” You lift her chin like she did to you moments ago. “Now, back to this proposition.” 

“Well, I figured it would be easier.” She lifts a shoulder, her arms wrapped around your neck. “I live closer to the hospital, and you know.. It would be easier if you didn’t have to go back and forth every day. Plus, I like when I wake up and you're still in my bed.”

“Okay.” You agree. “I’ll move in.” 

“Good.” 

She backs you up against the wall, her hand wrapping around the back of your neck to hold you closer. Her other hand snaked to your waist. Your lips open on instinct for her to slide her tongue into your mouth. You moan quietly, not wanting to alert anyone who might be walking outside of the room. As you hold the back of her neck to pull her impossibly closer, your tongues clash. Your tongue slides over her bottom lip as you give it a bite, pulling back completely. 

“I love you.” You gasp when she kisses your neck. 

“I love you.” She pulls away and winks, walking out of the locker room to leave you on your own. 

It all happens so fast. You weren’t standing properly, so when the patient pushed against you, you went falling backwards. You were working triage today, occasionally bouncing back to trauma when needed. You told Mateo you’d be okay for a few minutes on your own, while he went and checked with another patient. 

You hit your head as you fell back, and the searing headache comes on strong. You can feel the blood trickling on the back of your head. 

He hit you repeatedly, and you were starting to lose consciousness. Your face, arms, legs. It wasn’t the first time you’d gotten hit by a patient, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but this was far more aggressive than any other abuse you’ve ever taken. 

You try to fight back, but the sharp pain in your leg makes it hard. You just had to hold on a little longer–Mateo would be back soon. Or someone, anyone, would hear the noise. They had to. 

You beat against his chest and send him into the wall, but it only makes him angrier. He comes back stronger. Harder. You manage to trip him and he goes tumbling with a grunt, hopefully on the ground for good, losing consciousness as he does.

“Oh my god, y/n.” Mateo crouches down beside you, taking in your injuries. They weren’t good. Anything but. God, Dana, Robby, everyone in this hospital was going to kill him. He runs out the door, yelling for help. 

“Sweet baby Jesus, what happened to her?” Dana was enraged. She pushed the hair our of your face. “Mateo, go find Robby. Now! I don’t care what he’s doing. Get him. And find Santos, King, Langdon, Mohan. Anyone.” 

“Okay.” Mateo looks like the wind was knocked out of him, but regardless he gets up and runs out of the room. Determined to get help. 

Robby comes first, taking in your injuries just like Dana and Mateo had. 

“What the hell happened?” He roars out. “Why wasn’t anyone with her?” 

“Mateo was supposed to be here. He must’ve stepped out for a minute.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand, he wasn’t combative in chairs.” 

“Help me lift her.” Robby demands, him and Dana lifting you onto the bed. “Where the hell is everybody else?” 

He reaches for a pulse, sighing and thanking any god there is when he feels one. He lifts your eyelid and shines the light. 

Santos and Ahmad come in shortly after, followed by another officer. She helps get him onto the gurney to be rolled out and into another room. 

“He did this?” Trinity clenches her jaw as she looks down at him in anger. “How could someone do that?” She bangs the gurney. 

“Santos, I want you in here.” Robby demands, as he works to assess your injuries. “If you need a breather, take it. But make it quick. I need you here.”

“Okay.” She breathes out.

The officers move the patient out of the room. 

“I want him in cuffs.” Robby yells out the door.

“He will be.” Dana nods. “I’ll make sure of it myself."

“What’s taking them so damn long?” Robby shakes his head with a sharp inhale.

“I sent Mateo minutes ago. Where is he?” Dana sets up your IV, quickly taking vitals as Robby continues to work on you. 

“I– I’ll go look.” Trinity says, seemingly stopped in her tracks. 

“Santos! Find anyone. I need Garcia down here, now. She’s gonna need surgery. And get neuro down here. She hit her head hard. I want King and Mohan here now. I don’t care what they are doing. This is all hands on deck.” Robby shakes his head, looking you over, the emotion stuck in the back of his throat. 

“I’ll get McKay, too. She’ll want to be here.” Trinity nods, almost to the door. 

“No! No. McKay’s too close to this. Too close to her. I want her with the attacker.” Robby’s too focused to look up, but he knows if he did he would see the same emotion he’s feeling written all over Trinity's face. 

Moments later Mel and Samira come running in, followed by a wide eyed Trinity. 

“Oh my god.” Mel’s hands are shaky as she gets to your side. 

They all work together to get you stable. Suturing, soothing, gluing—whatever it takes for you. 

“What happened?” Samira swallows, trying not to let her words catch in her throat. 

“A patient attacked her.” Dana shakes her head. 

“What’s up, party people?” Garcia comes in with a pep in her step. “What do we have?” 

Sensing the melancholy in the room, she slowly moves closer to the patient, her heart dropping to the floor when she realizes it’s you. 

Unlike everyone else, she doesn’t ask what happened. She doesn’t need to know. Just grateful she’s the one to come. If it was anyone else this would be all over the hospital by now. 

“Does McKay know?” Her jaw set straight. She wasn’t one to get emotional, but right now you were making it really hard for her. 

“No. And I’d like to keep it that way.” Robby locks eyes with her for a second, and she nods. 

“Of course.” Her voice dips, not wanting to let her facade slip. 

They manage to stabilize you, and after having Mel go next door to make sure McKay is distracted, they manage to get you up the elevator for surgery. 

Everyone who worked on you is tense, not able to keep food down. They send Langdon to cover you in triage, knowing if they asked the other regular triage resident, McKay, it would raise concerns. And they didn’t want to do that until they knew you were out of the woods. 

Dana sits at the nurses station desk, massaging the back of her neck when Cassie approaches. 

“Hey, did you hear about the patient in trauma two who attacked a nurse?” She leans over the desk. 

Dana stops her movements. Not able to move or even say what needs to be said. 

“Who told you about that?” Dana lifts her head slowly, not wanting to raise any concern on Cassie's end. She already knew when she found out, she wouldn’t forgive anyone, but she wanted to keep it under wraps for now. 

“Just heard it.” Cassie shrugs, but breaks when Dana gives her a look. “Okay, fine, Perlah and Princess were gossiping in english for once.” 

Dana lets out a breath. She’s gonna kick their asses. 

“Do you know who it was?” Cassie asks curiously. “I won't spread the rumor further. Just curious.” 

Cassie leans over the desk further, grabbing a twizzler out of the package Dana had open, untouched. 

“I’m not spreading any rumors further.” Dana shrugs, hoping she had a neutral expression. She opens the computer, opening your chart just to see if there was any update. 

“Okay.” Cassie shrugs as she chews on the candy. “Hey, you see L/N anywhere? I just wanted to ask her something. I thought she was in triage, but when I went in there Langdon was running things.”

Dana freezes, her typing stopping. She holds her breath and she knows she’s been caught. 

“What?” Cassie swallows the rest of the twizzler, an awkward smile forming. “Did she go home sick or something?” 

“No..” Dana shakes her head, reading the update on your chart Garcia must’ve written seconds ago.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” Cassie squints, standing up straighter. 

“Cassie..” Dana pushes the chair out and stands. 

“Where is she?” Cassie’s heart drops. She can’t breathe. “Did something happen to her?”

“Cassie, lower your voice.” Dana rounds the desk, coming to her side. 

“Wh— where the hell is she?” Cassie’s eyes flood with tears. “Tell me. Now!” 

“Cass—“

“Dr. McKay.” Robby suddenly appears on the other side of her. “You need to calm down.” 

“No!” She pushes both of them off of her, taking a few steps back, her hand running across her forehead. She stumbles into someone. 

“Dr. McKay.” Trinity says unsure. 

“Get off me!” She shouts. “Where is she? You tell me now, or so help me god!”

“Dr. McKay, Y/N was..” His voice trails out of her head. 

She can’t think, she can’t breathe, she can’t see. The only thing on her mind is you. Robby and Dana step closer, soothing touches on her back and arm. And for a second, she lets them. But she reaches her bearings, realizes this is real. This isn’t something she’s imagined. A bad dream she’s dreamt at night when you aren’t there with her. 

“Get off!” She pushes Robby into the desk. “Who knew?” 

Robby struggles to come up with the words, and she realizes then. She was the only one. 

“Dana?” Her voice breaks. “You.. and you didn’t tell me? This happened hours ago.. and you didn’t tell me?” 

“Cassie, we couldn’t tell—“

“Oh, fuck off!” Cassie runs her hands down her face. 

“Dr. McKay!” Robby comes to, shouting loud enough for the entire ED to stop what they are doing. “Take a walk.” 

“No!” She shakes her head. “Who else knew?” 

Trinity is still standing behind her, rooted to her spot. 

“You?” She turns quickly. “You came and got me! And you didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you take me to her?!” 

She turns and punches the desk, shaking her hand off afterwards, ignoring the sharp pain that runs up her hand. 

“Fuck.” She continues to shake her hand. “Who else!” She walks to the other side of the desk, Mel, Samira, everyone under the sun standing on the other end. 

“All of you?” She points her finger, her finger screaming in pain. 

“McKay, come with me.” Robby grabs her not injured hand. 

“No. No. You don’t get it.” She steps back, tears streaming full force down her face now. 

“You’re too close. Too good of friends. We couldn’t have you in the room.” Robby lowers his voice, a soft tone taking over him. “It would’ve been like working on family.” 

“But it’s just that! She is my family!” She shakes her head again, her chin trembling. “You can’t do that! You can’t keep that from me. It’s wrong! It’s wrong.” Her chest hurts and she can’t breathe. God, when did it get to be so hard to breathe? “What if your girlfriend came in and she got put in a trauma room and everyone that loves you and cares—or who you thought cared about you—keeps it from you? Huh? How would that make you feel? Pretty damn bad. Right? You can’t keep that from me! She’s my one thing, other than Harrison, that keeps me going. And you kept her from me?! You kept my girlfriend's well-being from me?!” 

Everyone stands around, shocked. At both her rage, but also what she just said. 

She realizes then what she just said, but she doesn’t even care. 

“Now, you’re going to take me to her, now.” She demands. 

“Of course.” Robby nods. “Of course.” 

She lets out a breath, “Thank you.”

She sits by your bed for hours. She doesn’t leave. She refuses. Wouldn’t even leave to get her finger checked out. 

Langdon had to come to her, wrapping her wrist after determining it wasn’t anything too extreme. 

After he leaves, she breaks down again, gripping your hand with everything in her. Leaving kisses on your bruised knuckles. 

“Fuck.” She wipes her face and nose on her arm. “You put up a good fight.” 

She shakes her head again, staring up at the ceiling. She tries to swallow back more cries, but she fails. 

“You’re gonna be so mad at me when you wake up.” She lets out a small laugh. “You always said I had bad anger issues. I lost it, baby. I lost it.” 

She leans her forehead on her arm. 

“I told everyone we were dating.” She laughs again, trying to find humor in the situation, but this is anything but. “I pushed Robby into the desk. I fucked up.”

She keeps laying her head on her arm as she talks, “I’m so angry. I just need you to wake up for me, baby. Please. I can’t do this without you. We were supposed to move in together. Live together. Be together every day before work. Fuck, everyone’s gonna be so mad at me. But I’ll make it up to them.” 

She lifts her head enough to rest her chin on her arm, her eyes watching the door. 

“I just don’t want you to be mad at me.” She bites her lip. “Jesus, I need to get a grip.” 

“I’m.. not.. mad at you.” You are able to get out. 

“Oh, my god.” She stands quickly, grabbing a cup of water for you. “Be careful.” 

“I’m okay.” Your voice is raspy from not using it, or over using it, Cassie isn't sure. 

“Baby, you scared me.” She leans her head onto where your hands are together, leaning up to kiss your hand a million times. 

“I’m sorry.” You give a soft smile. “It wasn’t on purpose.” 

Cassie laughs, her first real laugh since she found out. 

“What can I get for you? Anything?” Cassie searches your face. “More medicine? Water?” 

“No. I’m not in any pain.” You shake your head. “But if you would let up on the grip you have on my hand, that’d be great. I think you’re cutting my circulation off.” 

“Oh, oh! I’m sorry.” She loosens the grip, peppering your hand with kisses again. 

“It’s okay.” You look at her. Really look at her. And take her in. She’s been crying for a while. “What day is it?” 

“It’s the same day, but it’s really late.” She runs her thumb over your knuckles. 

“Where’s Harrison?” You frown. “It’s your night.” 

“He’s with my dad.” One hand reaches up to touch your face. “I couldn’t leave.” 

“Yes, you can.” You nod. 

“No. You’re my priority right now.” She shakes her head vehemently. “I’m not leaving you. Ever. Even while you’re recovering. I’ll take time off. You need to be taken care of.” 

You know there’s no fighting her on this, so you just nod and look at her. 

“Everyone knows?” You smirk. 

“I’m pretty sure all of Pittsburgh knows.” She jokes. “I was pretty loud and clear.” 

You chuckle, reaching a hand out to her face. Just wanting to touch her. 

“I know, I probably look like a mess.” She reaches her hand up to move her hair out of her face. 

“What happened?” You frown again. "You didn’t hit anyone, did you?” 

“No.. not technically.” 

“Cassie McKay!” You raise your eyebrows. 

“I hit the desk. I’m pretty sure I left a hole in it.” She gives you a guilty face. “Nothing's broken. I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about you.” 

“I’ll be okay, Cass. Promise.” You caress the side of her face, your finger dragging under the bags below her eyes. “You need to sleep.” 

“I couldn’t. Not when you were like this.” New tears form in her eyes, her voice breaking halfway through. 

“Don’t cry.” You wipe them away before they reach her face. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“No, I know. It’s just—“

“It’s just nothing, Cass.” You bite your cheek. “You couldn’t have done anything. Even if you were there in time. I still would’ve ended up like this.” 

“You should rest.” She says. 

“You should too.” You fight back. “I’d offer you a spot in my bed, but.. it might be hard considering I have a broken leg.”

“It’s okay.” She moves the chair closer to your bed, lowering the guard rail so she’s as close as she can get. “See? I’m close to you. That’s all I need.” 

“For the record, I’m still moving in.” You look at her. 

“For the record, even if you weren’t, you totally would be now.” 

“Good.” You close your eyes for a second. 

“Go to sleep.” She leans up to give you a small kiss on your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you.” 

[trinsantosgf]

dr bangs, oh how i love you

[chrys-lism]

Someone to Come Home to 𝜗ৎ

samira mohan x f! reader x trinity santos

ao3 link

wc: 900+

summary: trinity and samira get into a spat at work, but get to come home to you

tags: throuple!, polyamours, wlw!!, girl kissing!!, shower cuddles, samira and trinity are in an argument, fluff!

a/n: i love you all!! so here's some wlw!! love you!! bye!! (i promise i'm doing my requests!!) xoxo -c

The door clicks open, two sets of feet shuffling into the foyer, bags and jackets tossed aside. “You should’ve done the line correctly!” Samaria grits out.

“You read the scan wrong!” Trinity barks out. 

“We barely had any time!” Samira seethes.

“He almost died!” Trinity yells. 

“But he didn’t!” Samira yells back.

“Dinner?” You say weakly, leaning against the doorway, making both heads snap in your direction. Two weak smiles meet your eyes, two pairs of arms enveloping you.

“Hey, baby…” Trinity smiles, pressing a kiss to your neck, and Samira squeezes you. The tension eases slightly, making you smile gently and scan over the two of them.

“What are we fighting about?” You ask, pulling back gently.

“A… slip up during a trauma,” Samira says gently, toying with the hem of your shirt.

“And it was her fault.” Trinity snaps, sending a glare towards Samira. You press softly against Trinity’s chest to push her away softly and break the frustration.

“Stop it!” You bark, pushing them apart gently. “Go change, shower if you need it, then come to dinner. I don’t like hearing you two fight, ok? Things and mistakes happen.” Trinity lets out a breath and reluctantly nods, slipping away from you and into the bedroom. Samira doesn’t let you go, nuzzling into your neck.

“She… had a really hard day. Another CPS case. It… hit her really hard. And you know how she gets sometimes.” You nod, caressing her hair softly and kissing her forehead.

“How about you go plate dinner, and I’ll go calm Trinity down, alright?” Samira nods, giving you a gentle kiss, slipping her fingers in your hair for a moment before pulling away with a long breath.

𝜗ৎ

You drop your clothes on the floor, stepping into the shower and wrapping your arms around Trinity’s middle. She lets out a soft sigh of relief, smiling over her shoulder. “Hey there.”

“Hey Trin…” You kiss her shoulder, squeezing her tighter. “Want to talk about it?” You whisper gently. 

“It’s nothing.” She rests her hands over your arms.

“It’s something if it made you yell at Mira.” You kiss her shoulder again.

“I had to… she got taken away from her family. They couldn’t take care of her… She… she was so, so, so upset… And it felt like it was all my fault. Then I messed up the line during the trauma… and then I yelled at her.” You turn her to face you, watching as she starts crying, guilt crawling across her expression.

“Oh, Trinity…” You coo gently, pulling her closer under the warm water as she cries. “It’ll be alright…”

“I yelled at Samira the whole way home… god, I can’t believe I did that.” She sobs loudly. 

“You can apologize before we eat, alright? She and I love you so much.” She nods, pressing a weak kiss to your lips. “Want me to wash your hair?” She agrees softly, not letting you go as you move to grab the shampoo. You lather it through her scalp, scratching it softly before rinsing and conditioning. 

“Can you do the body wash?” You nod, recognizing she didn’t want to let go of you. You take your time washing her body, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your fingertips as she purred into your shoulder at the soothing feeling. You take care around her breasts and between her legs, making sure to clean every nook and cranny.

“Feeling better?” She nods against you as you turn the water off and grab towels. You wrap it around her, hugging her as you do, brushing your lips against her forehead. “Hungry?”

“For your food? Always.”

𝜗ৎ

You sit at the table watching as Samira and Trinity quietly make up, sharing a gentle kiss before moving to sit with you. “How was your day?” Samira asks.

“Well, luckily, kids weren’t at school today, so it was just a lot of lesson plans. The quiet was nice.” Both smile at you before turning back to the food.

“This is amazing. You are truly a godsend.” Trinity says through a bite, making you smile. 

“I know the two of you just showered, but would you care to join me after dinner?” Samira asks gently, making you nod.

“You spoil us.” Trinity grins.

“I try.”

𝜗ৎ

Samira was stuck to your side– or at least that’s what you assumed. Her arms were around your middle as she rested her head on your shoulder under the stream of warm water. Both of you had finished washing yourselves, and now she was just in the mood to hold you after a long day. “Trin and I do not deserve you.” She smiles, kissing along your neck.

“I think we should get out of here and get some more love from Trinity.” Samira nods, squeezing you tightly before moving to turn off the water. You exit the bathroom wrapped in only a towel, watching Trinity lift her eyes from her phone and scan over your form with an appreciative smile.

“Hey, pretty.” You smile, dropping the towel and pulling on one of Trinity’s shirts over your head with a pair of Samira’s shorts under it. You join her on the bed, nuzzling against her side and watching Samira come out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel on her head. Trinity jests, and you wolf whistle, making her blush and laugh as she moves to the dresser. “I can’t believe I yelled at that.” Trinity scoffs, biting back a smile as she watches Samira.

“You two flatter me.” Samira grins, falling into the pile of cuddles between the two of you. Trinity leans to press an affectionate (apologetic) kiss to her lips, cupping her cheek. You watch, entranced by their affection and the way they silently make up. Their attention turns to you, and before you know it, two bodies have moved over you, burying you in soft kisses and touches.

[trinsantosgf]

i NEED more pitt wlw x reader PLEASE OMG

[baisemains]

Mohantos winter market??

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃.

word count: 777

contains: fluff! so much fluff. new relationship. hand holding. kissing. teasing. suggestive themes. trinity is a little shit but samira can be too. / MEN & MINORS DNI.

a/n: i need to write these two in every scenario ever, they're sooooo cute 😭 thank you so much to the anon that requested this, i had a blast, and i hope you all love this as much as i do! happy reading everyone ☕️

☾ taglist ╱ masterlist 𖤓

"Please, Trinity, imagine all the cute pictures we can take!"

The puppy eyes Samira was sending the other woman should be illegal, especially since they were doing exactly what they were designed to do; break down Trinity's resolve against going to some winter market in the opposite part of the city.

"I heard there's going to be a photo booth too. We can have physical reminders of us making memories together, isn't that so romantic?"

Samira shoots her that specific smile that makes her eyes shine and takes Trinity's breath away.

Well.

Looks like she'll have to change into warmer clothes.

When they get there—later than Samira wanted because the younger woman insisted on being bribed with kisses even though she had already agreed to go—the brown skinned woman actually squeals with excitement. The area is tastefully decorated but still classically Christmas themed and is almost entirely occupied by other couples, much to Trinity's relief.

As much as she downplays her interest to protect her image, she actually does enjoy doing cheesy romantic things like this with Samira. Before dating her, Trinity secretly yearned to go ice skating and drink hot chocolate and wear matching ugly sweaters with someone, but her past encounters had hardened that part of herself over time.

Luckily, she met the human embodiment of sunshine that slowly brought that side of her back and she couldn't be more grateful.

"Okay, we have to start with hot chocolate! I heard the booth here is amazing, and my hands are dying for something warm to hold on to," Samira giggles.

She then leads her girlfriend towards the food area, and Trinity wordlessly slips her gloved hand into Samira's own before squeezing it. That causes the older woman to glance down in surprise before looking at Trinity with a knowing look and pecking her cheek, getting the reaction she hoped for when pale cheeks blush a faint shade of pink.

Once they get their drinks and begin walking around to look at the other booths, Samira is like a kid in a candy store, showing Trinity every trinket and bauble that she finds interesting. The other woman is simply happy to be there, commenting on everything she's shown and holding the small bags of items Samira decides to purchase.

As the night winds down, the two are mindlessly strolling around in their own little world when Trinity spots the photo booth her girlfriend mentioned earlier.

"Hey, isn't that the picture thing?"

Samira's eyes light up as she drags the other woman towards it and piles them both in the booth before sliding the curtain closed. Sliding the required bills in and choosing the black & white option, the two women put on their biggest grins and tilt their heads together until the first flash goes off.

The next pose Trinity suggests, lightly sinking her teeth into her girlfriend's cheek while she pretends to look shocked. When that photo is taken, Samira leans in to whisper, "So I was thinking…when we get home, we can try that thing you were asking about this morning."

The younger doctor's dazed expression and the older's sly smile are captured a moment later, but Samira is only able to giggle for a second before Trinity wraps a hand around the back of her neck to bring her in for a heated kiss. Both of them pay no mind to the fourth and final flash going off, the kiss growing in intensity until a voice over the speakers announces that the market will be closing in ten minutes.

When they pull apart, both women are smiling and their noses occasionally brush as their chests lightly heave. The whirring sound of the photo strips being printed and dropped into the tray outside finally draws them out from the booth, Trinity still wearing a goofy smile as Samira bends down to pick them up.

"They came out so cute!"

The curly haired woman lifts the pictures into her girlfriend's line of sight and the younger woman has to agree; they look adorable.

She gets to the last two squares and bursts out laughing at the difference in their positions. A warmth she hasn't felt in ages—maybe ever—blooms in her chest and she presses a kiss to Samira's temple before sliding the strips into the inside of her jacket for safekeeping.

"Come on. I think it's time to go home so you can make good on your promise."

The older woman playfully rolls her eyes in response but allows her hand to be tugged before she falls into step with Trinity and continues teasing her all the way to the car.

taglist! @the-killer-queenie @catalinaromanoff @luthientinuvielss @trinsantosgf @rios-st4rs

[trinsantosgf]

giggling and kicking my feet i love them sm

[trinsantosgf]

me realizing i lowkey only fw the pitt ships if it's queer or has a woman of color in it

[loves-alibi]

please come home (for christmas) - jack abbot x f!reader

summary: Jack gives you the distance you want, even if it tears him apart. words: 9.4k warnings: reader celebrates christmas (this is a christmas fic), grief, loss of a parent, drug use (weed), reference to suicide, depression, age gap implied, pitt-typical medical stuff (inaccurate), angst, smut, happy/hopeful ending, etc.

*****

December 24, 2025 — 7:46 PM

The ER is disgustingly festive. Or, as festive as white walls and the sterile smell of antiseptic can be.

Each doctor and nurse sports some kind of Christmas-themed hat. Reindeer antlers, elf ears, snowmen, even a Santa hat or two. Dana, at the paper snowflake-covered hub, smiles at Jack. She's wearing ornament earrings along with her own Santa hat. "Abbot, you like what I did to the place?"

Jack shakes his head, laughing softly. "It sure is something."

"Oh, you're just a grinch. Can't I liven the place up?" Dana waves her arms at the ER around her. "I thought you cared about patient satisfaction."

Jack shakes his head, laughing softly, "That would be Robby."

"Are my ears burning, or is it this stupid hat," calls Robby from the other side of the hub. He steps around the corner, revealing the hat-in-question— a blue and white Santa hat with Stars of David on it.

“That feels in poor taste,” Jack says, biting back a smirk.

“Yeah,” Robby grumbles, throwing his arm around Jack's shoulder. His grip is tight though, as he steers Jack away from the hub. “Tell that to Dana.”

"It felt offensive to make him wear something for Christmas. Even if that beard makes him look like the jolly old man," Dana calls, her voice gradually being drowned out by the distance.

"I'm here for two seconds and you're already getting touchy. Can't keep your hands off of me, can you?" Jack quips. Robby, however, doesn't laugh. Instead, he steers Jack into the men's room, scanning the department outside before closing the door. Jack frowns, "You alright?"

"I've had eggnog vomited on me by a mall Santa. A man tried to assault me when I wished him a 'happy holidays'. And Dana's making me wear this stupid hat. But I did win a hundred bucks in a bet, so, I guess relatively, I'm doing just dandy. But, uh, listen…" Robby looks over Jack's shoulder at the bathroom door again. Quietly, he says your name. Jack frowns. "Keep an eye on her tonight."

Jack doesn't need Robby to specify. Jack doesn't have much vested interest in anybody else in the ER. Hell, he doesn't have that much vested interest in himself. "Why? What's happening?"

"Nothing, she's just…" He sighs, pressing his mouth into a thin line. "She's been off lately."

"Who wouldn't be?"

Robby shakes his head, "I know. I know. It just… I don't know. It's more than usual. She's checked out, brother. Dana and I tried sending her home after lunch, but she insisted on staying for the full double."

"She doesn't like me hovering."

Robby closes his eyes, rubbing his beard in the way he does only when something's really irking him. "This is more important than what she likes or doesn't like."

A familiar tightness grows in his chest. Keeping an eye on you is the first and last thing he wants to do right now. You made your boundaries clear, and Jack agreed to respect them, despite how much it tears him apart to see you suffering alone. Robby knows all of this. Jack had indulged him with the full story one night after too many beers. If he was still asking this of Jack, then it had to be serious.

"Okay," Jack's voice is dry, like the words are fighting to come out. "I'll keep an eye on her."

"Thank you." Robby starts to leave before pausing, “Oh.” He takes the Santa-Hanukkah hat off, plopping it on Jack’s head. “Merry Christmas.”

*****

March 28, 2025 — 10:37 PM

"He's not half bad, isn't he?"

Your question startles Jack. He had kept his steps quiet, still unsure if he was going to try to talk to you or not. How long had you sensed his presence before speaking?

"Who?" Jack asks, dumbly. The he you're referring to is Jesse, whose band about half of the Pitt had shown up to listen to tonight.

You shift your weight to your right hip, finally looking back at Jack with half-lidded, but sparkling eyes. "How much have you had to drink in there, doc?"

It reeks out here. Not as bad as the dingy basement bar where the band is playing, but the acrid smell of weed is inescapable. The source is no secret— the joint you had stepped out with a few other residents sits between your fingers, now nearly gone.

You follow his line of sight to the joint and offer it to him with a smirk. "I won't tell if you don't."

Jack rolls his eyes, though he doesn't hesitate to take the joint. It's little more than a roach, but he'll finish it if it means spending just a little more time out here. "Is this even legal?'

You laugh a little harder than his joke warranted, head tossed back and giving Jack an eyeful of the delicate skin of your neck. When you look at him it's soft, unfocused. You must be plenty high already.

"It's medicinal," you coo, leaning closer to Jack. "My doctor prescribed it to me."

"Oh really? Which one?"

"Shen."

That gets a laugh out of Jack. A real one that punches out of him before he even knows he's laughing. You're smiling proudly, and all of it is directed at him. A burn creeps up his neck and cheeks. Jack turns away, praying you hadn't caught him blushing like a damn schoolgirl.

"I guess I'll have to see if it's legit," Jack says.

The filter is stained a sheer red, the same color as your lipstick. It feels wrong to bring it up to his own lips, perverted, even, when the mirror image of your lips wrapping around the joint, sucking gently, accompanies his own hit. The taste of smoke, burnt and bitter, fills his mouth, throat, then lungs as he finally inhales. Your eyes burn a hole in the side of his head as Jack exhales, coughing slightly.

"Sorry," he utters sheepishly. "Been a while."

"Don't be."

After a few lungfuls of fresh air, Jack takes another hit. Your eyes are still on him, quietly observing. Jack lets his eyes meet yours briefly and is shocked by the softness he finds in your gaze.

"What?" Smoke curls around the word, "You're not gonna make fun of me? Old man can't hold his smoke?"

The softness melts into confusion, "Never."

"Oh."

Jack raises the joint to his lips for one last hit. When he wraps his lips around it, he's met only with the taste of stale air.

"Here," you say. At the sound of a small scrape, you're holding a lit lighter to the tip of the joint, the other end still in Jack's mouth. "Inhale, nice and slow." Jack follows your instructions, watching the joint flicker back to life. "Last hit. Make it count, doc."

Honestly, it's not his brightest moment. He'd like to blame it on the weed, but it's barely hit yet, the only semblance of his inebriation being the heaviness of his hand as it holds the joint in place. Still, as the question, "Wanna share?" tumbles out of Jack's mouth, the question muffled around the filter, Jack tells himself it's just the high. Sober-Jack would never ask that of his resident, his best resident, at that.

No, Sober-Jack is responsible. When you first walked into PTMC, he didn't strike up conversation and turn on the charm. For fuck's sake, he didn't even ask for your name.

He wants to cringe. Wants to dig a hole in the ground, jump in it, and let Robby pile dirt on him. Jack's sure Robby will once he learns what Jack just offered. But he doesn't. Jack swallows his pride and stands his ground because…

You're smiling.

"You want to shotgun?"

So that's what the kids are calling it these days. Jack grins, feigning innocence, "Shotgun? Don't know much about that."

Your fingers wrap around the joint, brushing Jack's skin as you take it away, "I guess I'll have to show you."

The flame flickers one last time. You look like heaven in its light, cheeks hollowed ever so slightly, lips parted as you inhale the smoke. Then, you pounce. His fingers are under your shirt, teasing the small of your waist, but that's not where his mind is. No. Jack can't think of much but the feel of your lips on his. You kiss him first, slowly. It tastes bitter, like weed and faintly of alcohol. You're eager, almost devouring the poor man before you—

That's right. You're supposed to be shotgunning.

The smoke takes him by surprise. He almost chokes before remembering that it's the whole reason why you're practically on top of him.

The taste of weed lingers as you pull away, but it's not for long. You barely step on the butt of the joint before leaning back in. Jack's hands tighten around your waist, not for anything but to keep himself from falling right over. His brain short circuits when you snake a hand into his hair, tugging on the curls at the nape of his neck to deepen the kiss.

Jack stops it. He has to. That's what he tells himself. It's a bad idea to do this with you. Still, when you smile at the way he pushes you back, Jack's heart stutters.

"We shouldn't," Jack says, yet he can't tear his eyes from you, from the tongue that darts out to lick your lips. Nor can he take his hands off of your hips as they squeeze the softness he finds there. Oh, he's whipped.

"A little too late for that, don't you think?"

"You're a resident."

The dreamy look on your face grows tight, "So what? That didn't stop Robby and Heather."

"No, but—"

"Jack," you say sternly. "I don't want to wake up thirty years from now, alone and regretting listening to my fears. And I don't think you want to either."

"What if I regret this?" Even Jack isn't moved by his question.

"What if?" You repeat, arms wrapping around Jack's neck. Your lips are nearly brushing his now. "What if you don't? Jack, I'm crazy about you. You're crazy about me. Let's do this."

He wants to. He so badly wants to listen to you. Pin you against the wall of this bar. Hell, he'd take you against it if there wasn't a chance that one of the interns would catch him with his pants down. It's just… he can't ruin things for you. Your residency. Your career. Your life. It could be catastrophic. And entirely unfair.

"Come on, Abbot," you say sweetly. "What's it gonna be?"

Jack shakes his head, "Fuck it."

When you're underneath him in the safety of his bedroom, then he'll consider the ramifications.

*****

December 24, 2025 — 8:02 PM

Robby isn't gone for ten minutes by the time Jack spots a pair of elf ears disappearing into the break room. Well, it's more that he spots the doctor who's wearing the ears.

"Lena," he says, "I'm grabbing coffee if anybody needs me."

Jack doesn't wait for a response before he's stalking to the break room. Unfortunately, when he pushes in, he finds you're not alone.

"Evening, Dr. Abbot," Mel says. She's also wearing a pair of elf ears. In her hands are two paper cups of hot cocoa, another gift from Dana. "I was just on my way out. Did you need something?"

Your back is to him as you fish a mug out from the cabinets. You spare him a glance, giving a tight smile before turning away.

"No," Jack says. "Have a good night."

Jack makes a show of opening the door for Mel, who, if the furrow of her brows is any indication, is perturbed by the gesture. It's not like Jack doesn't want Mel there. She's a perfectly capable doctor, and during the few night shifts that she's done, he's found himself really enjoying her presence. He'd love for her to stay and chat, but alone time with you is far more important.

Unfortunately for him, that would have to wait.

“Wait, Mel,” you say. The surprise of hearing your voice startles Jack. It's been a while since you've taken a night shift, let alone speak in his presence. “Are you picking up… ah…" You're facing them now, brows furrowed as you try to conjure up the words. "Picking up…?”

“Becca—“

“Becca!” You snap your fingers, smiling tightly. It doesn’t come close to reaching your eyes. “Why don’t you give her this, so you two can match?” You take the elf ears Dana had given you, pressing them into Mel’s hand. “I think Becca’ll get a lot more fun out of this than I will.”

“Oh, Becca’s gonna love this. Thank you!” Mel suddenly pulls you into a hug. It’s quick, but tight. When she pulls away, there’s a shine to your eye that hadn’t been there before. “I’ll send you a picture!”

You nod, “I’ll be looking forward to it. Tell her I said hello, and merry Christmas.”

Mel looks like she’s about to hug you again, but you’re quick to dismiss her. You nod politely, turning your back to her. As you pour yourself a cup of cocoa, Jack swears he hears a sniffle.

“Good night, Mel.”

At your dismissal, Mel leaves, but not before politely nodding at Jack. “Dr. Abbot. Merry Christmas. Or—“ Mel tilts her head, pointing at his (Robby’s) hat. “Happy belated Hanukkah?”

Jack bites back a smirk. “You tell me, kid.”

“Well, your hat is both.”

“Two holidays is better than none, right?”

Mel pauses, tilting her head. Suddenly, a smile explodes onto her face. “I guess it is.” She tucks out of the room, crossing the ER with a pep to her step.

Jack waits for the door to close, blocking the cacophony of sounds, before speaking. “She’s a good kid.”

Your back is still towards him. Without the distraction of Mel, your shoulders are wound tight, pulling your black scrubs taught across the span of them. “She is. Smart, too. Though, she’s hardly a kid.”

Jack shrugs, “To you, maybe. To me, everyone’s a kid.”

Dead air. That's all there is while Jack waits for you to say something, anything. There was a time where you would rather croak than miss an opportunity to tease Jack about his age. It used to get on his nerves. Now he's waiting for you to make him the fool. Begging for it, practically.

Instead, all he gets is a stare. It's blank, despite your best effort to smile. There's bags underneath your eyes, dark circles that seem to suck the life out of you. It's a familiar sight, one he saw in the mirror for months, if not years of his life. It feels no better seeing such despondence on someone else. His hands twitch at his side, a long overlooked instinct to pull you into a hug begging to be reawakened.

Instead, Jack clears his throat, a poor attempt to fill the silence. "How long have you been working today?"

"Since 7," you swirl your cocoa with a wooden stirring stick, eyeing Jack suspiciously. "Why?"

"You never take doubles."

"I take doubles all the time." There's doubt in your eyes, a bleeding insecurity. The 'used to' in your statement is silent.

Jack pours himself a cup of cocoa as you take a seat on the couch. He leans against the counter, observing. You're rubbing your face, hands pressing harshly into your flesh, kneading it. He has no doubt it's been a long day. There was once a time when holidays were your favorite time of year. Everyone's moods are naturally lightened in anticipation of family time and the new year. You'd feed off of that energy, letting smiles come more easily than they typically do. Looking at you now, a mere husk, it's hard to imagine that you're that same doctor.

Jack clears his throat after a sip of the cocoa. It's alright. He's never been a fan of hot chocolate, but if it gives him an excuse to linger, the overly-sweetness is well worth it. "How are you?" he asks.

You sigh, letting your hands drop away from your face, though your expression remains pinched. "Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Short. Clipped. The answer is meant to be a dismissal.

Jack does back down, temporarily, at least. He lets himself sit back and observe you. You avoid meeting his eyes, staring at anything and everything that isn't him as your hands wring in your lap. He wants to grab them and wrap them in his own, if not to do anything but quiet your mind.

His eyes drag up your slumped body. You've lost weight. If it's noticeable enough in your scrubs, he can't imagine how extensive the damage actually is, how much of your soft edges have been eaten away. The skin of your neck is irritated from being scratched at, a nervous habit, though he's never seen it that bad before. Your lips are chapped and cracked, too, from too much time gnawing at them.

Jack meets your hard gaze. It's almost cruel the way you're staring at him. It's hard not to conflate it with actual hate, rather than the pain you seem to be concealing.

When you let your head fall, Jack says softly, "I know we haven't spoken in a while, but you can talk to me about anything. I mean it."

Your shoulders slump, and a wave of relief and perhaps pride washes over Jack. Knowing that you're willing to be open to him sends a thrumming warmth through his entire being. Except, it doesn't last. When you lift your head again, your tear-rimmed eyes are cold, hard.

"Who put you up to this? Hm?" You spit, "Was it Robby? Dana?"

Jack shakes his head, but before he can speak you shoot to your feet. "I am fine, Dr. Abbot. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to tend to."

He doesn't watch you leave, doesn't follow you. It's what you need.

Even if it tears Jack Abbot apart.

*****

July 28, 2025 — 8:02 AM

"Come on, baby," Jack rasps, "Give it to me."

You're perched on top of his hips, riding him like there's no tomorrow. You're beautiful like this, not a thought in your head as you lose yourself to the pleasure. There's no case to worry about, no patient to fuss over. It's under Jack's touch and gaze that you're able to let go.

"I'm—" A particularly well-timed thrust of Jack's hips has you gasping, "—Oh fuck. Fuck, Jack, I—"

Your orgasm washes over you in waves. Soft moans fill the air as your movement grows sloppier and sloppier. Jack's own orgasm is swiftly approaching, he grips your hips tighter than he should and guides your motions. His cock pulses. He's close.

"Where do you want it?" Jack asks. He already knows the answer, but he can't help but indulge in your begging.

"Inside— please, want you inside. Need it."

His release comes before your babbling ends. As his load fills you, warm and making your heat impossibly and sickeningly wetter, Jack moans. It's as quiet as hell, Jack's never been a moaner, but the hazy smile on your face when you hear it makes the humiliation worth it.

With the last spurt of cum, you collapse on Jack's chest. For a few minutes, there's nothing but silence as you catch your breaths. His skin sticks to yours, your collective sweat acting as an adhesive. He's still inside you, cock growing soft. It's all disgustingly intimate. He loves it. Loves you, even if he can't yet put it to words.

"We should get cleaned up," you murmur into his his chest.

Apparently you hadn't noticed that Jack's still trying to catch his breath. "No. Let's wait here for a bit."

It's mornings like these where Jack thanks the higher powers that he invested in blackout curtains. They grant him the luxury of time. With no sun to disturb the peace, there's no way for you to realize how much time has or has not passed. It's easier to leave the hard nights behind like that. There's no rush at all. Just you, his… something. His resident, on paper. But more. So much more.

"You're getting old on me?" You tease, cupping his face so he has to look at you. The sight nearly takes his breath away. It always does, no matter how many mornings he gets to have you all to himself like this.

Jack presses his lips to yours in a chaste kiss. When he pulls away, you're smiling. "I was old when you found me, sweetheart," he grins.

He waits for you to tease him back, give him some other line about his age. It's what he loves about you. The softer side you bring out of him. The part of him that he thought was lost with his wife. He told you about her early, transparency and all that. He opened up about how he didn't know how much he could give you, but that he wanted to give it the old college try.

"What are you thinkin' about?" He asks.

You hum, Jack feels it reverberate through his chest. "A lotta things."

Jack groans, "Come on, throw me a bone here."

You push yourself up, facing Jack. "Well, I'm going to be an attending soon…"

"Mhm…"

"And once I am attending, I'll be afforded a lot more freedoms."

"Freedoms," he repeats. "Like?"

"Like, uh, we wouldn't have to be so secretive anymore."

Jack blinks, "Oh."

You take a big breath. It feels as though you're bracing yourself. Jack does the same.

"I know that you're still trying to navigate relationships after your wife, and I would never try to rush you or pressure you into anything," you blurt, watching Jack carefully. He keeps his face as neutral as possible. This isn't where he expected the morning to go, but by God he'll do whatever he can not to scare you off. "And I was thinking, if you were ready for the next step then— I mean, not like moving in or anything crazy like that, but like if you wanted something more…"

Jack nods in understanding, "Something less sneaking around. Something more boyfriend-girlfriend?"

"Don't say it like that!" You laugh, smacking his chest. "You sound like a kid!"

"What?" Jack teases, poking your side as you squirm. "You don't want to be boyfriend-girlfriend?"

"Not if you say it like that," you're pouting. It's cute. You're cute.

Oh dear. He really does sound like a kid.

The laughter dies down. You trace circles on Jack's chest. Sheepishly, you ask, "So, uh, what do you think?"

"I think I'd like to be boyfriend-girlfriend."

"Asshole."

"You love it."

*****

December 24, 2025 — 8:47 PM

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to bring her. But my mother's flight is tomorrow morning, and until then there's nobody to watch her."

The her in question is Mr. Morgan's 6-year-old daughter, Mia. She's a sweet girl with a big head of chestnut brown curls. Mia's quiet, but who wouldn't be in her situation. She'd probably rather be playing in the snow than in the hospital, munching on a tasteless ham and cheese sandwich. Jack makes a mental note to sneak her a cup of cocoa.

"That's completely fine," you say. "Mia's plenty welcome here."

"It's no problem at all," Jack mutters as he opens up Mr. Morgan's lab report.

"Could you tell us what happened before paramedics showed up?" You ask.

Mr. Morgan shifts. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He's only been given minimal painkillers in case surgery was necessary. Luckily, he's taking it like a champ. "I started feeling queasy Sunday. Took some Pepto and it didn't help. Then the pain started and I got a fever, but nothing was too bad until earlier today. I laid in bed most of the day, until I got up to make dinner and… next thing I know Mia's there and she's calling 911."

Mia nods along to the story, her large eyes rimmed with tears. You squeeze her shoulder, "I'm sorry that happened, honey."

"It was really scary," she say, lip trembling.

Jack closes the lab report, rejoining the conversation, "But you did the right thing, calling 911."

"You saved daddy's life," Mr. Morgan says.

You smile tightly, clearing your throat. Your voice is tight as you say, "Yes you did, Mia."

"Unfortunately, we're going to need to send you up to the OR," Jack says. Mr. Morgan's eyes grow wide before Jack continues, "You have a nasty case of appendicitis. Luckily, the great surgeons here at PTMC have yet to meet an appendix they couldn't handle. It'll be an outpatient procedure, and you and Mia should be home to open presents on Christmas."

"Surgery?" Mia asks.

"Unfortunately, yes," Jack says, "But your daddy's strong, isn't he? He'll be in and out in no time."

Mia crawls onto the small bed, tucking her face into her father's neck. She utters a muffled, "Daddy, I'm scared."

"Don't be, honey," Mr. Morgan rubs a soothing hand up and down his daughter's back. "The doctors are going to make sure nothing bad happens to me, right?" He looks to Jack for reassurance.

"Of course. Everyone here is going to take great care of you. Isn't that right, Dr.—?" Your name dies on Jack's tongue as he turns around. Where you were standing just moments ago is nothing but a vacant space.

*****

August 18, 2025 — 4:23 PM

"What about those two?" You jut your chin towards the nurse's station, where Mateo is laughing at Jesse's joke.

Jack snorts, "No way. Jesse's not his type."

Your head whips to Jack, eyes squinted as you assess him. "Youknow Mateo's type?"

"I'm an attending. It's my job to know this stuff."

"Should I start learning it too?"

"Mmm… no."

"Ugh," you roll your eyes. "I'll have you know that as of 7 AM today, I am also an attending."

"Sorry sweetheart, I'm still the senior attending in this relationship."

You laugh. It's loud and rings through Jack's skull. It's rare you to hear you let loose like that on shift. The most you tend to give him is a polite, professional chuckle. He can't help but smile.

Before Jack can tease you about the laugh, a disheveled Dr. Robby slams the door to trauma 1 open. He quickly sheds his bloody surgical gear as he walks past the pair of you.

"Abbot," Robby tosses Jack a pair of gloves. "Gonna need you on this, brother. Drunk driver hit a pedestrian. Driver DOA. Pedestrian's in bad shape." Jack has the gloves on before Robby can finish his words.

"Jesus," you hiss. "You need me too?"

Robby shakes his head. "Dr. Langdon is with a patient in trauma 1. Take over for me— he'll fill you in."

After a simple nod, you're moving. You've always moved with efficiency in the ER. It's what first drew him to you. Even as an intern, you had far more professionalism than he's seen in some fourth years— hell, even in some attendings. It had been a no-brainer to take you on as an attending.

Robby pats Jack's shoulder, jutting his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. "You ready?"

"Let's hear it."

"63 year-old-male. EMTs report loss of consciousness with possible head trauma. Compound fracture of the femur. Large shard of glass lodged in the neck possibly in the carotid artery."

"Holy shit," Jack whistles. "Paralysis?"

"We'll get there if he lives."

It's balmy outside— humid, too. Jack instinctively frowns at the way the air sits in his lungs. In the evening air, the smell of petrichor is overwhelming. Mohan is already outside, as well as Perlah and Princess. The nurses' faces lack their usual mirth, ready for what they're trained to do. What everyone in the ambulance bay is ready to do.

The ambulance pulls into the bay in a frenzy of flashing lights and sirens. Autopilot takes over as Jack helps unload the patient and wheel him through the ER. It's certainly not going to be an easy one. Part of him wishes that you were there. The extra set of hands isn't necessary and very well may be an unnecessary complication, but the way you work together is nothing short of a dance.

Regardless of your presence, or lack thereof, they make it to trauma 2 in record time. All the while, Abbot and Robby bark orders. Get blood. Stabilize that leg. Prep for intubation. Ten different hands fret over the unconscious man. Samira is prepping for intubation. Perlah is starting the blood transfusion. Princess is on vitals. Robby and Abbot position themselves at the patient's neck.

The shard is an ugly thing. Large and jagged and definitely in the carotid.

"Call cardio and surgery," Robby says to Perlah. "He needs to be in the OR the second we stabilize."

"Got it," Perlah nods.

"Alright, listen up. The second we remove this thing, we're going to lose a lot of blood, so we need to move and we need to move fast," Robby examines the shard, pulling at the skin at the edge of the wound. "Abbot, I'm going to remove the shard, and I want you in there immediately with pressure on the carotid. Dr. Mohan, you're going to come in with clamps on the internal carotid. And I will finish with clamps on the common and external carotids. Got it?"

"Got it," Mohan says.

"Understood," says Abbot.

Robby cracks his neck, closing his eyes in one last moment of rest, "And Princess, watch those vitals, and be ready to push more units of blood."

"Aye aye."

Perlah hangs up the phone, "OR is prepped and ready with cardio on standby

Dr. Robinavich pauses. In the reprieve, his eyes bounce from person-to-person in the room. Each moment of eye contact a question. Are you ready? When he reaches Abbot, standing at his right, Jack is already looking at him. Always.

Robby nods, securing the glass with rubber forceps. "Removing the shard in three, two—"

"Daddy?"

Nearly half a dozen heads whip to the open door of trauma 2. You look ghastly, eyes fixated

Dr. Robby gives Jack a bewildered look. Daddy? Jack shakes his head, frustration and embarrassment no doubt staining his ears a ruddy red.

"Now's not the time to make jokes," Robby says. "If you're not here to help then—"

"That's my fucking dad."

Fuck.

Robby shakes his head at Abbot, lowering his voice, "Deal with this or I will. She can't be in here."

Jack looks at the patient— your father. The man is near death, more bloody than not, and with unsteady vitals that are getting worse by the second. For a second, it's not your father that Jack's looking at, but a younger woman, bearing his ring and name.

There was nothing he could do for her. Cancer isn't exactly an ER specialty. Instead, every day Jack had to watch his wife waste away, and there was nothing he could do. It kills him each and every day to know that he couldn't help.

But you can. It'd be against protocol to treat a family member, and against direct orders from the chief attending, but you can. God forbid he doesn't make it through, though, even with your help. It would kill you. You wouldn't just be losing your father, you'd be failing him. That's not something one can recover from easily.

Robby feels Jack's turmoil. Rolling his eyes. Robby says, "Doctor, you need to leave."

"Vitals are tanking," Princess chimes. "BP's 60 over 40. Heart rate's at 138."

"Shit," Jack hisses. Your head whips to him. Jack lowers his voice as he orders, "Princess, prep two more units of blood."

"Doctor," Robby angles his head to keep you in the corner of his eye. "I will remind you that PTMC policy forbids medical professionals from treating family members unless there are no other qualified staff available."

Your eyes dart to the monitor. You hesitate ever so slightly. Anybody else would think you're considering Robby's words, afraid to put your career on the line for this. Professionalism has been your strength thus far, at least the rest of the ER staff thinks so. Jack knows you far better.

I don't want to wake up thirty years from now, alone and regretting listening to my fears.

You have a surgical gown and gloves on in the blink of an eye. "I'm stepping in."

*****

December 24, 2025 — 9:23 PM

Jack Abbot enters trauma 2 with the ease that only years of experience can provide. Calm, cool, and collected— the three Cs which the doctor prides himself on.

Kim is already barking symptoms at him before his disposable gown is own, "Patient is 17-years-old. Went to the nurse's office with a migraine. Parents called 911 after patient began to slur speech. Uneven pupils. Left unresponsive." As she speaks, Kim gets the patient hooked up to vitals, "BP is 220 over 120. Mom and dad are on their way."

"Where am I?" The girl slurs. The left side of her face is slooped.

"You're at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center," Jack says as he shines his penlight in her eye. Lo and behold, her left pupil is unresponsive to light. "Can you tell us your name?"

"Steph'nie," she says. The right side of her face squeezes into a grimace. "Wha's goin' on?"

"It appears you're having a mild stroke, Stephanie," Jack explains, keeping his tone light. "But don't you worry, you are about to receive some of PTMC's finest medical attention. Kim, page neuro and the OR. Doctor—" Your name dies on his tongue when Jack realizes you're not next to him. His eyes trace the room before settling on you, staring blankly at the patient, disposable gown still in your hand.

"Doctor?" Jack prompts, snapping you out of the trance. When your attention is back on Jack, he continues, "Fast track an order for intravenous anticoagulants." When you don't move, Jack presses, "Now."

You nod and dip out of the room.

"Stephanie," Jack asks, "Do you have a family history of strokes?"

"Dunno…" Stephanie slurs.

"Don't know? Okay. Stephanie, your blood pressure is pretty high," Jack continues. The questions don't matter, not right now at least. He just wants to gauge Stephanie's mental capacity, ensuring he won't lose her before neuro and surgery comes. God, it'd be a nightmare to have to explain to Walsh that he lost a patient in the three minutes it takes for her to get down. "Is that normal for you?"

"Dunno."

The door opens, it's you, with a vial of anticoagulants in hand. Kim quickly takes it from you, pushing the medication on Jack's order.

"Do you smoke? Vape? Anything like that?" Jack asks. He lowers his voice and orders, "Draw some labs. I want to check her cholesterol."

"No," Stephanie says, flinching when you Kim inserts the IV into her arm. Her gaze lands on you. "'M I g'nna die?"

Jack eyes you, even as the doors push open and Dr. Walsh and neuro asking for a debrief. Your attempt at a smile is pathetic, Jack's sure even the patient can see through it. As you attempt to comfort her, your voice wobbles. Not a single syllable makes it past your lips before you seal them shut. Through the purse, you nod.

"You're going to be just fine," Jack picks up the dead air. His gaze slides to you. You're avoiding making eye contact, instead staring at the vitals monitor. Jack lowers his voice, "Are we alright?"

"Peachy," you croak.

The neuro consult clears her throat. Her and Walsh are gowned up, heads cocked to the side. "You know, Abbot," Emery drawls, "I have patients up in the OR. Do you need me or not?"

"You see, Stephanie, you wouldn't be able to tell from her disposition, but Dr. Walsh is actually a brilliant…" Jack trails off when he sees Stephanie, now unconscious. "Shit."

"Stats going haywire," Kim says. "Pulse ox 92. Pulse 132. "

"BP?" Jack asks.

"Elevated, but not as high as before the anti-coagulate."

"She needs a CT," the neuro consult chimes.

"Not before we stabilize her. She's seizing. Doctor— lorazepam, please," Jack barks at you. You don't hesitate to duck out. Stephanie begins convulsing, the right side of her body tensing through jerky movements. "Kim get her on oxygen. And let's keep an eye on her internal temperature. Can't have her frying her brains right now."

Jack sticks his hand out instinctively to where you're standing. "Lorazepam?" Except, instead of the familiar weight of a vial, Jack's hand stays empty. "Lorazepam." Nothing again. His eyes dart to you, and Jack pauses.

The view reminds him so much of the doctor you were four months ago, in this same room. What shattered in you then has yet to repair itself, and you're stuck there. His hands twitch at his side much like they did then, begging to collect you in his arms.

"What's happening?" Emery asks, leaning over the patient to catch your gaze. "Give him the Lorazepam."

Nothing. Your expression is hard, removed even. When Jack says your name softly, you don't so much as flinch. He tries again to little avail. When he finally barks your name, your eyes snap to his. Except, you're not there, not at all. He knows where you're at, and while he wants nothing more to protect you, Jack also has a patient to save.

"You're out," he decides. "Kim, page Langdon."

That seems to snap you back to the present. Glassy eyes stare back at him, but at least they're here. "What?"

"You're. Out." Jack repeats. "Go take a break, okay?" You let out an mhm, but it's not enough. "I need to hear you say it."

A breath punches its way out of your chest as you break eye contact with Jack. You're drifting. He can see it in the way your posture crumbles, how your nodding is frantic, a mere appeasement rather than an acknowledgement. You flash him a closed-lipped smile, then one at everyone in the room. I'm fine, you seem to say. I'm cool. This is totally, totally cool. You blink hard, shaking your head like it'll snap you back into place.

"I'm out," says your voice like glass shattered. "I'm out. I got it."

*****

August 18, 2025 — 4:43

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Beads of sweat race down your face. Once hangs from the tip of your nose. With the next thud of a chest compression, it falls downs your nose and onto the still face of your father.

This is your sixth round of compressions. Your father is dead. And you seem to be the last one to realize it.

Dr. Mohan left at the third round, tears streaming down her face. Princess followed her out with a gentle hand on her back. It's just Robby, Abbot, Perlah, and you.

"Hold compressions," Robby croaks.

The room is still, the air heavy as the heart monitor flat lines for what feels like the umpteenth time. It lasts for all but five seconds before you grunt, "Resuming compressions."

Everyone in the room seems to suck in a breath as the thuds continue.

"Come on," you whisper. "Come on. Come on. Come on. You got this. Just—" Your voice cracks. "—Come on!"

A bone cracks in your fathers chest. You gasp out a sob. It's too much. Jack steps forward, placing his hand gently on your chest.

"Sweetheart—"

"No."

"Sweetheart, it's time—"

"NO," you gasp. Another bone cracks. "No. He's fine. I just need to… I need to…" Your compressions are slowing, the tempo growing sluggish. An adrenaline crash, Jack can see it in your body— how quickly the panic gives way to clarity, then grief.

The compressions still. Your arms collapse, limbs useless at your side. You don't breath for a long while, eyes fixated on your father's chest. It's entirely still.

Jack collects you in his arms. You scream, cry, trash against him. Your fist connects with his face, and Jack feels blood trickle down his nose. Still he doesn't let go.

"Sweetheart," he cradles your head. The fight has drained out of you, only tears remain. "I'm so sorry."

*****

December 24, 2025 — 9:48 PM

"Where is she?"

Lena fixes Jack a flat look. "Gonna have to give me more than that, Abbot."

Donnie's at the hub, too, munching on some cookies an old lady brought in as a thank you. He's in surprisingly high spirits for someone working on the holiday.

"His girlfriend," Donnie says around a mouth full of cookie, a few crumbs shoot out of his mouth onto the hub. His eyes widen and he wipes them away, "Sorry."

"Oh!" Lena nods. Jack ignores the way she knows exactly who Donnie's talking about. "She took a break. Said she needed air."

"Air?" Jack repeats.

"Nah," Donnie says, "She's not outside. I just had a smoke break."

"Well she didn't check in with me," Lena says tightly.

"She went outside?" Jack asks.

"Nobody needs to check in with you. You're just a control freak."

Lena scoffs, "It's my job to know where everyone is. Maybe you could learn a thing or—"

"Lena," Jack barks, harsher than necessary. She and Donnie look at him in shock. "She hasn't come back in?"

Lena and Donnie share a glance. Donnie makes a face like he's sucking a sour candy and not eating a delicious snowman-shaped cookie, then juts his chin at Lena.

"No," she says, "She hasn't."

Jack runs a hand down his face, "Alright. Alright." He tries not to let his worry show, not let Lena and Donnie know that his heart is about to burst out of his chest. Though, by the way they've grown still, Jack suspects he hasn't.

"How about you take a break, too, boss?" Lena suggests delicately.

"Yeah, yeah," Jack nods. "Page me if someone's dying."

*****

August 18, 2025 — 6:30 PM

The night shift slowly trickles in. Ellis arrives early as usual. Even Shen shows up early. When asked why, he just shrugs, saying he felt particularly punctual, though his eyes slide to the closed viewing room as he gives the excuse.

You haven't left since your father was wheeled in, a white sheet stained with red over his cold body. Jack checks on you often, peeking through the sliver of a window. He's there now, silently observing. You're not crying anymore. At least, that's what he thinks.

Footsteps approach from behind. Jack doesn't bother looking who it is when a heavy hand comes to rest on his shoulders.

"I've got this," Robby says. Jack turns his head. In the corner of his eye, Robby nods solemnly. "Go."

Jack turns back, listening to Robby's retreat. Only when his footsteps become indecipherable among the rest of the ER does Jack push open the door.

The air is frigid, stale. You stand over the gurney, hands curled in fists at your side. It's the same position you've been in since you arrived, the bedside vigil you refuse to give up.

"Go away." Your voice is hoarse, barely able to produce a coherent sound. Jack catches a glimpse of your face as you speak, just enough to note the wetness of your cheeks.

He sits on the empty couch, elbows resting on on his knees. "No can do." Jack has never been good with words. They either don't come when he needs them the most, or they come out wrong, jumbled and not quite right. Still, he tries, "You know, when my wife—"

"Shut up."

Jack nods, pressing his lips together. Your back is still towards him, shoulders wound tight. You've angled yourself so he can no longer see even the sides of your face. He hears you sniffle, the mere sound driving a stake through his heart.

It seems like yesterday he was in a similar room. Robby in his place. Jack in yours. He didn't fare much better than you. Worse, actually. When Robby tried to console him, Jack gave him a mean right hook. Dana says Jack broke his nose, but Robby never spoke about the incident since.

"You don't have to do this alone," he tries. "Trust me, you don't want to—"

"I'm an orphan."

That shuts him up. You turn back, and Jack can finally see the way grief has ravaged you. Tears flow openly down your face. At a certain point, Jack is unable to tell if the wetness on your features is tears or snot. Your eyes are puffy and red, unable to meet his gaze.

"I'm an orphan now," you say, weaker. "I'm alone. I have—" You choke on a sob, turning away from Jack. He gets up, tries to hold you, but you slap his hands away. "I have no family left."

"Sweetheart…"

"There's no one. No one. I—" You break down into sobs, collapsing onto the gurney. "I can't— Fuck, oh shit. Jack— I— I—"

Jack grabs you before you fall to the ground. He pulls you into his arms, slowly lowering the both of you onto the couch. You sit like that for a long time, crying in his hold, his hand running up and down your back as he shushes you.

"You're not alone," Jack whispers, pressing a kiss to your head. "You're never alone, sweetheart."

He prays you believe him.

*****

December 24, 2025 — 9:53 PM

"Go home."

"Is Stephanie okay?"

"She's in the OR."

It's freezing on the roof. Jack doesn't know how long you've been up here, but it's been long enough that you're shaking like a leaf.

You're on the ground, hugging your knees while your back rests against the railing. You've always been afraid of heights. Sometimes, when Jack himself would take some time on the roof, you would follow him up. In a thin voice, as far away from the edge as you can without the sound being lost, you'd beg him to at least step on the other side of the railing. It always worked.

Jack hoped you weren't here. He hoped Donnie just missed you out in the ambulance bay. He checked there first. Then the bathroom. The staff lounge. The stairwell. Everything. When he realizes that you were truly missing, he ran to the roof.

"Go home," he repeats, harsher than before. It doesn't feel good, talking to you like this. Like he's just your superior and you're not the very woman splitting his heart in two.

You shake your head, sniffling. "I can't."

Jack sighs, lowering himself to the ground next to you. "Yes, you can."

Carefully, Jack puts his arm around you. You don't resist, don't whine as he tugs you into his side, merely melting into his warmth. He'd relish it under different circumstances.

"There's nothing for me there," you croak, trying your best not to let more tears spill. "Nobody."

Jack looks at you, doing nothing to hide his worry. "Don't say that," he urges.

"It's true."

I'm an orphan.

I have no family left.

Jack was supposed to be the rest of that family.

"If I send you home, will you—" Be here tomorrow. Jack clears his throat, unable to muster the courage to say it. "Will you be alright?"

"I don't know."

Jack has known terror many times in his life. It's a feeling that he has never forgotten, stuck to the recesses of his mind and soul like tar. Each time he experiences it, he prays it never happens again. But again and again, it does. When he got into a car accident as a teen. When he lost his first patient. When he lost his leg. When he lost his wife. Now.

Jack places a hand on your chin, tilting it so you're forced to face him, "I'm taking you to my house. You're spending Christmas there. We don't have to talk. Don't have to celebrate. Don't have to look at each other. But I'm not leaving you alone."

"Jack—"

"No. I'm not hearing it. I know what it's like to spend Christmas by yourself after—" His voice cracks. Come on, Abbot, he urges himself, you cannot cry now of all times. "After a loss like that."

You shake your head, pulling your chin from his grasp to look back out at the city. It's dark, and all across Pittsburgh lights and trees, evidence of the holiday, make their appearance.

"Your shift," you say weakly.

"I'll call Robby in."

You sniffle, "That's not fair to him."

"He's Jewish. He won't miss anything and the holiday overtime's gonna go into his motorcycle fund."

"But—"

"Stop." Jack's never yelled at you before. He wills himself calm before he can let this get any uglier. Quieter, he offers, "I failed you."

"Huh?"

"I never should have left you." You open your mouth, but Jack jumps in, "I shouldn't have let us break up. I should have been there for you. It's too late to go back, but it's still time for me to be here now."

Somewhere on the street, a worker for the Salvation Army rings their bells. An ambulance with sirens wailing pulls into the bay. A car honks. Through it all, you're silent. Jack doesn't dare to speak either. He merely watches you, your face unreadable in the darkness. Finally—

"Okay," the sound is weak. You've started crying again. "Okay, let's go home."

*****

August 21, 2025 – 7:31 PM

It doesn't rain. Ironic. The forecast promised a storm, heavy and unforgiving. Yet, all of Pittsburgh woke up to blue skies and sunshine.

The casket was buried hours ago. You stood a few yards away, quietly watching it happen, watching as your father was lowered into the ground. Jack watched too, even further. Though, he was watching you.

He's given you space, but the sun is ready to set and he can see your knees shaking. You've been standing for so long. Exhaustion will come and get you sooner or later, whether or not you're ready for it.

Jack approaches slowly but loudly. You don't acknowledge his presence beside you beyond a deep sigh. You've stopped crying, but your grief remains in the dried tear marks down your cheeks. He wants to hold you, but the best he can do is lacing his fingers with yours. You don't reciprocate. It stings, but Jack understands. He'll have to do a lot of understanding in the coming future. But he's ready.

"I'm done," you muster.

"That's okay, sweetheart," he consoles, squeezing your hand. "I'll drive you ho—"

"With us," you clarify. "I can't do us anymore."

Oh.

You don't face him. Don't look him in the eyes when you say it. You only take you hand from his, removing the one tether he had left.

"Okay."

It's all he manages. He regrets the acceptance the moment it comes out of his mouth. He's not entirely sure why he does it other than that you want it. At least, you think you want it. He has no right to say no, not right now. And Jack can still be there for you. As a friend. Even if the word makes him sick.

He stays, standing further away as the sun disappears and dusk gives way to night. A worker comes around sometime around nine. Thankfully, she informs Jack that it's closing time instead of you.

Jack moves through the motions of getting you in the car. You cry on the drive home, but he doesn't reach for your hand nor does he offer comforting words. It makes him feel sick. He should be helping you, but he doesn't quite know how to do it as Jack the friend, the co-worker, rather than your lover.

You merely thank him when he parks outside of your apartment. He tells you to call him if you need anything, anything. You say you will, but the promise feels hollow. Then, you leave. It's over. What, he isn't exactly sure. Everything is over. At least, that's what it feels like.

When you disappear into the building, sparing one last glance at Jack, he can't help but feel like he has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

*****

December 25, 2025 — 9:56 AM

The first thing you register is the headache.

Then, the sound of an impact and a curse.

Shit. You jolt up, looking around and realizing, panicked, that you're not at your apartment. Except, you know this place. A quick glance at the photos on the bookshelf— an army portrait, a woman smiling on the beach, a wedding photo, even one of you —tells you that you're at Jack's house.

Lo and behold, the very impact you heard was Jack— his wheelchair, to be precise —bumping into the coffee table. You're on his couch, wrapped in a few blankets.

"Scooch," he says quietly. Jack pushes himself out of the chair, plopping down in the empty spot on the corner of the couch. He shifts a throw pillow, from underneath you spot a piece of gray fabric.

With his leg, Jack kicks the wheelchair away. It rolls easily, bumping against the bookshelf on the far wall.

"Kicked it too far," you utter.

"Then you'll have to grab it for me."

Jack's gaze is heavy, intense. He doesn't hide the fact that he's studying you. You'd squirm under his scrutiny if you weren't already used to it from long before you were ever entangled. Jack is, to put it simply, an intense man.

"Thank you," you whisper. You suck in a breath. It comes shakier than you hoped. "You didn't need to do this."

Jack huffs, the corner of his lips pulled upwards. "I did." He tilts his head, "You would'a done the same."

"I wasn't… well."

"I know. That's okay."

You lick your teeth, frowning. "I'm not well."

Jack's smirk melts away, "That's okay, too."

"I'm seeing a therapist. The one you recommended."

Jack nods, "Are they helping?

That stings. You know he didn't mean it that way, but the question feels like a challenge, a reminder of how close you were to losing it.

"Last night wasn't normal," you mumble.

Jack doesn't respond. Doesn't doubt nor affirm. Instead, he slings an arm over your shoulders. At one time you would have cuddled up right next to him. Lord knows you want to know, but it just doesn't feel like you're there. Not yet, at least.

You stay like that for a few minutes. The clock on the bookshelf tick, tick, ticks softly, the only indication of time passing. Eventually, Jack shifts, adjusting the throw pillow next to him.

"Merry Christmas," he says, dropping a folded sweatshirt on your lap. It's amateurishly tied together with ribbon. You don't have to look at it to know what it is— your sweatshirt from med school. You've been looking for it for months. All this time, it was with Jack. "Sorry I never gave it to you sooner. I guess I was saving it for a rainy day— or, a snowy one."

For some reason, your eyes sting. Oh God, you can't cry in front of Jack again, but— "I didn't expect to get any gifts this year."

You break. More ugly sobs shake your frame. Jack wastes no time collecting you in his arms. "I'm sorry," you hiss, "I'm sorry. I just— I didn't expect that."

"It's okay." Jack adds lightly, "If I knew gift giving was as easy as giving back a sweatshirt—"

"Watch it."

Jack puts his hands up. He's smiling. You find that you are too. It feels weird. It feels…

It feels right.

"I want to try again," you blurt.

Jack freezes, his face falling into what you can only assume is shock. You would be too, in his position. He stutters, "W-What?"

"Maybe not now," you say, hand coming to sit on his. You laugh, "Definitely not now, but… someday."

Jack takes your hand in his, squeezing it. "I think I can work with that," he responds honestly.

"Good."

"Just good?"

"Great."

[trinsantosgf]

back on my pitt shit after my animal kingdom break🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[robbyology]

rubber band man [the first date]

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

Summary: It’s just one night.

One night of pretending to be in a relationship to get your family off your back.

Shouldn’t be too hard—even if your very fake boyfriend also happens to be your very real boss.

wc: 8.7k

Tags: fake dating, age gap, resident/attending (department chief lol), fluff, humor, swearing, alcohol consumption, an icky dude at a bar, tension, pining, slight coercion (robby is, like, a teensy bit pushy toward the end but reader is here for it), this is not just one night btw

reader specific tags: wears a skirt for part of the chapter, outfit is described (turtle neck, skirt, tights, boots), estranged parents, family calls her “ducky” as a nickname

a/n: surprise, surprise. nil can’t write anything under 10k so now it’s a series. but i think it will be very fun and sexy time. title from mumford&sons. beautiful gif by the loml @ozarkthedog

You get the e-vite in the middle of the day, in the middle of the pitt, in the middle of what had been a pretty good shift. 

A cute little flyer that you’re willing to bet your cousin made on Canva, perfect color scheme and pretty cursive—Let’s do it! followed by the details of her engagement party. 

“Shit.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and slide your phone back into the side pocket of your scrubs, cursing to whatever god there might be. 

Abi, little 22-year-old Abi, getting engaged. You already know exactly how this party is going to play out. 

It’ll be all about her for most of it, as it should be, but eventually your aunts and other cousins will turn to you, start asking the questions they always ask. Have you found a man yet? When can we expect to get an invitation for your engagement? Blah fucking blah. It’s enough to make your stomach cramp. 

“You look like you’re about to vom.”

Trinity is suddenly beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and roughly guiding you out of the way as Cassie walks with a patient to one of the exam rooms behind you. 

“Honestly? I just might.”

You shrug her off in favor of leaning up against central, elbows on the counter behind you as you let your head hang back. Maybe if you stare up at the fluorescent lights for long enough, they’ll blind you. That might get you out of the party. 

“My cousin is getting married,” you grumble. 

Trinity snorts, “oh, I know this one. You don’t want to go see the fam-bam and get interrogated about why you don’t have a boy-toy yet.”

“You do know this one.”

“Been there, done that,” she waves, posting up next to you. “You know what’d make it even worse?” You offer a nod. “—if you came out to everyone there.”

Lifting an eyebrow, you ask (a little impressed), “you came out at a family gathering?”

“Figured I’d knock everyone out at once.”

“And, how’d that work out?”

Trinity blows a stream of air through her lips, squints and rocks her head back and forth, “not great, actually. Zero out of ten, do not fucking recommend.” She laughs to herself, then, “this isn’t about me, though. This is about finding you a date.”

“The fuck it is,” you snap, standing up straight. 

She crosses her arms over her chest, sucking her top teeth while scanning the room. Hunting. 

“Trin, stop.”

“I would offer up Dennis, but he’s not gonna impress anyone,” she mutters, cruel and hilarious at the same time, “and I’d rather die than let you fake-date Langdon.”

“I’m not fake dating anyone,” you hiss as you slide in front of her in an attempt to block her view, “and even if I was, it would not be Langdon.”

“Why, scared of little ol’ Mel? I bet she’d be cool with it.”

“Wha—no, I’m not sca—no, it’s ’cause no one would fucking believe it if I brought someone like Frank.”

Trinity’s face sours. “Okay, I’m gonna pretend that you didn’t just imply that Franklin ‘just got out of rehab’ Langdon is too hot for you.”

“So, one, his first name is Francis, not Franklin. Two, he’s not ‘too hot’,” you finger quote, and Trinity actually looks relieved when you say it, relaxing for half a second before you mumble the real reason you can’t bring him: “he’s too young.”

Trinity coughs, probably for dramatic effect more than anything else, “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me,” you sigh, glancing around to make sure no one is close enough to hear this confession (specifically Princess and Perlah). “I’ve always had a thing for older guys, okay? Fucking sue me.”

Her eyes narrow, though not in suspicion. No, it’s as if something is clicking into place for her—like Trinity has just solved a riddle. 

“And, your family is aware of this,” she states more than asks. “Interesting.”

“It’s really not,” you pretend to assess your nails, can practically feel the way Trinity is glowing, so fucking smug. 

Like, unnecessarily smug. 

“What?” you grunt. 

She takes on a casual expression, lip between her teeth, shoulders shrugging, telling you, “nothin’,” which is a fucking lie considering the next thing out of her mouth is, “hey, bossman!”

Like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over your head, you gasp, “Trinity, no! Please—”

You hear the familiar stride, feel a growing presence making its way toward you, and the fluttery feeling you’re already used to experiencing whenever he’s around is multiplied by a thousand because no, there is no way Trinity is actually going to do this. She wouldn’t, right? 

“You summoned?” Robby greets flatly, “for the entire EC to hear, by the way.”

You have to fight every instinct not to flee while also fighting the urge to let yourself lean back into him with the way he’s standing just a little too close. As always.

“Yeah, I’ve been told my voice carries,” Trinity dismisses before, much to your horror, diving right in, “anyway, I’ve got a proposition for ya’.”

Annoyed and increasingly uncomfortable, you challenge her, “oh, it’s your proposition?” 

“Well, it’s not like you’re gonna do it.”

Robby huffs, something between a laugh and a scoff. His hand, though gentle where it lands on your back, feels so heavy. It’s nothing, a simple gesture, ‘right behind you’, but you can’t suppress the shiver that races down your spine. 

He has no fucking idea. 

“Do what? Come on, I’ve got shit to do,” Robby says, almost sounding irritated but not quite. 

You turn to him, quick to take a step back so that his hand falls, and you force a smile, “it’s nothing. Trinity is just being an asshole—as per usual.” You glare over your shoulder at her, tack on a threatening, “right?” 

Your friend, if you can even call her one at this point, sighs dramatically, “yeah, yeah, you know me.”

She clacks her teeth together, waves a hand as if to dismiss everyone, though she walks away herself, leaving you to come down from your near panic attack while Robby stays where he is, confused and adorable in a way no man his age should be. 

Big browns on you again, he raises his eyebrows, “sure everything’s good?”

“Positive.”

You give him a thumbs up, force yourself to walk away as you breathe in relief. Crisis averted. 

It would’ve been, anyway, if you’d just told Trinity ‘no’ when she insisted on grabbing a drink at the usual bar after your shift. 

But, of course, you just had to bend and follow her lead, and look where it’s gotten you: at the bartop, spine rigid, increasingly uncomfortable the longer this guy talks to you. 

He’s not a stranger—not technically, at least. Nate had been in the EC earlier that day. You’d helped debride the nasty road rash on his arm before patching him up and sending him on his way with sterile bandages, antibiotic ointment, and what you had thought to be very clear instructions to take it easy the next few days in order to give his immune system a fucking chance to aid in the healing process. 

At the time, he’d cracked a few flirty jokes, but nothing to make you nervous. 

Now, though, he’s too close, leaning in toward you as he waves around the beer in his hand, regaling you with how he sustained his injury, either having forgotten that he’d already told you hours ago or that maybe this time he’ll have better luck impressing you. 

Obviously not the case as you cringe at the smell of beer on his breath, leaning away from it only for him to take it as an invitation to move forward a few more inches. 

“I used to ride pro, actually,” Nate tells you, “got a lot of medals—got a lot of scars, too. You should let me show you some time.”

“The medals or the scars?” you ask (stupidly) with a frown. 

Nate chuckles, a smarmy smirk spreading across his face as he moves even closer, his free hand now cupping your elbow. 

“Whatever you want. Just as long as you show me yours too.”

God, it’s not even good, not even a little charming, but man, does he seem pleased with himself, probably thinks you’re actually interested since you haven’t walked away. 

You’ve just never been good at blowing people off, especially men. On your best day, you run off of a healthy cocktail of caffeine and anxiety, so that on top of having heard one too many horror stories about guys going insane in the face of rejection…

Things aren’t lookin’ too good—

“Jesus, there you are,” an all too familiar voice rings out just behind you, and oh, the relief. “Was about to send out a fucking search party.”

You don’t know what look Robby is giving Nate, but whatever it is, it can’t be good because the man immediately drops his hand from your arm, expression morphing into something sheepish, maybe even fearful. 

For a few seconds, anyway. Then, in true entitled-white-male fashion, Nate plasters that insufferable smirk back in place. 

“Nah, she’s fine,” he claims. “Seemed like she wasn’t having a good time tonight, so I figured I’d keep her company.”

The fucking audacity. 

An arm snakes around your waist, Robby’s hand heavy, hot, and huge where it lands just below your ribs, and despite how irritated you are with Nate and his blatant fucking lies, it’s impossible to focus on it when it feels like your entire chest cavity is full of butterflies. 

“Oh, is that true, babe?” Robby asks, not helping with the fluttery feeling because while he’s called you ‘sweetheart’ a couple times before, he’s never called you ‘babe’. 

Damn, he’s good at this—‘this’ being pretending to be your boyfriend, and despite how adamant you’d been with Trinity earlier, it turns out that this isn’t very hard to lean into afterall. 

Literally. 

Relaxing into his side, you peer up at Robby with what can only be considered Bambi eyes, wide and falsely apologetic as you tell him, “of course not. Just got—”

“Taken verbally hostage?” he suggests, lips curling at the corners as he stares back at you. 

“Hostage?” Nate scoffs. “You seemed pretty interested when I asked if you wanted to see my—”

“Your what?” This time when Robby interrupts, his tone is clipped, one eyebrow raised. A warning. “What were you planning on showing her?”

You snort, “apparently, Nate here has a lot of super cool scars from his time as a professional motocross rider. In fact, I debrided a brand new one just a few hours ago.”

Robby hums, “hm, cocky and stupid.” 

You can’t hide your amusement, don’t even really try to.

Nate opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but he only gets a single syllable out before Robby is cutting him off again, “in that case, I’m sure we’ll see you in the ER again soon.” Then, with a gentle squeeze, eyes on you again—“should get you in bed, anyway. You’re gonna be so goddamn cranky in the morning.” 

Oh, good god. Get you in bed. The mere idea…

Robby doesn’t give Nate a chance to protest as he leads you away, hand drifting to the small of your back and staying there until you make it to the exit and out of the man’s line of sight. 

You try not to mourn the loss, instead focusing on the, “holy shit, thank you.”

Robby chuckles, a deep blush blossoming on his face as if he’s just now getting self-conscious about that entire interaction. 

“You looked like you needed saving,” he hangs his head, possibly trying to hide his red cheeks as he shoves his fists into the pockets of his hoodie. “Hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no, I mean—” you wave your hands erratically, unable to come up with the right words, brain still a little foggy from having felt his arm wrapped around you. 

He’s done it before, but not like that. Not with the purpose of holding you, staking a (false) claim. It’s always been to pull you out of the path of a rogue gurney or an agitated patient, or, in one case, off of a badly twisted ankle. Things that are work appropriate. 

The way he tucked you against him tonight was not work appropriate, and fuck, you hope Trinity didn’t see. You can only imagine the ribbing you’re in store for if she did. 

“It was, um—it was super helpful, and, like… you’re really good at that,” you finish, lame but truthful, “the whole fake boyfriend thing.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it makes up for me being a shitty real one.” Self-deprecating as always. 

Mouth twisting to the side in contemplation, you give a tiny shake of your head, “I refuse to believe that,” mostly because in the year that you’ve known him, Robby has been nothing but caring. Sure, he has his bad days, lets everyone in the EC know when he’s at his wit’s end, but even at his worst, he’s still genuinely compassionate, would bend over backwards for every patient, every person, especially his own staff. 

You’ve been fucking infatuated with him since day one, and for good reason. It’s ridiculous, but can anyone really blame you? Kind, smart, and hot—you were doomed from the minute you stepped into the pitt for the very first time. 

And, it’s because of that stupid infatuation that you figure, what the hell? 

“If you want more practice with the whole boyfriend thing, I may have a, uh…” you bite your lip, gaze flicking to his in order to gauge his reaction, “—an opportunity for you.”

Something like curiosity dances in Robby’s eyes, though it’s tinted with something else you can’t place. 

He cocks his head. “Oh?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, and with a deep breath, you start, “so, my cousin is getting married…”

‘Cause what’s the worst that could happen? 

•

You sort of can’t believe he says yes. 

Robby’s never been anything less than helpful since you started in his department. Ready to hear you out, probe your brain, grow you into a better doctor. He has made you cry once, yeah, but it was just the one time, which is sort of a record (so says Trinity). Plus, he apologized shortly thereafter. 

He’s always been ready to step in when he sees you flounders, as proven the other night at the bar. 

Still, pretending to date you is a big ask and kinda, sorta, really inappropriate. 

“This is weird,” you laugh quietly where you sit across from him at a little café. “It’s weird, right?”

Robby shrugs casually, “it’s weird if you make it weird,” like this is something the two of you do every day. Get brunch together, sit at a tiny table where, if you wanted to, you’d be able to nudge his knee with your own. “Come on, just tell me what we need to figure out,” he urges. 

His brown eyes are wide and encouraging, as is the amused tilt of his lips. 

You take a sip of your tea, trying to pin down where exactly to start. There is a very wide range of questions your family may ask, but you might as well start with the basics. 

“How’d we meet?”

Robby’s answer is instantaneous: “You walked into my EC as a third year resident.”

You groan, “Robby—” 

“No, I’m serious,” he stops you. “That, at least, we shouldn’t fuck with. I’m easy to look up online, so anyone with half a brain will be able to put it together.”

Damn. You hadn’t thought of that. 

“Fuck, you’re right.” And, if you know your cousins the way you do, you know they’ll be googling his name the second they hear it. 

Robby chuckles, “it’s been known to happen from time to time.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He grins, and even with the charming crows feet that gather at the corners of his eyes, Robby still manages to look almost boyish. 

This is so not a good idea. 

“Keep telling me to shut the fuck up, and people will definitely buy it,” he jokes. “All the couples I know hate each other, so it’s right on target.”

“The resentment usually doesn’t set in until marriage,” you comment with a roll of your eyes. 

You are not prepared for his response—“So, you’re saying there needs to be a ring on your finger for it to be believable.”

The way you sputter is fucking embarrassing— “that is not what I’m saying,” incredibly flustered at the idea, “I’m—I mean—Jesus!” Even if the two of you are just pretending, that is much more than your heart can withstand. “Let’s just go with the honeymoon phase, okay? This is a new thing. Absolutely no talk about engagement.”

Both of your hands are on your cheeks now, feel like ice against your heated skin. 

“Fine,” Robby waves, “but you’re on board with being honest about how we met?”

You huff, still mildly irritated at him for getting you worked up, but nod in agreement. 

“Alright, then. How long have we been together?” Robby moves on as if he didn’t just cause you to go into A-fib. He sits back in his chair, strokes his beard while musing, “you said it’s new, so are you thinking a month or two, or…”

“That sounds about right,” you sigh, finally able to catch your breath again. “Not super serious, but long enough to know each other. Still way too early to do anything drastic,” like propose, you think, a slightly threatening glare leveled right at him. 

“Honey, I’m in my fifties,” Robby reminds you, apparently unfazed. “I wouldn’t be in a relationship with anyone I wasn’t serious about.”

You tug your lip between your teeth. The pet names are gonna kill you. 

Before you can get too lightheaded, though, Robby breaches the subject you really didn’t want him to: “is that gonna be a problem? The age difference, I mean.”

Now, it’s your turn to smile, a nervous twitch of your mouth as your gaze meets his only to fall back on the table. 

“No, it, uh—it’s sort of, um…” 

Raising his eyebrows, Robby leans forward on his elbows, “sort of what?”

You laugh, shake your head, “let’s just say it’s very on brand for me.”

Blinking at you, it doesn’t quite seem to sink in, so you elaborate with a mumbled, “it’s sort of my thing.” 

You can see exactly when it clicks because Robby’s cheeks get very red, very fast. 

“Older guys, huh?” There’s an odd pitchiness to his voice, incredulity and entertainment, you assume. 

You glare at him. “Mouth. Shut it.” But, there’s no heat behind it. 

God, you never could have imagined having this conversation, or really any variation of it, with him. The chances of Robby putting it all together—the way you’ve always stared at him, your silent but incessant need for his validation, how you’re always just a little too eager to help him with anything and everything… 

He’s about five seconds away from uncovering your secret, and he doesn’t even know it. 

Or, maybe he does and he’s just too polite to let it show. 

“So, me walking through the door,” he starts, snapping you out of your head, “it’s not gonna surprise anyone,” more of a statement than a question. 

“Not even a little,” you snort in bitter amusement because this is something you’ve always been teased about. “They might laugh just because of how typical it is of me, but no. No one will be surprised.”

Robby sits back in his chair, lacing his fingers together to cradle the back of his head. 

“Well, okay, then. Guess that takes care of that.”

Throughout a rather drawn out lunch, you and Robby trade little facts about yourselves, the type of shit people would expect you to know about one another. 

You tell him about your mom, a teacher, and your workaholic dad. Your sister who’s closer to Robby’s age than yours, how you've never been all that close with her. You grew up in the south but in an extremely large city, then moved up north to be closer to your mother’s side of the family only to get accepted into UCLA’s pre-med program followed by Duke for four years of hell med school. 

You can play the saxophone (not well), and it turns out that Robby can play guitar (also not well). He tells you a little about his grandmother (bubbe, he later refers to her as), his upbringing, that while he isn’t very good at practicing or even believing, he was raised in a Jewish household and still falls back on his faith in particularly trying times.

And, after all is said and done, Robby pays for the meal, much to your protest, swatting your hand away and grinning, “it’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it?” 

As you cover your scorching face with your hands again, you begin to accept the fact that this is the worst idea you’ve had in a very long time. 

Fucking Trinity. Enlisting Robby for this wouldn’t have even crossed your mind had she not planted the seed. 

“When is this party again?” Robby asks as he walks you to your car. 

“Two weeks from no—ah!” 

The curb of the sidewalk comes too soon, and you stumble down the step to fall flat on your face, only you don’t get that far, caught around the middle and hauled back upright. 

It takes you right back to the other night when Robby had come to your rescue, slid an arm around you and pulled you against him. 

And, now you’re here again. Too fucking close, able to smell his fresh cologne, feel the heat of his body, the weight of it around you. 

Oh, you are so, so fucked. 

Clearing your throat, you step away (checking before doing so), then plaster on an awkward smile. 

“Thanks, I’m—I’m kinda… clumsy,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself both physically and mentally. 

Hands in the pockets of his jeans, Robby dips his head to look you dead in the eyes when he agrees, “I know.”

And you know he knows because he’s brought it up before, confused and complaining just like he is now, “it’s weird because I put you in a trauma setting and you’re like a fucking contortionist. I have seen you bend in ways no human should be able to.”

“Just because I’m bendy doesn’t mean I’m graceful.”

“You’re telling me,” he chuckles. 

If you’re being honest then he actually doesn’t know just how bendy you are, but that’s a thought not worth dwelling on, not when you’re already tingling with the idea that Robby has ever paid any attention to the way you move. 

Anyway. 

Back to the whole reason you’re standing outside of a café as he dons a pair of aviators. 

“You sure we’ll both be able to get off for this?” Terrible wording, you cringe to yourself. Get off. What is wrong with you? “The party, I mean.”

Robby sucks his teeth, and it’s unnerving now that you can’t see his eyes, where he’s looking. 

“Considering I run the department, I think I can make it happen.”

Okay, hotshot. 

You click your tongue, unimpressed. “Fine, better question: are you sure you’re gonna be able to relax at the party while someone else runs your EC?”

Scoffing, Robby starts to argue, but you both know it’s a valid question, especially since he’s been known to show up in the pitt even on his days off. 

“I don’t need my family thinking I have some asshole boyfriend who doesn’t care about anything.”

“I can multitask,” he scoffs, kicking your sneaker with the toe of his. “I am more than capable of playing the doting boyfriend while having a panic attack, thank you very fucking much.”

The giggle that bubbles from your mouth is entirely involuntary, and you smother it with your hand before any more embarrassing noises can escape. 

The damage has already been done, though, because Robby looks at you from over his sunglasses, lips quirked into a smug smile. 

“We still have two weeks, sweetheart. Don’t have to laugh at my dumb jokes just yet.”

Once you’re alone in your car, and Robby is far enough away that he won’t see or hear you, you drop your forehead to your steering wheel and scream. 

•

After two weeks of stomach pain and ribbing from Trinity (“this was your idea! You don’t get to give me shit for your idea!”), it’s time. 

Saturday, early evening, you pace back and forth as you wait for your phone to light up. 

As you wait for Robby to pick you up. 

A kaleidoscope of butterflies flap and flutter inside of you, threatening to burst right out of your mouth. 

The sweater you’re wearing is already starting to feel suffocating, wine red over a pleated skirt that suddenly feels a little too short. You’re wearing tights, though, so that makes it okay, right? Right? 

It’s not like you picked it out thinking of him. If you’d really wanted to draw eyes, you’d be wearing heels, not Docs, and something low cut instead of this turtleneck that feels like a fucking boa constrictor. 

There is a knock at your door, and you nearly faint. 

Surely, he wouldn’t. There is no way that Robby, your boss, is following real date etiquette and picking you up at your door rather than just texting you that he’s here. 

No, no, no—

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Should I have brought flowers?” he asks, unperturbed by your lack of greeting (or general manners). 

Your, “god, no,” comes out wheezy as you struggle to breathe because holy shit, he looks too good in dark wash jeans and a button-up, collar open in a manner that looks absolutely obscene to you but in reality is only enough to reveal his jugular notch and a bit of the skin below (not to mention a tiny bit of chest hair, but if you fixate on it, you will get lightheaded). 

Robby holds his arms out, opening himself to your greedy eyes when he asks, “too casual, or…?” 

“No, it’s great, you’re—it’s perfect,” you shake your head, feel your stupid little brain rattling around with the motion. “Fantastic job, A-plus.”

Once you’ve snatched your purse from the table next to the door and have double checked that you have everything you need, you nod toward the hallway behind Robby, a silent ‘let’s go’. 

He’s definitely already in character, opening the car door for you, making sure all your limbs are tucked in nicely before shutting it. 

“You don’t have to do the boyfriend thing until we get there, you know.”

Robby glances at you as he starts the car, a look of pity on his annoyingly handsome face. 

“Opening doors for you isn’t a ‘boyfriend thing’,” he tuts, “it’s just common decency.”

Which is… fair. You’re just so fucking aware of it, like you’re aware of the hand behind your headrest as Robby starts to back out of the parking spot, neck craned to look over his shoulder. 

Does have any idea what he’s doing? 

It’s so simple, and it’s so cliché, and he’s so hot, and you’re so hopeless. 

You take a few breaths, smooth one of the pleats of your skirt, and once he’s out of the complex and on the road, you’re finally able to start some semblance of a normal conversation. 

“A 4Runner, huh?” A very nice 4Runner, as it happens. 

Robby laughs. “Thought I’d have something flashier?” 

“No, not necessarily,” you hum, “never put much thought into it, honestly. Hard to tell with doctors.”

“Well, I walk to work as much as I can, and when I have to drive for whatever reason, I get to use the private parking garage.”

“‘Special parking for the special-est boy,” you mutter, still can’t shake the nerves.

He might roll his eyes, you can’t tell in the rearview mirror, but he continues on, “I see a lot of different makes and models down there. Shitbox Camry parked right next to a fucking Maserati. All that matters is if it can get you from point A to B, right?”

The drive is spent making somewhat stilted small talk—the music that eventually starts filtering through the speakers when his Bluetooth decides to connect, a funny patient you had the day before. 

You feel out of your element. Aside from a few text exchanges about scheduling, you and Robby have only truly spoken at work. He’s gone out drinking with the day shift crew twice in recent memory, and both times he spent his time at the bartop with Jesse and Donnie, away from his rowdy residents (which was probably for the best). 

You shouldn't be having any trouble, though. It’s not like he’s ever made you uncomfortable. Flustered, yes, but never…

“Take a breath,” he says beside you, head barely tilted to look at you while still facing the road. “It’ll be okay. Just pretend I’m—”

“Not my boss?”

Robby chuckles, “yeah, that.”

The party is being held at an upscale (pretentious) restaurant, though you have a feeling that no one will be eating anything other than whatever might be garnishing their drinks. It isn’t a particularly long drive, but the downtown traffic adds ten minutes to the trip, giving you and Robby more time to talk strategy. 

Neither of you bring up the chance—no, the necessity—of touching. Nothing too bold, should be able to get away with holding hands and sitting uncomfortably close, but it’s still a stark contrast to the way you usually interact with each other. Knocking shoulders while walking through the pitt is not the same as hanging off his arm at a rooftop bar. 

Robby parks, turns off the car, and tells you, “wait here,” before getting out and jogging around to open your door for you. 

He offers a hand, warm and huge around yours as he helps you to the ground, and then flashes a close-lipped, friendly smile. “Ready?”

Not even a little. 

Still, with a roll of your neck and a few deep breaths, you nod, “come on, babe.”

Goosebumps break out over the back of your neck when Robby laughs beside you, travel down your arms when he laces his thick fingers with yours. 

You’re really doing this. You’re really dating Robby. 

For the rest of the night, anyway. 

•

Cara, the oldest of the cousins, cackles when you walk through the door that leads to the roof. It’s an ugly sound, accompanied by her clapping hands, yet it is entirely good-natured. You can tell by the fondness that lies just beneath her obnoxious amusement, and you waste no time in flipping her the bird. 

“Oh, I’m gonna be a hit, aren’t I?” Robby asks, stooping to speak close to your ear, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. 

“You have no idea.”

The roof has obviously been reserved for the party, family and friends-of being the only people up here. Neither you nor Robby stick out in terms of clothing, but it still feels like everybody’s eyes are on you. 

The happy couple is standing at a high table with three of your aunts (two biological, one honorary). Wine glasses with lipstick stains sit in front of them, taunting you, and you wonder if it’d be rude to prolong hello’s and introductions for just a bit longer in favor of getting a drink. 

No. May as well get this over with. 

Abi lights up at the sight of you, shimmying out from between her fiancée, Calvin, and her mother, so that she can shuffle over in heels that might be just a little too tall for her. 

She squeezes you tightly, “I’m so glad you could make it. I was scared your schedule would get in the way.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” you tell her, and you mean it. 

Several years apart, Abi is the closest thing you’ve ever had to a sister. You both spent many summers at your grandparents’ home, dropped off at the beginning of June then retrieved by your parents just in time for school to start again in late August. 

You pushed her on the swing in the backyard, held her hand when you’d walk to the ice cream shop one block over, carried her on your back when she skinned her knees, then patched her up in the bathroom with Barbi bandaids. 

“I bet you’ll grow up to be a doctor,” she’d told you through her sniffles. 

And, look at you now—in the middle of residency, fake dating the department chief. 

Being that she is standing right in front of you, you figure introductions are in order, so you dive right in. 

“Abi, this is Robby,” god, it feels so weird. “Robby, this is my cousin, Abi.”

He extends a hand with a smile, his other suddenly splayed across your lower back. 

“The bride-to-be, right? Congratulations.”

She beams while shaking his hand, “thank you!” then urges you toward the table of family. 

“Hold on, I need a drink before I can deal with all of them.”

“Fair,” she giggles, sing-songy and bubbly. 

Making your way to the bar is no easy feat with how many people stand between it and you, but with a few polite nods and Robby’s hands on your shoulders, the two of you sidle up to the counter where you order a lemon drop, Robby getting an Old Fashioned for himself. 

“God, what are you—”

“Fifty?” He lifts an eyebrow, lips curving into a grin around the rim of his glass, “yes.”

If only he knew how sexy that is. 

“Suppose the white in the beard sort of gives that away,” you muse. 

In an act of courage (and with the help of the two whole sips of vodka that are currently sliding into your belly), you reach up to gently scratch at said white. 

You see the surprise in his eyes, followed by a certain smugness, and like that, the game has begun. 

•

“Okay, so residency in New Orleans,” Cara traces her fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass, “then followed your mentor to Pittsburgh,” her eyes are a little narrowed, definitely suspicious, “where you then seduced my little cousin—”

“Cara!” 

Robby just laughs next to you, scratchy and genuine, and you hide your face in your hands to escape it as well as your nosy cousin. 

“It’s a fair leap,” he defends, lightly nudging you. When you peek at him through your fingers, the bastard has the audacity to wink at you. 

You’re not gonna survive much more of this. 

Robby takes a drink then focuses back on Cara. “Can’t say it was my intention to seduce her. If anything, I’d say she seduced me.”

You kick him under the table, but it backfires as he moves to stand behind you, saving himself from any further attacks while also opening a space for anyone else who might want to join the group. How very considerate of him.

Caged in on one side, your back a hair’s breadth away from his chest, it feels like you can’t breathe, so surrounded by Robby, his heat, his cologne—something different than what he wears every day. It’s sweet and spicy and much more intoxicating than the drink in front of you. 

You shiver, breaking out in goosebumps when his voice rings low in your ear, “you cold? I can get my jacket from the car,” and despite the fact that you’re burning up, you nod. 

“Would you, please?” 

He hums in agreement, “be right back,” then brushes his lips against the side of your head, leaving you dazed and dizzy. 

What the actual fuck?

Why is he so damn good at this? 

You’re standing here shell-shocked, and Robby is stepping back into the restaurant, completely at ease, acting like this is normal. 

“It is sad how ‘your type’ he is,” Cara brings you back to the present. “Like, that is the most ‘your type’ man I have ever laid eyes on.”

“Would you stop? Please?”

She smirks at you, her mother right beside her looking just as mischievous when she pries, “Ducky, your boss?”

“Yeah, isn’t that against the rules or something?” Abi asks, eyes wide with interest. 

“We—there’s,” you wave erratically, trying to come up with something, “we signed paperwork—god.”

Cara is laughing again, swallows a tiny sip of wine then tells you, as if you don’t already know, “you never stood a chance, did you?”

No. You really didn’t, can still remember your first day in vivid detail, meeting Dr. Robinavitch for the first time, his polite ‘I don’t know you, but I’m supposed to smile’ expression as he shook your hand. 

Being that he’s the chief, you weren’t able to shadow him the way you did the senior residents, but you jumped at any chance you had to work with him. Learn from him. 

He taught like he’d been doing it for decades (he had been), could rattle off every step of a procedure like they were his ABC’s, his tone encouraging even at that low pitch. 

Eventually the polite smiles grew wider, more genuine, and you began hearing his voice outside of exam rooms. Sardonic jokes, muffled complaints spoken into the hands he’s always scrubbing down his face, ‘you good?’ asked during and after particularly rough cases.

You’re not sure that you can call Robby a friend, but saying that he’s just your boss feels wrong too. He’s seen you mid-breakdown when the loss of a patient sits fresh and raw inside of you. What used to be gentle pep talks laced with all variations of ‘it’ll be okay’ have turned into tight hugs and the validation of ‘it’s okay if you’re not okay’. 

He’s supportive of everyone. It’d be silly to believe that he thinks of you as anything more than a halfway decent resident, but it’s nice to pretend. 

Especially now as his warm jacket is placed over your shoulders, Robby’s hands sliding down your arms until he fits them to your waist. 

“Better?” 

He is so fucking close behind you, impossible to escape, and honestly it all feels a little too good, so you don’t try to. 

Leaning against him, you catch Robby’s eye and smile up at him. 

“Much.”

•

All in all, it goes well. At no point in the evening do things get too awkward between you and Robby, and your family shows some restraint (for once) by not asking inappropriately invasive questions. 

Apparently, you were worried for no reason. 

At a quarter past nine, Robby helps you back into the car, chuckling when you slip on the step bar, “I’d ask if you were drunk if I didn’t know you, but…”

“Sir, I have had two lemon drops.”

“And, a natural talent for tripping.”

You climb into the seat and glare while trying to ignore the fact that his hand is still wrapped around yours. 

Then, it’s gone, and you spend the next five seconds mourning the loss until Robby swings into the driver’s side. 

“Well, that was fun,” he comments, looks both ways before pulling into the street. “Your cousins are funny.”

“Hilarious,” half-sarcastic, half not. “They ate you up. Them and the aunts.”

You expect questions, jokes, really anything, and are therefore surprised when Robby doesn’t have a follow-up and just gnaws on his lower lip. 

“What?” you lift an eyebrow. “Did someone say something weird?”

He shakes his head, “no, no, just… couldn’t help but notice neither of your parents were there. I thought they lived in the area.”

Ah. 

“Yeah, I may have, uh—may have left some details out during our little ‘getting to know you’ brunch, and I knew the aunts wouldn’t ask about them, so… yeah.”

Robby hums, contemplative, but doesn’t push for anything more. You’re thankful for it, know that most people would try to dig a little deeper, and the fact that he doesn’t is what gets you to open up some. 

“Pretty much as soon as I started at UCLA, Mom and Dad started having problems, and it got kinda ugly. Hanna—”

“The sister,” he recalls. 

“Yes, the sister, had been out of the house for a long time already, so she didn’t get, like, too caught up in it, but I made a pretty tasty bargaining chip.”

“How so?”

You pick at the laces of your boot where it’s kicked over your thigh, try to figure out what you want to say—how much you want to say. 

“Did you know that when parents get divorced they’re encouraged to take a workshop about how to, like, not damage their kids too bad?”

Robby snorts. “I did not know that, no.”

“Yeah, well, they are, and mine did, and then promptly fucking forgot everything they learned. Or, maybe just flat out ignored it.”

“Weren’t you already of age? It couldn’t have been a custody issue.”

“Yeah, no, it was a ‘choosing sides’ issue,” you explain. “And, I don’t even think it was that either of them wanted to spend more time with me as much as it was, like—like, whoever I picked was the winner of the divorce. I became this weird deciding factor. 

“But neither of them were right. Both of them fucked up, and for a while it was like the whole two Christmases thing. Mom was always trying to get me new clothes, Dad got me a fucking car, et cetera.”

Robby stays listening, head tilting from one side to the other as he seems to consider everything you’re saying. 

“—which sounds great. Definitely lived the spoiled life for a while, but eventually they started getting—I don’t know, bitter?—at me never choosing, and it just got really toxic and gross.”

Frowning now, Robby turns onto one of the side streets that leads to your apartment, reminding you that the night is about to come to an end. 

“Do you still talk to either of them?” 

You shrug, “from time to time. I think I make them uncomfortable now. None of us really know what to say.”

It’s a weird aspect of your life. Not some Lifetime movie drama, just two people who weren’t right for each other and managed to ruin themselves and fuck up their kid along the way. It could’ve been way worse. 

You could have been left with nowhere to return to for the holidays had your mom decided so, could have lost the financial privileges your dad granted you with your little monthly allowance. It could have been worse. 

But, you’d be lying if you said it doesn’t still affect you. You have abandonment issues and commitment issues and probably a whole slew of other issues you haven’t unearthed just yet, but nobody’s drinking themselves to death, so that’s a win. 

“Anyway, everyone up here was sort of aware of what was going on at the time, and they were not happy with the way I got pulled into it. Don’t know if you picked up on it or not, but Cara and her mom—Aunt Jay, especially are not the type to hold back”

“I may have gathered that,” Robby huffs. 

“Both of them went at my parents pretty hard, and ever since there’s been this, like, unspoken agreement that they stay away from each other.”

“Your aunt, though—isn’t that your mom’s sister?”

“Yeah, but…” you swallow, a little mortified by the lump that forms in your throat as you think about all of it. 

Robby pulls into a parking spot and is finally able to look over at you, sees that your eyes are glittery with the tears welling up in them, but whatever.

“I may not have chosen sides during the divorce, but they did.”

“And, they chose you.”

You sniff, let out a little laugh as you wipe just under your lash line. “Sorry, just—uhm—hadn’t seen them in a while.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he shakes his head before turning off the car. “Come on. I’ll walk you up.”

The gravel crunches under your boots as you make your way to your building, first floor on the far corner, and it feels like it takes forever to get to the door with Robby right next to you. 

“I really appreciate you coming with me,” you tell him, eyes trained forward. “I know it probably put you in a weird spot, but—”

“Not weird,” he shoulders into you just hard enough to make you stumble to the side and swear at him. “Interesting. Not often I get to see anyone outside of work who isn’t… Jack.”

You grin, “cute,” fishing your keys from your purse. “Hopefully, I can still be your favorite resident after all the shit you were subjected to tonight.”

Not expecting him to dignify it with a response, your stomach somersaults when Robby actually plays along, “how could you not be?” 

You track his hand, the way it’s reaching up and reaching out to smooth hair out of your face, and holy shit, holy shit, is he actually, no, no there’s no way. 

“Knew you were lying when you said you were a bad boyfriend,” a half-hearted attempt to pop the bubble that’s suddenly encapsulated the two of you because you are about to make a bad decision, and from the looks of it, Robby might let you. 

Would he really? Does he want—

“What are you talking about?”

His fucking voice. It’s always done things to you, but right now, as he stands too close and speaks with that deep tambour, that heavy scratch… fuck. 

“When I—when I first asked you for this—I mean, to do this. When I asked if… you’d said you were a bad partner.” 

You wonder what you look like right now, how wide your eyes are, if he can see your pulse drumming in your neck. 

“I am,” he reiterates, “but apparently I’m a really good fake one.”

Your lip is between your teeth, blood rushing in your ears, “good at fending off family, that’s for sure,” and you must black out because there is no other reason for you to question, “what else do fake boyfriends do?”

Your gazes locked and heated, you could swear the temperature rises a few degrees between you. Can’t move backward with the closed door behind you, can’t move forward with Robby right there, can’t move at all and kind of don’t want to, but...

“Shit, go,” you laugh, a little high-pitched, a lot hysterical, “before I do something dumb, good god.”

Taking a step back, Robby grins, the kind of grin that pulls at his whole face, turns it into one, big dimple. 

He’s red from his chest to his ears, a blush that makes you worry about his blood pressure, but still, he jokes, “just seemed like you were curious about the whole Robinavitch boyfriend experience.”

“What I’m curious about is how you think we’d be able to work together tomorrow if we—” if you what? What are you implying? What was he implying? 

Jesus Christ, he’s got you all kinds of worked up. 

Robby lifts an eyebrow, “if we…?” 

And, you sort of can’t believe him because, “you are my boss,” spluttering and stuttering, “and, like—like twenty years older than me! And, my boss.”

Another step back, and he’s rubbing his face, shaking his head, “fuck, you’re right, you’re right.” 

You hope the disappointment that takes root in your chest isn’t obvious. Stupid. It’s not like you don’t want to. You’re just trying to be logical. 

“Sorry, that was really fucking out of line,” he mumbles, uncharacteristically sheepish. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable; I’m—overwhelmed. And, trying not to let my fucking lizard brain take over since I have to look you in the eye again in, like, seven hours.”

Robby shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking heel to toe, back and forth, as he stares at the ground. You watch the way his face twists, almost like he’s having a conversation with himself. 

This is when you should unlock your door. This is when you should say good night. This is when you should be smart. 

Because it’s Robby, who you’ve been halfway in love with since you met him but have managed to live with it since you’d never have a chance with him. Robby, your chief. Robby your teacher. 

Robby who’s asking, “and, if you didn’t have to look me in the eye in seven hours?”

You’re pretty sure your heart is beating hard enough to make your whole body sway, and you can feel your pupils dilating as your voice of reason quiets to a whisper before fading away entirely. 

Fuck it. 

You surge forward only to be shoved back, shoulders colliding with the door behind you as Robby dips to meet you, one hand at the back of your head while the other holds your jaw, angling you in a way that leads you to your tiptoes. 

He’s hot—fuck, he’s so hot, knows exactly what he’s doing when he swipes his tongue between your lips, knows just how to press his hips against yours, knows what he’s doing to you by the way you whimper into his mouth. 

Hands on his shoulders, you somehow find the strength to break the kiss and stare into those deep brown eyes, sound a little too breathy when you insist, “I am not fucking you tonight.”

His beard grazes your cheekbone as he leans forward, nose at your temple, inhaling deeply and teasing, “tonight?”

“Oh my go—shut up.”

He does, gladly, it seems, as he catches you in another kiss. You scratch at the back of his neck, just under his hairline, and the noise it pulls from him is fucking sinful. 

You’re gonna regret this. You know you will. Even if it never happens again, there’s no coming back from it. 

Because now you know how Robby kisses. You know what he tastes like. You know how it feels to have his cock pressed against your hip as it slowly hardens.

He never lets his hands wander which is both impressive and appreciated. You don’t know how much control you’d be able to maintain if they traveled any lower than your neck. 

Still, your neck is quite vulnerable, especially as Robby traces down the side, stopping at just the right place…

His lips curve upward, so self-satisfied when he rumbles, “your pulse is elevated.”

“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes. “Gonna give me the full exam?”

“If you’ll let me.”

You pull away with a laugh, let your head thud against his shoulder, take a deep breath then sigh it all out. 

“You should probably go.”

“Mm, I probably should,” he agrees, then, “hey.” Nudging the side of your head with his chin, he urges you to look at him, and when you do, he states softly but with the utmost confidence, “tomorrow will be fine. This was just—”

“The Robinavitch boyfriend experience?” you supply as an ugly sensation settles in the pit of your stomach. 

“Exactly. I expect a stellar review.”

You make a noise of uncertainty, see-sawing your hand, “driving could’ve been better. Blew through a few too many yellow lights for my liking.”

“I didn’t want us to be late.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say, babe.”

Something crosses over his face at that, and you clock the way he glances at your mouth one more time before shaking his head with a mumbled, “good night.”

“Night, Robby,” you unlock your door but pause before stepping inside. “And, for real. Thank you. For tonight.”

He nods, cheeks still red, hair a little mussed. 

Did I do that? Whoops. 

“Any time,” he responds, “see you tomorrow.”

Once safely behind your closed door, you toss your keys onto the catchall, drop your purse on the ground, then stride over to your couch where you throw yourself face first into the cushions. 

You had a pretty good idea that tonight would end up reigniting the flames you’ve been working so tirelessly to put out. 

You’d just failed to consider the possibility that Robby himself would be the one pouring lighter fluid all over them.

[trinsantosgf]

GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[erwinsvow]

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.

pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader

word count: 13.3k

warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.

author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.

you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.

you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever. 

but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much. 

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies. 

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away. 

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl. 

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.) 

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this. 

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite. 

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep. 

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay? 

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle). 

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words. 

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish. 

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?” 

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room. 

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.” 

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now. 

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said. 

“yeah. okay. thanks.” 

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.” 

“you too, mister cody.” 

+

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own. 

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request. 

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you. 

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

+

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future. 

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time. 

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork. 

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do. 

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight. 

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap. 

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it. 

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car. 

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers. 

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes. 

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account. 

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep. 

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

 but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly. 

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside. 

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really. 

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two. 

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around. 

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind. 

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him. 

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says. 

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job. 

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours. 

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you. 

“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.” 

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that? 

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers. 

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his. 

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.” 

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on. 

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off. 

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough. 

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow. 

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information. 

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you. 

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.” 

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either. 

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

 he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real. 

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.” 

“when did you get up?” 

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago. 

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday. 

“yeah. i had one.” 

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up. 

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs. 

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic. 

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.” 

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody. 

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly. 

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door. 

+

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved. 

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute. 

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you. 

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done. 

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them. 

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.) 

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you. 

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both. 

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching. 

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this. 

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?” 

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.” 

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times. 

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for. 

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him. 

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship. 

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place. 

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing. 

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress. 

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed. 

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm. 

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it. 

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you. 

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. 

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.” 

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path. 

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch. 

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him. 

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer. 

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet. 

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him. 

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about. 

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all. 

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out). 

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon. 

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now. 

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh. 

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady. 

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it. 

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.” 

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts. 

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.) 

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you. 

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody. 

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.) 

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend. 

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have. 

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once. 

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state. 

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words. 

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

♡ thank you for reading

[trinsantosgf]

[burgundysnow]

Let Me Love You

This is a special I made with love just for my editor. Word count: 5.5k warnings: insecurities, age gap, (reader is late 20s Robby is 50) semi public sex, pussy eating, oral fem!receiving, fingering, use of little girl, voice kink, shower sex, masturbation. Summary: with the age gap between you and Robby, you’re struggling to not come off as clingy and childish. Which leads to being touch starved.

Robby is busy. For all of his fifty years alive, he’s been busy and stressed. What he doesn’t need, is a little young thing like you stressing him out even more. 

You love him. Every calculated word he speaks and every action he does you love. He spends long days at work, but never fails to come and wrap his arms around you as soon as he sees you for the first time in weeks. 

The relationship is still fairly new. Six months in, and you’ve been over to his house and he’s been over to your apartment both more than once. So many times in fact— you’ve given each other keys to one another’s homes and a personal message to come over whenever feels right. 

You’ve went on dates, you’ve held hands, Robby’s met your siblings and talked to your parents and while iffy at first, they swoon over him just about as much as you do. 

You’ve had sex on practically every surface of both of your homes. It’s great, and it’s amazing. Mind numbing with soft showers after. He never forces you to do anything you don’t want to, and the way he speaks with so much authority but control has you blushing countless times. 

Your relationship is perfect— at least you think Robby thinks so. 

Truth is? You’re aching. When he’s at work you fight yourself not to call, having to busy yourself just to not press on his contact. 

When you do drop by the ER to give him his lunch or bring in files he’s forgotten, you have to force yourself to leave. Without any lingering touches or one too many kisses. 

You don’t want to be the “needy little thing.” Or “youngster’s don’t understand that we’re too busy for false love like that.” You do understand. You understand how he can’t be bothered and how if you want to stay in this grownup relationship with him, you’ll need to act like an adult. 

And being an adult means you can’t put yourself in silly little fairytales. You can’t ask him to come stay with you every weekend, you can’t ask if he can grab a coffee with you right before work, you can’t ask for sex— because you have to be mature.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re just there. Standing on a cloudy platform in the sky waiting for the wind to whisk you away. Other times. When you’re in Robby’s arms, and he’s holding you tight, you soak in as much affection as you can get. 

Because you can’t ask for it. 

But it’s happening again. Robby forgot to pick up his stethoscope and it’s your job to bring it to him on your break. He’s been forgetting things a lot. It might be old age, it might be stress, it might be because he misses you. But you don’t let your mind think too hard on the last one. 

When you park your car, you use the back entrance with all the ambulances near it. You learned a long time ago that you have to act confident and not clueless while walking into the ER. 

You side step some of the EMTs at the entrance and the doors open quickly. You see Dana at the desk sitting quietly and she smiles when she sees you enter. Waving you over. 

“Hey Sweetheart, what do you have this time?” 

“Just something Robby left at home, tell him I brought it by?” 

With a pretty smile you put the stethoscope on the counter. Dana is really nice, yet you still get a little scared to be on her bad side sometimes though. 

“Yeah you can tell him yourself, he should be around here somewhere.” 

“No— no. I know he’s busy, just make sure he gets this.” You’re already stepping back and going for the door hesitantly. 

“you don’t wanna see him? Something going on between you two?” 

“No! No, Robby’s great I just— have to get back to work.” 

You’re about to bolt in the nicest way you know how, if you catch a glimpse of Robby you might get down on your knees and beg to stay. It’s been three days since you saw him last, and late night phone calls and sporadic texts weren’t doing it for you anymore. 

But before you can properly take another step back, you hear his voice before you even see him jogging towards you. 

“Hey! There she is, just the person I wanted to see.” 

Something inside you literally cracks. Like a volcano full of lava spilling into your intestines and making them warm just at the sight of Robby.

There are crows feet near his eyes as he smiles at you, and the way he stands so close like he has no idea what kind of turmoil you’re going through has your knees wanting to buckle. 

“You brought it? Gah you’re an angel.” 

“I know.” 

You smile as he takes your hand. You relish at the simplest touch. It aches to think that at a moments notice, he can just as easily take the touch away. 

“Careful with that one Robby, she was gonna leave without saying hello.” 

If Dana wasn’t one of Robby’s closest coworkers, and the woman who constantly checked in with everyone, you would be silently cursing her for even pointing out such a thing. 

“What? No, you weren’t gonna leave without giving me a kiss right?” His voice is low and just slightly raspy.

Robby does this little thing where he stands up taller when he teases. Gives him a confidence boost just to see you squirm under his gaze just as his hands rub up your arms. 

“No.” You lie softly. It’s a punishment that you won’t get to hear his voice for the next hour, or the hour after that, or maybe even a day. 

You miss him so bad. 

You push up on your tiptoes to press a achingly soft kiss to his lips, one that would be far too easy to pull away from. 

But it’s like the universe has a grudge against you. Because Robby’s hands grab at your waist and pulls you closer against him, deepening the kiss ten fold and enough to where you want to melt like putty in his hands. 

And he doesn’t stop at one, his head tilts to the side and he presses another kiss to your lips. Stealing away all your oxygen till you can’t breathe. But that’s okay, because feeling Robby kiss you, feels just as good as air flow going to your lungs. 

“I need help in here!” 

A door abruptly opens, and just as abruptly as he kissed you, he’s pulling away. When his touch leaves, it feels like ice grows cold on your skin. 

“I’m sorry— I have to go, but thank you! Thank you for bringing the stethoscope over.” 

His hands come together and he bows slightly with a cheeky little smile, like he is your knight and you are the queen. 

“You’re welcome.” 

You know there are people dying around you. People in pain of all different kinds that need help. Robby’s help. No matter how much you want Robby. A broken heart isn’t as important as the entire emergency room. 

With one strong smile to Dana, you start to walk back to your car. Feeling soft, moldable, empty, and undeniably needy. But clingy is not one of the things you can be while dating Robby. 

Work helps, driving and paying attention to the road takes your mind off how much your skin feels lonely without touch. 

The day comes and goes and soon, it’s sunset. You unlock the door to your apartment and there’s a pile of dishes that you’re too tired to do. 

A bundle of blankets not folded from the last time you sat down to watch a movie. Now that you think of it— the vacuuming hasn’t been done in a few days either, and yet, you hit the showers. 

The hot water doesn’t help, instead it makes your mind wonder to when the last time you showered with Robby was. He suggested it. Because you couldn’t ever do something so childish as to ask to shower with him. Afraid you’d get a retort back like, “there’s barely any room in there for us. You tryin’ to break my back?”

But when Robby asks— it’s fine. It’s grown up. It’s domestic. There’s no room to tease, it’s a simple yes or no answer. 

You remember the way Robby’s big hands went down your chest. Water running down your body and it was slick with soap. Both hands mirroring each other while he touched at the curve of your breast. 

You remember exactly how you leaned back into him. How his kisses at your neck were itchy, but now that you don’t have them you’d take itchy kisses any day. 

You missed how his fingers would smooth up and down your cunts lips before thinking about circling your clit, or adding a finger. He added a newfound attention to places you didn’t even know you liked to be touched. There was a lot of soft teasing, but in the end it was worth it. It was always worth it with Robby. 

You turn the shower to as cold as you can stand it for the time being. You shouldn’t be thinking about him in that way. He is your boyfriend, you can think about him however you want but— even the term boyfriend sounded stupid. Like that’s all you were. Just dating. No biggy. Like you might get caught up into some of that drama nonsense on tv if you didn’t just talk to each other. 

You finish the shower quickly after that, picking out your clothes and drying your hair. Leggings were a good choice along with a big shirt. Some kind of national park resort text that’s fading away. You fall onto the bed, and grab at your phone. It’s a good distraction in retrospect. Everything you can possibly imagine is on the internet, you have the whole wide web to look up anything. 

Yet every post you see, every news you hear, every destination you wish you could go to. All you want is to do it with Robby. 

You look at the clock. It’s getting late and he will just be getting out of work now, it’s not a smart choice to reach out. To bother him. It’s foolish to think you could just text “hey! Just thinking about you in the shower and I admire how you touch me and I wish you would come over now so that I could return the favor, please.” 

That’s nonsense. You were always warned that love isn’t like that. That it will be rough and nothing like how you expect it. With Robby it’s easy. At least when he touches you first, and he calls you first, and sends you long voice messages. 

You want to text him so bad there’s a rock sized hole in your heart just uncomfortable enough to feel. You go into the message app anyways, pulling up Robby’s contact. But instead of texting him. You skim over the past week of texts. 

He’s not even your ex and you’re acting like he’s moved to a different state. As long as he didn’t know you were longing for him, you wouldn’t be considered needy. 

There are copious amounts of “I love you’s,” and then there’s random comments about your day and his. Late into the night— if you’re lucky enough— Robby will send a voice message and you’ll send one back. 

For the sake of it, you press on one. Just to hear his voice because it wasn’t enough today when you went to see him. You turn the volume up high and as soon as the raspiness comes out over your speakers, you’re smiling. 

“I know you’re sleeping,” there’s a groan and shifting of blankets like he’s just getting out of bed. “And I don’t expect you to hear this until after I’ve already starting my shift.” 

You remember waking up on the weekend, sleeping in but wishing you hadn’t as soon as you saw the notification for this message. 

“But… I dunno. Just dreaming about you, thought I’d swing by later to see your pretty face. Even if it’s late.” 

He keeps talking and the entire time it feels like your bones are relaxing while your heart gets wound up. You wish for the familiar feeling of him beside you, to touch you just how you like without being asked. You almost wish you could ask. 

You chide yourself for it when he groans again you feel your clit pulse. The shower must have really worked you up because you didn’t realize how needy you really were. And what’s worse is you’re alone. Under your blankets with your legs already spread. 

Blood flowing downward to that little sensitive nub. Now that you think of it— it’s been a while since Robby touched you in this way. He does it so thorough too, his touch is precise in every way you want it. His thumb rubbing over the tight skin of your clit. You ache for him to be touching you. You can’t even remember the last time you initiated sex with him. 

Your hand slides down your body, first just over your clothes. Clit so needy you catch the bud quickly between your fingers. You hear Robby’s voice ring out mindless words, but you like it. You never want him to stop talking. 

You rub over your pussy a few times. The touch shocks you softly and you don’t know if it’s relaxing or tensing yet. 

The message ends with a soft “okay, love you.” From Robby. You huff in annoyance and fumble for your phone with one hand playing the message back that wasn’t even remotely sexy, yet you’re still rubbing off to it. 

You take a deep breath, in and out. Feeling that unmistakable desire in your core that just needs attention, just a little bit. It’s not like anyone is gonna murder you for playing with your pussy for a little while. Some might even argue you need this, just to tie you over until the next time you hang out with Robby. 

Two fingers rub over your clit, with the barrier of the stretchy fabric between your aching clit and your skilled hand making a dull pleasure. There’s only a slight doubt that you shouldn’t be doing this when your hand moves down into your leggings. 

The fabric that’s trying to bounce back— practically pushing your fingers onto that clit— is like forcing you to just give in to this one little fantasy. 

You gather wetness between the two fingers and pull it up to your clit. A soft sigh and a relaxed feeling spreads through your body as soon as you start rubbing at a comfortable pace. 

Now that the ache between your legs is being taken care of rapidly, you can focus on Robby’s voice. Deeper than usual and raspy, it’s like it’s morning and he’s rambling. You think about his neck, how lucky you are to bite hickeys onto his skin. 

His voice has the satisfaction of biting into an apple, it itches that one part of your brain that makes your fingers circle clumsily around your clit. 

You wanna kiss his lips. Thinking about how he grabbed you earlier in the day. Hands on your hips and just pushed softly against him, what if he pushed you against a wall? Could you feel his dick in those scrubs of his?

Your breath hitches when he groans again on the voice message. It’s so close to when you actually have sex, that you pick up your phone and rewind the recording. 

You rub harder, listening to that groan over and over and over. You’re determined to cum at how he groans in the recording. It feels gross at how you’re jerking off to just a regular old voice message. Something that used to be sweet, and now you’re perverting it. 

But it doesn’t matter. Because you’re close, close to getting a high you haven’t had in how long by just your fingers. You’re about to stick them into your neglected pussy, when there’s a sudden door opening.

“Woah— hey—”

To your mortification, Robby walks through the door. He turns his face so he can’t see for only a minute before he must have remembered that your his girlfriend. He’s seen it all already. 

You turn your phone off before anything, hitting that big button on the side so that he doesn’t hear his own voice getting you through an orgasm. After that, then you get your hand out of your leggings and close your legs in a hurry. Orgasm completely shattered and fading away. 

But it doesn’t matter how fast you turned the phone off. The messages keeps going for at least another three seconds. There’s no way he didn’t hear it. 

“Robby—” you breathe, frightened. This is your worst nightmare coming true. You got caught playing with yourself. That’s— the most teenager thing that could happen to you. So much for trying to be an adult. “I can explain.” 

“Oh you can?” 

Your heart drops as you see a smile on his face. You almost want to run for the hills and stick a knife in your heart just for the embarrassment to go away. 

Robby drops his bag by the bedroom door. He’s stepping closer to your bed, and he has his hands in his hoodie pockets. The amusement never fading.

“Then go ahead, tell me.” 

“I...”

It doesn’t matter. anything you say feels like it could be used against you for evil. There’s no way to explain this without giving away your biggest insecurity. 

“No no, I get it. Someone was feeling needy, right?” 

The way he says it a little mockingly doesn’t let you know if that makes you feel any better or worse. 

You swallow hard when he comes to sit down right next to you. Wanting to curl up in his lap like a baby and rub your hips around his thigh at the same time.

“Old man hasn’t been taking care of his girl, huh?” 

“No… that… that’s not it.” A lie. 

You sit up a little on the bed. He raises an eyebrow as if for you to continue but you can’t, there’s a blockage in your throat that won’t let any words pour through. 

When he sees your hesitation he nods. Does a once over your room before his eyes turn back to you, trying to find anything that could help understand why you’re so hesitant. 

“May I?” 

He points to your phone. You have an embarrassing suspicion that he already knows what’s on it, but you nod anyway. He gets close to you as he grabs at it. You can smell the hospital scents that linger on his jacket, but the smell of his sweat mixes in with the hospital scents. 

He unlocks your phone with ease. You trust him enough to share passwords but that doesn’t mean whatever he finds on there is any less embarrassing. 

He squints as he reads over the messages. Wrinkles under his eyes that you wouldn’t mind kissing at the moment until he plays the voice message and his own words ring out through the room. 

“You were listening to me while masturbating?” 

“I know! I know it’s gross I just—” 

You see his chest expand as he laughs. There’s a rush of blood that comes up to your cheeks as he shakes his head in amusement. 

“You didn’t want to call?” 

“I… I didn’t know if that was an option…” 

“You didn’t think you could call your boyfriend to tell him you wanted to have sex?” 

The way he says it, makes you sound silly. Like there wasn’t a whole other layer to unfold from that sentence. 

“You wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

You don’t. You really don’t. But at the same time you’ve been holding in all your needs and desires for him for six months, something has got to give. 

“I… I feel like I can’t ask for things with you because…” you lick at your lower lip, avoiding eye contact at all cost. “You’re so just so much older and more mature, and I don’t want to come off as some childish, young, needy girlfriend.” 

You hear Robby let out a scoffed laugh. You know it’s not meant to be mocking, but it kinda feels that way. 

“You’re crazy, you know that?” His voice is high pitched and it almost makes you want to smile. “I mean— you think you gotta change to act like some woman in her forties while I’m over here getting turned on like a teenage boy.” 

Your breath hitches. “You are?” You look up to meet his gaze, and it feels like cold water running down your throat when you’re parched, satisfied and smiling. 

“Yeah. It feels like I’m going stir crazy over here wondering why my girlfriend never asks for anything. I thought I was laying the love on you too much.” 

“No—” you swallow. “It could never be enough.” 

“Good.” Robby’s hand lays down on your thigh and he gives it a little squeeze, you don’t know if it’s meant to be sexual or not, but it sure feels that way with how he looks like he wants to devour you. 

“The same goes for me. You know you can ask for things. Affection, love, sex. We all need it.” 

“I know.” 

“You know big girls ask for things.” 

That lingering heat on your cheeks that started to feel like it might go away, comes back ten fold. Especially when he leans in closer, like he’s whispering in your ear and telling a secret. 

“Little girls keep things to themselves. You’re not a little girl, are you?” 

“No…” you shake your head softly, and reality comes crashing onto you. It feels like a wet dream coming true. 

“So how about you be a big girl, and tell me what you want right now.” 

His hand slides farther up your thigh and his thumb is reaching close to where your underwear lay under your leggings. You think maybe you know what he wants too. 

“I…” 

“Yeah…?” 

Robby moves closer to you, his hands moving to your sides to slowly pull your leggings down. He’s smiling like this is some inside joke between you two. 

“I want…” 

“Come on. Not that hard to speak, baby.” 

The leggings come off almost all the way, and you flick them off your feet. Robby moves down onto the floor and pulls your hips over the edge of the bed. 

“I want you.” 

You finally breathe. It’s like an elephant has sprouted wings and flown off of your chest. You spoke the three words you’ve been meaning to say for months that you just want him. 

“What part of me, baby? Gotta be more specific. I can’t read minds.” 

You’re pretty sure he can with the way he’s eyeing your clothed core. His hands are making soft patterns up and down the flesh of your thighs, sending rushed tingles to the heat of your belly. 

His touch is mesmerizing, distracting even.  You’re waiting for when he shoves his tongue down onto the fabric of your panties. Wanting your back to arch with every touch, but he seems too patient for that now. 

“Okay so,” his thumb hooks on the outside of your panties and you help by lifting your hip. “I’m gonna voice my opinion on what I wanna do right now.” 

The panties slide down your legs, and then he’s slotting himself between your knees, one thigh over his broad shoulder while he makes heart eyes at your pussy. 

“I really want to eat this fuckin’ cunt. Does that sound childish to you?” 

You shake your head. In fact it sounds sexy when he voices his desires like that, for a moment you think what has he been missing out on with no voicemails first thing in the morning.

“Good, Now be a big girl and say it back.” 

“Robby—”

“No, nuh-uh. Say it back. Come on you know how to take orders, right?” 

With a soft breath out, and an aching wet cunt, you don’t want him to be disappointed by not saying anything. So quick to get embarrassment over you mumbling. 

“I want you to eat me out—”

Before the sentence is even finished, he pulls your panties off and his tongue is drooping into your hole. The sudden intrusion makes your breath hitch, and there’s a warmth quickly flowing over your whole body. 

He sucks at one lip and then the other. It aches a little bit, but not before he starts licking at your clit. His hand comes up your body right above your pussy and he pulls the skin back, getting under the hood of your clit to lick at those sensitive nerves. 

It almost hurts, like fire racing up your legs every time his rough tongue licks at that spot. Your hand automatically comes down and into his hair. There’s not enough to grab onto tightly, so it more of a comfort than a guide. 

“s’what you wanted?” He mumbled while he dives back down into you. Gathering slick that had accumulated while listening to his voice earlier and bringing it up, and sucks softly at your sensitive bud, then goes back to pay attention to your hole. 

“Don’t stop— please.”

You’re breathless. Special attention like this just from him is exactly what you’ve wanted since you met him. It’s not like he hasn’t come to the choice of eating your cunt by himself. But it’s different in a way. Asking for it. Feeling in control. 

Robby’s nose curves down just a little. You don’t know how he breathes, but when your hips twitch, your clit catches on him and it’s a nice place to gain a little extra pleasure. 

Your head falls back and Robby’s other hand is urging the other thigh up on his shoulder. You’re practically suffocating him, but when you look down and his eyes are pinned on your pretty face, it seems he doesn’t care if he’s suffocating or not. 

Robby’s arm extends out and up under your shirt. Touching at your chest, he finds your tit quickly, his thumb gently brushes over your nipple. Pleasure courses through you and it’s like imagining a line connecting your nipple to your cunt with how the pleasure blooms down and throughout your body. 

The way Robby’s so near, or how he’s holding you. Every move he makes, it’s like it’s intended just for you. You feel the heat of your previous orgasm approaching. Low in your pelvis, small whimpers slipping from out your lips. 

“Robby—” you whine. 

He grunts, and it’s like even your ears find it pleasing with the way your pussy clenched softly at his hum. 

“Robby, I’m close...” 

His lips wrap around your clit while the hand that’s not touching your breast comes down under him. Two fingers gather at your hole, but instead of putting them in, he teases at the entrance, gliding up and down your puffy lips. His beard itching just the inside of your thigh making delicious friction. 

“You wanna cum?”

It’s not necessarily dirty talk. He’s just asking a question. But a dirty question none the less. That gets you even more excitedly embarrassed. 

“Yes— please...” 

“You gotta ask for it.”

His two fingers just gently prodding the inside of your hole is turning your brain into mush to which you can hardly speak. Trying to focus more on prolonging your orgasm that’s right there and ready to burst. 

“I… please make me cum. I want to. So bad, need you to make me cum—”

Your hips writhe under his touch, just a little more— just a little more with his warm tongue brushing over your taut bud and his nails exploring just the lips of your pussy, slick like velvet. 

With one harsh suck from his lips, your pussy convulses over the tips of his fingers. It empties your brain like a dam with a flood, head feeling cloudy, pleasure taking over you and blinding your vision as the orgasm you’ve been aching for all day washes over you. 

Robby soothes you as he plays and massages your cunt until you can’t possibly take it anymore. Overstimulated and tense as you try to relax your muscles.

“Feel like a big girl yet? Getting your cunt sucked?” 

The front of Robby’s shirt is drenched as he pulls back, which is slightly humiliating. But he’s taking off his jacket and his scrubs and throwing them on the ground, looking ready for a round two. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” He nods. 

You watch in awe as Robby takes off the shirt underneath his scrubs. Hairy chest out on display and his tummy sticking out just slightly over the waist of his pants. You want to nestle into his chest if you didn’t feel another ache in your core when you look down and see the tent in his pants. 

Cock hard and straining against the black of his scrubs, you know he’s needy, but so are you. 

“Robby…?” 

You ask softly. You see he’s about to slide off the scrub pants with his fingers hooked at the band, but he hesitates to look up at you. 

“Yup?”

“Can you… do that again?” 

The right side of his mouth tugs up in an amused smirk. 

“Little girl has found her voice and is using it for evil huh?” 

“Just once more, quick.” 

You climb up further on the bed, back hitting the headboard. Fingers coming down to play with the mess between your legs. 

You know as soon as Robby gets inside you he won’t last one— maybe two rounds. And you want more than that. So asking, talking, communicating that you wanted more before hand isn’t selfish, right?

“I’mmm… not complaining.” 

Robby climbs up onto the bed back between your legs. You watch as he shoves a hand down between his body and the bed before he dives with his tongue into you again.

The next day you really don’t know if it’s an accident or not when Robby leaves his jacket at your place. Right before work you make sure to drive by the hospital thirty minutes early, just feeling a little energetic today. 

You got your fill of Robby last night (literally). He hugged you till you were sweating and it didn’t feel like a crime anymore for you to start kissing fights first. 

In fact, you could get used to this feeling of not being shamed for wanting to be too loving with someone. Giving a smile, you walk past the EMTs at the front door. 

Dana is at the front desk again, hair perfectly up and you almost wonder why Robby doesn’t flirt with her more. 

“What did he forget this time, sweetheart?” 

“Just a jacket.” 

You place the neatly folded fabric on the counter before realizing how misleading that could seem. His jacket at your house meaning he took it off durning some time spent together. And while it doesn’t need to be sexual, that smile Dana has seems to mean she’s guessing the worst option. 

And she would be right. 

“Ah… I see. No wonder Robby’s in a good mood today.” 

“He’s not that moody all the time. Cut him some slack. His testosterone levels are coming down with age.” 

“Ha. That means you two done fighting?” 

“We weren’t—” 

Just when you were about to explain how you two weren’t fighting— it wasn’t even his fault. Just your insecurities whisked away in the wind now. You feel big hands squeeze on your hips. 

Turning quickly, you smile when you see Robby’s face. Those wrinkles on his forehead prominent with confusion.

“What about low testosterone?” 

“Nothing— hi.” 

You smile all pretty and innocent. Placing a hand on his chest, and you can see he likes it by how he relaxes under your touch. It’s almost the first time you’ve willingly touched him first. 

“You’re not racing to leave today.” 

“No I…” you shrug, looking around the ER before returning to his pretty eyes. “I thought I’d stick around for a while. I have thirty minutes before I have to get to work. I’ll Just wait until you have a break.” 

“Sorry in advance. That’s very rare—”

Robby side steps you to get his jacket, but his hand doesn’t leave your hip. For the first time you realize his hairy arms are on display. The soft muscles bulging just enough for you to remember how it felt to scrape lines down them last night. 

You look around. Everyone is entirely too busy doing their own job, which is a little overwhelming. But when you look back at Robby, everything around you calms. 

“No one’s calling you for your immediate attention right now…” 

Robby hears that slight lewd suggestion in your voice. His eyes narrow and he takes his jacket, forgoing putting it on with your suggestion. He knows what you’re hinting at with those bedroom eyes you’re giving him.

“Here? Now?” 

The way he says it has you doubting yourself, maybe this whole new asking thing has you coming off too strong. Showing your neediness too fast.

“No— well I mean— only if you want to.” 

“Uh huh…” 

Robby has the prettiest smile. Big and bright, his cheeks go up so high making crinkles around his eyes. It has butterflies building in your stomach as he takes your hand with his and leads you away.

“I think I can find an empty room.”

[trinsantosgf]

she's just like me fr

[zivistardust]

Jack Abbot loves you and fucks you like the older man he is.

Jack doesn’t play games. Which means he also will not tolerate you playing games with him. He’s generous. With affection, with money, with time. And he expects you to be open with him, to accept that as a way he shows his love.

He doesn’t like games in his relationship, including when it comes to sex. Sex is a way to express your love for eachother, it’s intimate time spent taking care of eachother. And yeah. It feels fucking great. So withholding out of spite isn’t going to end well with him. It’s one thing if you’re genuinely upset with eachother and not interested in that. When that’s the case you have way bigger fish to fry then sex- just a symptom of a bigger problem, you’ve got real problems to sort. But freezing him out to prove a point? That’s a great way to end the relationship. Talk about it like an adult or call it quits. Dont hold it over his head like a child.

He’s not pushy with sex. He’s not in a rush to get there when you start dating. 3 date rule 5 date rule whatever hookup culture new bullshit you’ve heard of isn’t even on his radar. He likes you. You’re going out. It’ll happen when it happens. And if there’s a reason it’s not happening after some time, you’ll talk about it.

And he charms you into bed. He isn’t pushy, or god forbid entitled. But if you want a beautiful woman to come home with you, you have to prove yourself as worthy of it, plain and simple. Nice diner, good wine, maybe even a show or a movie or some outing where his hand stays firmly on your back, his lips respectful when they kiss your hand or cheek. Sweet desert and playful smiles, and an offer to come back to his place that’s far from aggressive. Who could say no to that boyish smile and those warm hands?

Oh. And you’re not touching a bill. He might even get offended when you try. “Sweetheart, I’m a doctor.” “Who hurt you?” “Are you out of your mind give me that. What kind of man- I took you out. It’s on me. It’s always going to be on me, got it?”. No little boy 50/50 bullshit. No whining about you being ‘high maintenance’ or asking what you bring to the table. Baby, you are the table.

His preferences and desires aren’t shaped by porn. They’re just what he likes. Plain and simple. Doesn’t need anyone else’s validation. You do what you both like, period.

Jack is a charming guy. He’s funny, he’s sweet, he’s playful and teasing and boyish in the right ways. But that all changes in the bedroom. Intimacy is serious to him. It’s quiet and attentive and deep. It’s romantic and considerate.

He’s been fucking since before you were born. Something he chuckled and whispered in your ear once, as he felt you squeeze his fingers like a vice. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”.

He teases. God he teases. He runs his mouth. But he’s not mean. He talks you through it. He can run his mouth till the cows come home. He can also be quiet and intimate if that’s what you need. And he takes good care of you no matter what.

He doesn’t give a flying fuck about hair, appreciates it even. (for fucks sake, this younger generations need to open themselves up to infection, abscess’ and the plain discomfort of razor bumps because porn has rotted young men’s brains grosses him out) you’re a grown ass woman, he’s a grown ass man. No shit you have hair. Back in his day that kind of thing was sexy, thank you.

He strives to make you feel good, and make sure you know no one is making you feel as good as he can.

Big proponent of putting a pillow under your hips. He wants it to feel as good as possible for you. He wants your toes curling and your brain empty. He wants your nails on his back, your eyes rolling back in your head.

He’s not above a little begging. A little patheticness for you. It always makes you laugh so pretty, yeah, he’ll indulge you. You know who’s the man of the house here, why not?

And he’d never say a fucking word about what happens in your bedroom outside of it. No if and or buts there.

Safety first safety second safety third with this guy. Comdoms are second nature to him. He’s not playing around, not unless there’s a very serious conversation very far down the road.

He’s good at buying flowers, and he does it regularly. Date night. Period. Bad day. Just because. The old ones start to die, there’s new ones. Period. They’re thoughtful too. He pays attention, he knows what you like.

Speaking of periods. He’s unfazed. Hot water bottle, Motrin, chocolate chips in his cabinet for you. Cuddles, sweet words, he’s got all the stops. He’s unfazed, he’s a doctor. It’s natural and a sign of a healthy body, he’s just sorry it hurts so bad. Hand on your belly rubbing circles, not even noticing the bloating, wishing he could make you feel better. And if you want him to help you with your cramps in another way? Baby. He’s a doctor. He’s been covered in blood many times. God knows he doesn’t care if it’s you.

He takes care of things. If he says he’ll get done, it gets done. Promptly. He fixes things, he orders things, he calls a guy, he makes it happen. You say the word, baby, he’ll handle it don’t worry about it. He’s so good with his hands in all ways.

Sometimes he hears some of the med students and residents and nurses discuss their, in his opinion self inflicted dating woes. And when it gets to painful to keep listening to the boys, he clicks his phone to his Lock Screen. “That’s my lady. Beautiful isn’t she? You want a woman like that, you’re gonna have to get your shit together because that bullshit is why us old guys are stealing all your girls.”

[trinsantosgf]

GODDDDD WHAT A MAN

[richeeduvie]

Mirror Image

You dress up as Jack for Halloween. This goes exactly as one would expect.

5.2K words // MASTERLIST // Jack makes a fool out of himself, and this by all technicality is psychosexual cause wdym ur even more attracted to reader (sleepy/sunshine) cause she's dressed as you? He's also insecure here :( ur just so perfect how can he not be falling for u. Mentions of his disability // RECENT FIC

A couple of weeks before Halloween, you sit at the nurse’s station with a cheap headband perched in your hair—plastic cat ears with sequins. 

Jack stares flat before turning away. 

He’s learned how to deal with these everyday moments, the times when he wants to squeeze your neck, you manage to be as stupidly adorable as much as you’re secretly…lurid. He knows. He’s dealing.

He’s dealing with it now because the sight of you in cat ears cannot be the thing that gets his blood rushing to his cock. Maybe tonight, when he has more time to wallow in casual self-hatred. Yeah. That’ll be his plans for tonight. 

“I’m thinking cat, obviously.” You announce as you tap your pen against your teeth, like you’re waiting for applause. “It’s simple. Cute. Classic.” 

“Classic? Sure.” 

It’s Santos snorting from across the desk. She leans forward on the counter, smirk already loaded. “But you do know you can’t where lingerie to work, right? Well. Not if it’s not underneath. I have a feeling that by classic, you just mean lingerie with whiskers.” 

You gasp, false–offended dramatics line the softness of your face. 

“Excuse you! I don’t own cat lingerie.” You pause. You squint. “Anymore.” 

That gets a laugh or two. Santos snorts heavily again. 

Jack, of course, has to strangle the heat that crawls up his neck at the words lingerie and your name in the same breath. It’s why he clears his throat, because again. He’s on shift. Not the time to struggle with the way your body has nestled itself inside his insides. But there’s still a free minute to choke. 

Jack chokes. He clears his throat again.

You tilt your head. “What, you don’t think I’d make a good cat?”

Jack doesn’t look up. 

“You’re not wearing that here.”

When he does, your brows shoot up at him. His eyes go low when you slowly take off your cat ears, a pout ready at your lips when you’re turning it over in your hands. 

He loves it when you make him feel like a mean fuck, kid. Really. He does. He loves the hot coil that sears his throat when you do, too. 

“...Why not?” 

Jack takes in a breath at your light-pitched question. 

“Because management already thinks we’re circus clowns. You show up with fake fangs and whiskers, some patients’s gonna think you’ve lost your mind while they’re bleeding out on a gurney. The costume agenda here’s mild.”

Jack’s delivery is simple enough that it’s not entirely cruel, and his lungs gush with air when you only laugh.

“Alright, alright,” You raise your hands in surrender. “Something mild. No cat. Don’t worry, cowboy. I’ll keep it tasteful. I wouldn’t want to…distract anyone.”

Your gaze on him lingers too long, like you’re brave. You’re not brave, you wouldn’t do half of the things you do to him if he were gone enough to punish you. To leave anything moral and self-deprecating and maturely righteous behind, you’d never look him in the eye again.

Well. Maybe you would. That’d be worse for you. Jack tries not to hope that you would in this paradoxical fantasy, but the reality is that he only swallows and goes back to his notes, pretending not to notice Santo’s ridiculous smirk for her own sake.

“...You can do cat, just—with you? The tail would be a tripping hazard within five minutes of you being here.” 

Jack risks a glance up to see you beam. 

“Yay!”

No. Sometimes a damn good heat rolls through his arms and leg when he gets mean with you, when you’re too cheeky—but the reality is that when he sees you pout, get sad on him…Jack feels like his arms and leg are tearing from his core, and he doesn’t understand how the feeling that he actually felt once before is so damn easy to bear whenever you’re in distress.

But he does know that he can either shut up before he puts you in distress or fix the situation when he does, and the feeling goes away instantly. Fire smothered by a warm blanket.

…He won’t mind the kitty.

The Pitt doesn’t go crazy over Halloween. They’re technically not allowed to, which is bullshit, but nobody’s that much of an October fanatic to protest the injustice. Besides, it’s awkward to be in costume when there’s the possibility you’ll be treating someone on the worst day of their lives.

The MDs still wear black, most of the nurses are still in their greys. A few have orange pins or pumpkin headbands. Nothing dramatic. Dana has bat earrings that jingle. Samira throws on a tiny witch hat, which she wears for a total of twenty minutes. Whitaker fails to talk with plastic fangs in. Robby orders him to put that shit away. 

Jack, as always, comes in for his shift in black scrubs and his stethoscope, no-nonsense. He needs to compensate for the last-minute medical decisions that Walsh will yell at him for—

“Oh. Oh…my god.”

It’s Robby’s voice, nearly hoarse in semi-whispered disbelief. Jack’s brow furrows in amusement before he turns around. 

You skip in. Everybody who sees you goes silent. 

You’re wearing black scrubs, a size too big—it hangs heavy on your frame enough to see the white tee you wear underneath. A toy stethoscope slings around your neck, but what Jack focuses on before anything is the wig of short grey curls you’re wearing.

That and stubble you’ve drawn on. The all too familiar boots are what he realizes last. 

But what finally gets the Pitt to break out in awkward laughter? It’s the way you mimic his walk as you close in—chin slightly forward, shoulders squared, brow furrowed. Parody perfect. 

God help you, Abbot. She’s you. 

“Oh my God, Jack…you’ve got…you’ve got competition.”

It’s Robby trying not to choke on his own humored shock. Jack can’t move.

What. Happened. To. The. Fucking. Cat?!

“Robby,”

Your greeting for Robby’s pitched as low as possible. Gruff. 

Dana nearly spits out her Diet Coke. 

“Let’s get this trade-off over with. A Honda cut me off coming here, and I’m thoroughly peeved enough for a beer already.” 

Dana spits out her Diet Coke. She chokes with laughter. Jack only freezes. It’s merely rigor mortis while he’s still upright. His body doesn’t move. His brain can’t think as your voice continues to drop into the gravelly parody. 

…Why isn’t it bad? Why is it…

“This is so, so weird. I’m sure Walsh is gonna love this when she inevitably has to make her way down here.”

“Oh, I didn’t even think of that! I’m so excited—oh, I can’t wait to see the look on Shen’s face when he gets here!” 

You turn from Robby to Jack, rocking on your heels in the clunkiness of the boots that are too big for you. You’re not consistent with the mockery. No. You probably can’t handle going ten minutes without shining pep and flirtations and everything that makes you you and nothing like him. 

“So…what do you think? Fun surprise?”

You beam the question at him. Jack doesn’t blink. 

No, kid. Not fun. Not fun at all.

His jaw works, eyes narrowing. This whole surprise has hit him like a sucker punch. You actually look like him. You’ve done well enough that most people in the Pitt can guess who you’re trying to be. 

You’re unbearable like this. The sight of you—a parody of himself, but still…yourself, figuratively flushed with glee. It hits Jack fucking sideways. 

You manage to be radiant in the parody, and Jack’s not angry enough at you to deny the fact that would’ve never been an issue for you. Radiance. Sparkle. Screw you.

“You look ridiculous.”

You only wink, unfazed—and he doesn’t know if that’s supposed to be you or him. “Thanks, cowboy. I could’ve made thirty jokes concerning irony there, but I didn’t."

…His heart’s gonna give out. He’s going to die before he makes it to the next therapy appointment, where he can complain about this for two hours straight. 

He blinks with a raised brow when you gently punch his bicep.

“Relax, Jack. I’m just honoring the legend.”

“That what you call it?”

He needs water. His throat’s dry as hell. He needs to go look at patients. He needs to get away from you. 

Dana cackles. “Lighten up, Jack! She nailed it. Look at that grimace with a hit of mischief and sly love for your colleagues. Ain’t that you every day?”

Jack can’t possibly know if the thin smile that comes to his mouth is forced or something he can’t help. He looks you up and down.

You chose him. You dressed as him. He wasn’t ready for how the parody only highlights how intimately you know his…quirks. No. His general behavior. His stance. His furrowing, even the way he inflects on every other word. 

“...Don’t steal my badge. I have a feeling you are gonna try.”

When the laughter dies down and the shift pulls forward, Robby leaves with a pitying grip of his shoulder…and Jack finds himself staring too long at your “costume”. 

Despite the expected embarrassment that still sits hot in his chest, he can’t find a way to want this to stop. To shut it down. That’s not embarrassment. That's his…desire for you. Something Jack stopped denying a long time ago, but it flares at the sight of you swallowed in “his” scrubs. It’s flares to the point where his muscles are burning. 

He rolls his neck. 

He wants you like this. Dressed in his skin. Wrapped in his outline. His.

That’s not wrong. That’s not filthy. You’re the one who bought a fucking wig to dress yourself in his body.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack mutters under his breath. 

This isn’t how he imagined your body nestled away inside him. He’s not as comical as you. He wouldn’t make a joke out of you like that.

He straightens the thick of his spine when you pop beside, handing him a tablet with exaggerated seriousness.

“Done, Jack,” You tease with the Jack voice. “Want me to bark at Shen next?” 

His pulse hammers in his ears. 

…There, it’s too easy to think of one way to shut this whole thing down. He could grab you, drag you into the supply closet, and demand you take it all off—stubble, wig, scrubs. Every last bit.

You’d do it. Despite everything, you’re too good at listening to him. 

Jack crosses his biceps, tucking his hands away from you. He blinks softly at your lips, tugging into that spark. 

“If you’re going to keep this up, I can do without the voice.” 

He says it nearly calm, nearly soft. He swallows. You nod. 

“Can you, Doc. I understand. I did so well with this costume that it must be confusing for you.” 

When you strut by him, your laugh rings down the hall. 

Jack digs his nails into his palm.

By the end of the shift, you know Jack’s ready to lose his mind. 

By the middle of it, the others know not to react to your costume if they want to be on his good side. The look he gave you when you handed him a note with a smirk in his large, curt scrawl. 

“Look familiar?” 

Your stomach ended up in knots.

The thing is, you thought you would get to the point that Jack would insult you in some reference about HR, smirk in that crooked, put-out way of his. Maybe he’d roll his eyes like you do to him sometimes. You thought that through smarmy embarrassment, he’d find it funny. 

You hadn’t expected this. 

The look he gave you when you first strolled in dressed as him—oversized scrubs, the short-waved wig, the stubble that’s smudged as the night goes on—it wasn’t the dry, bullying amusement you hoped for. It was sharp. Stern. His mouth pressed flat, eyes narrowing like you’ve done something wrong. Maybe you should’ve asked for. 

“I told you. Stop with the voice.”

You shiver.

You still kept up with the act, exaggerating his clipped posture and walk. But every time you risked a glance at your most handsome, most beautiful inspiration himself, he wasn’t laughing. 

He was…watching, sure. 

It wasn’t dramatically cold or hurt, exactly. Focused more than anything, and his gaze weighed–weighs heavier on you than it ever has before. Guilt? You pout at its prickling, maybe you’ve gone too far, maybe it wasn’t actually funny to tease Jack like this. Maybe you’re just a stupid little nurse who has Jack Abbot on her mind all the time, and it’s creeping into absolute lunacy! That wouldn’t surprise you. 

But crashing up against the guilt that makes your bones feel like complete, delicious filth is another feeling that buzzes hot under your skin. 

Every time Jack’s eyes lock on you, stern and unblinking, your stomach tightens under a speedy heartbeat. His disapproval, his clipped remarks, the way his tone drops even than usual when he mutters, “You look ridiculous,” it strikes you with a rush you can’t name. 

…You just know that you wanted to make him laugh. Instead, you really, really want him to keep looking at you like he’s going to punish you for whatever wrong you’ve done. You’ll be the worst woman in the world to keep his eyes on you. 

What will you do to me, Jack? I hope you’re not just mad, I hope you want me—I don’t know what it means that you want me while I’m dressed as you, but I’ll take it. I’ll take you anyway I can have you—

“What happened to the cat costume?” 

You nearly jump at Jack at your side. His voice aims for teasing, but you think it lands somewhere near gruff and curious. 

I don’t want teases, I want you to look at me like the way you’ve been looking at me all night. I want the gaze that holds things I can’t name, because I can’t name them and imagine you want me. I wonder if you want me outside of your skin, when I try my best to hold pep and the sun in my own teases. But it doesn’t matter, every day with you, Jack, my stomach flips, and the blood rushes to my cheeks and the beat of my heart.

You take in a deep breath. Wooo, girl. What the fuck happened to casual? 

…Jack should take your suffering as a compliment.

“Wow, surprised you remembered. I don’t know, I wanted to do something different.”

Your head tilts, your smile goes slow and wicked, but you struggle when Jack works his jaw before he smiles, and Jack’s smiles are never purposeful with anything, he’s just oh so impressive in how they make you weak in the knees. 

“You brought it up enough. Hard not to remember. I remember you being excited, but I guess the mere idea of mocking me really did it for you.”

You were excited putting on his skin, he bets. 

Oh boy. 

You lean forward, voice bright, almost merciless, but you’d have to be stronger than Jack for that. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” 

Jack’s brow raises as he tilts his head to one side, then to the other. He looks past you. 

“Cat would’ve been easier.” 

He mutters it, half under his breath. Yours hitches. 

“...But this rattles you more, huh?” 

He snaps his gaze back to you, and what he’s caught in between. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, sleepy.”

…Oh fucking boy.

You are so flattered. You are going to combust from flattery. You’ll die happy. 

“I—there is room to be flattered—” 

“I kinda wanted to see the damn cat costume.” The words come slightly and nearly quiet through a tight throat. “I wanted to see if any part of you could ever be mild.” 

Your mouth drops open. 

If I can’t be mild about you, Jack, I can’t be mild about anything. 

The silence burns at your chest for a thickened second before you can curve your voice into a startled laugh. His tone’s dry enough to pass as banter, but his eyes, god, you’re hoping—betray the flicker of something needier, almost regretful. 

If you regret wanting me, I’ll take that too. Want is want. I can’t be picky with the most beautiful man on earth.

This is where you realize that Jack says things like what he just said when you tease a little too much, or when he’s tired of your teasing. You think that’s his way of feeling cornered, and when he’s cornered, he lashes sideways. Biting. 

And you’ll feel your heart grow three sizes too big every time he does. Wait, wrong reference for the holiday. The point is made. 

You press the back of your palm, feeling how ridiculously warm your cheeks have gotten. “Guess you’ll never know, Abbot number one.”

Jack smirks faintly, and his arms are too thick to see if his pulse thuds the same way you do. Your body follows him when he takes to the counter, tapping and smoothing out his fingers against it. 

“You forgot the details for someone who wanted to be Abbot number two enough to intimate me. And—by the way, the flattery quote’s bullshit.” 

You pause mid-bit, blinking at him. “Details?”

Jack gestures to his face, casual with sarcasm…

As if he’s not about to do his own bit that’s going to stab the red of your heart. 

“The wrinkles. The sunspots. The stubble’s not grey enough.” His smirk widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you’re gonna play me, kid, you better get it accurate.” 

The words are simple enough. You’ve heard more self-deprecating things than what Jack just said, but it’s so…factual. So casual, like it’s just another part of the banter to make you smile. 

Your stomach drops. 

“Jack—” 

Jack gives you a long once-over. His mouth twitches. He doesn’t soften. “You didn’t even make yourself look old enough to be me—”

He shrugs, as if he’s realizing something. He gestures up to his neck with a flat, finger-spread palm when he does. 

“And the neck. You forgot the giraffe neck.”

You tilt your head, startled. “...Your neck, Jack? Your neck’s not—” 

“No. You’ve noticed. You’ve made it a point to make me notice that I have two necks in one.”

You teased him about his neck before—but only in the context of how strong it looked when he stands over the trauma bay, how the lines of it made him look imposing, in charge. You…you didn’t think he would actually take it as something you saw as a flaw. You swear you made it a point to hint at how badly you wanted to climb the length of him.

You falter in guilt and hurt. You open your mouth, then shut it again. Jack turns to you, voice and face completely dismissive. He drawls. 

“What?” He crosses his arms. You make a point of reminding me I’m old every other day. Why wouldn’t I notice?”

Your chest tightens. The words cling to you. The wrinkles, the neck, and suddenly your costume feels like the meanest thing in the world. You shift your weight from boot to boot, and anything that was playful drains as you catch the unreadable expression in his eyes. 

This burning, this guilt—this isn’t the punishment you wanted from him. 

You fiddle with the edge of your sleeve, biting your lip. “You know I never mean it like that.” 

You say it gently, but your throat closes. The memory of teasing Jack about his neck—but strong, powerful, beautiful—it really does burn now. You want to argue that he’s wrong, but his shoulders are stiff, and the line of his jaw’s set like stone, and you know that this isn’t banter to him. It’s fact. 

Jack Abbot, who walked through the Pitt in the night like he owns it but shares it with the rest of them. Who cuts through chaos like it’s smoke. Who commands the respect he has no problem giving everyone else with nothing but a glance…he’s insecure, about the body that carried him? Scarred and perfect as it was? The body and face and neck that you can smell in your dreams? 

The realization makes it hard to breathe evenly. You’re the one who teases him. You’re the one who’d made him aware, or at the very least digs up thoughts he tries hard to bury. And it’s…

It’s the way he says it, like Jack had rehearsed it, kept it ready as ammunition for the world when it inevitably tries to laugh at him. Like he’d never ever believe you if you told him he was the most beautiful man on earth. 

“Jack…you’re handsome. You’re a very handsome guy.”

It’s not a tease, it’s not wrapped in irony or play. It’s a matter-of-fact, because the only way you can bury Jack’s truths, the ones he deems so obvious, is to tell the most obvious truth in the world. 

You think you’ve done something when the small smirk on his face dies. His mouth opens, closes. He rolls his shoulders. 

He warns you with your name. You smile faintly. 

I have no issue spending the rest of time making up for my wrongs if it’s this, Jackie.

“You are. I wouldn’t dress up as someone I didn’t think was worth looking at. And you’re not handsome despite anything about you.” 

Jack glances away at that, dragging a hand over his jaw, and you think he’s hiding the way it clenches. You swallow. 

“That means nothing. You think everything is beautiful.” Jack scoffs a failed scoff. “You don’t know what you’re saying, anyway.” 

Your brow furrows. No, you won’t be weak here—you won’t be ashamed of fact. Maybe he is, maybe the insecurities are so deep in his bones that the worst part of what you say is that you actually mean it. 

Sorry, Jack. I’m not that afraid of conflict to not let you realize how beautiful you are. 

She smiled faintly, like she’d caught him off guard for once. “You are. Don’t roll your eyes at me. I wouldn’t dress up as someone I didn’t think was worth looking at.”

His mouth twitches. 

“And it’s hard not to feel insecure when it’s you dressed as me.”

You stare, wide-eyed as the words sink in slowly. Then the meaning hits, sparks to tinder, Jack’s eyes to yours. 

Your cheeks flame instantly. You laugh, and yep, you will kill yourself for how loud you laugh, which is loud. Too, too loud. And you will kill yourself again for how Jack merely blinks as you cackle. Double homicide. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

Jack doesn’t answer right away, his eyes just sweep over you, and you feel like you’ve just walked yourself right into a furnace. Your heart hammers. It’ll probably give out before you have time to overdose. 

You force a smile the same way you force your hands not to shake. “Jack…?”

Jack lets his gaze drop, slowly, to the scrub pants you cuffed to look like his. You can see a thought brewing, and you wonder if it settles in his brain before he can stop it.

Your breath hitches when he reaches out, deliberate, thick-handed, and tugs the fabric up your right leg calf until it sits bunched at your knee. 

Your heartbeat bleeds into your ears when he smiles thinly at your hot pink socks. 

…You couldn’t do without them. You thought nobody would notice the mistake in your mimicry. 

You don’t blink when your smile drops. He murmurs. 

“You really didn’t go all the way.”

Your brows knit. “What?”

Your eyes follow where he taps his own knee. He pulls at his scrubs to outline his prosthetic hidden under his pants. His voice stays dry, almost bored, but the look in his eyes makes your lungs shrink, crushing the heart in between them. 

He looks at you through his brows, lowered head. 

“If you’re gonna play me, Sleepy…you forgot the most important part.” 

You freeze. 

“I–I–”

You can’t cover your pathetic flusteredness with a laugh, you’re too rattled to do anything that isn’t staring into his chest, because you actually might die if you catch the look on his face, if you catch the way he reclaims his space with the fact you can’t possibly hide the stutter in your chest and the heat pulsing below. 

“Stick to kitties and princesses next Halloween.” Jack finally lifts his head, and it feels like yours has been let go to come up for air. “Santos wanted to see a “Princess fit” since you “pretty much are one”...and I have to say that you’ll probably have an easier time batting three for three when you’re not pretending to be me.” 

Your laugh comes a second too late, and it’s only slightly less humiliating than the last one in the way it’s too high-pitched. You tug your pant leg back down, as if the fabric could smooth the way the burn you feel…everywhere. 

“You know…I didn’t even think of that when I was thinking of you.” 

Oh. Fuck me. 

Even though you take every chance you can to see if you can see something in Jack’s face whenever you flirt with him, when you flirt accidentally…well, you simply feel suicidal. 

“But okay, Dr. Abbot. I’ll make sure to order the deluxe prosthetic accessory kit next Halloween. Complete the look.”

You do a little flourish, your hand sweeping down your leg like a showgirl. 

You are the stupidest person on earth. 

You know Jack catches it, the harsh flicker of embarrassment before your pepped-up mask slides in place. He definitely knows every other emotion that’s gnawing at your insides when you can’t quite meet his gaze. 

When you do look to him, you burn at his smile. His ghost of satisfaction tugging at the widely curved, close-lipped corners of his mouth. You hope and also die at the idea that you’re observant enough to be right about it being satisfaction in the first place. 

“Yeah,” He says it with a low tone, but not rough—it can’t be in his stupid, pale grin. 

“You do that, kiddo.” 

“Mhm. I will!” 

You turn away as quickly as you can, realizing that this situation’s even worse, considering you’re humiliated in a grey wig and eyeliner stubble you forgot you were wearing. 

Happy Halloween, Jack. I’ll get you back somehow. 

Even then, you hope he’s smiling as he’s watching you go, and the world doesn’t know if it’s for better or worse that you don’t see he is.

BONUS SCENE: You get back at him

Jack had stopped trying to argue himself out of his feelings an hour into the shift. 

Every time you passed him in that sloppy parody of his gait, every time you tugged at the too-loose scrub top like you were carrying his weight, it wasn’t just maddening anymore—it was…intoxicating. You like that, sleepy? It’s a romantic word. 

She’d chosen him. Out of everyone. Out of every stupid costume she could beam in. She put herself inside his skin, his role, his presence. Who else, kid?

What did his heart and lungs in, though, was the way you mimicked his frown without even knowing it. You shook your head when you were annoyed the same way he does when he’s annoyed, and he realized then that wasn’t performance. You had picked it up from him weeks ago. Little goddamned copycat. It really does his heart in. 

The thing is, in all his gazing, your actions look soft. His worst habits are made charming by your mouth and flair. Yeah, he doesn’t think he’s ugly—he doesn’t put that much attention in his face to think that most of the time, but it’s hard not to feel like he exists in old skin and flawed body parts when your mockery of him is beautiful, when he feels that low knot in the bottom of his stomach because you’re…him. 

“Get a grip, Abbott. She’s mocking you. She’s not—”

He can’t finish the thought. Of course, he’s not turned on by the parody—he’s means…shit, he better not be.

He’s turned on by the fact that you, sunshine, had chosen to slip into his skin—and it looks good on you. Too good, like you’ve falsified him just by wearing black scrubs and a silver wig. 

It’d be you who even makes Jack Abbot look pretty. Or, it’d be you that still manages to look perfect underneath the wear of something leathered and grey and cutting. Jack swallows. 

“I think I’ll do cat next year, I am dripping underneath this wig.” 

“You’d go full method actor with that. Come strutting in here with a meow.” 

Jack drags out the meow, voice going loud on the ow. 

…He’s damned himself. 

What in the actual hell was that? Why did he do that? 

His throat tightens, and he can only blow in at the inside of his mouth, because that…did he just fucking meow? 

He feels his head spinning when you burst out laughing. Yeah. Go ahead. Laugh. Make him ready to jump from the top more. 

“Meow!” 

You meow in something that’s almost a coo as you tease, grinning as you lift your hand in a mock paw. 

You give his arm a playful claw. 

Jack can feel his stoicism being taken out in the back and shot in the head. 

You walk past him, still laughing, shoulders shaking under the loose scrub top you stuffed yourself inside of to look like him. He can’t stop his eyes from following you, can’t stop the twitch in his jaw when you glance back, raising your claws. 

It’s Halloween, it’s been a crazy ass shift. In the private space inside his head, he can’t keep himself in check. 

He wanted you to go deeper. 

He could handle it, kiddo. He doesn’t deserve gentleness in the way you do.

[trinsantosgf]

MMMMMMM

[richeeduvie]

✭ SLIGHT CRISIS (JACK ABBOT DRABBLE) ✭

Jack's insecurities bubble with aggression, embarrassment, and slight fantasized slips up when you ask him to send you a selfie. ⤥ RECENT TRAIN OF THOUGHT ⤦ "nip slip" selfie blurb || inspo blurb to this drabble || jack's old || jack's a fool || jack's mean || jack's MEANER || jack's jerking off MASTERLIST

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

‘Send me a pic, busy cowboy. I’m bored.’ 

Jack stiffens when he reads your text. Not an ask. No. An order. You almost have as much audacity as he does. He thinks about you at home on your shitty little couch, typing away like your message costs you nothing, not in the way every try to keep you far enough away from him but close enough to never take his eyes off you costs him everything. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

Jack exhales through his nose, mildly angry as if you don’t deserve anything from him. You don’t. Not tonight, and that’s mostly because he’s imagining you in your underwear with your legs crossed, swaying your foot the way you do when you’re in a good mood at the nurses' station, because you know he hates these…selfies, and you’re probably so damn merry. He hopes you are. He’s in a bad mood tonight, and he doesn’t have the good in him to not want you as dirty as your old man. 

Her old man. Yeah. Jesus fucking Christ is right. What’s wrong with you?

Jack checks the hallway and flips the camera, and he feels it–yep, that burn as his reflection stares back. Tonight, he doesn’t even have it in him to try for a smirk he can think of you touching yourself to before stabbing himself with a pin needle like he did the last time he thought about you like this.

It’d be so much easier to want you if it wasn’t for you know, morals. And it’d be a lot easier to take a damn photo if there wasn’t this crease between his brows. It wasn’t carved that deep the last time he looked in the mirror. It wasn’t. 

He shifts the phone higher. Then lower. He coughs when Jan walks by. He angles his chin. 

You know he doesn’t like it when he forgets to shave in a while, and you very well know, by working with him every other night, that he’s patched with stubble–and you ask for a selfie anyway. 

God, that word is probably as you as you are. You’re sick. He’s sick. This is sick of you to ask of him, kid. 

Snap. There. Done. 

Jack’s jaw tightens with a burning stomach, because this lighting is absolutely shit–what is this? Fluorescent hell? Do you edit your selfies when you send them from the Pitt when he’s off? Because you never look this…tired. 

He deletes the photo and shifts the phone higher again. Snap. 

Yeah. No. The lighting in here is disgusting, but Jack knows it’s not to blame for why his face looks wide. Why are you making him study his face? This is sickening. 

Jack swallows, he blinks hard with a low head, focusing on his phone. 

Snap. Delete. Snap. Delete–jaw looks clenched. Another try has him too stiff. 

God, kid, by the time he has one he almost tolerates, there are five failed versions in his trash. He hovers over the best one, still unconvinced, because you’re probably waiting on your laugh, aren’t you? Look at Jack, look how old and long his neck is. I’m pretty and perfect, and I make him swallow his tongue and think awful things, and he has such a long neck and can’t take a half-decent photo to save his life. Everyone, look at me!

“Cringe,” 

Jack mutters it under his breath. The word? It feels foreign in his mouth—he only knows it because you teased him with it last week, laughing when he said something you called ‘cringe boomer energy.’ He didn’t admit he had to Google what it meant later, and he didn’t admit to himself that his hand flexed into a squeezing motion when he got his answer. 

Jack deletes the confident shot–because that’s just stand-up material for you, isn’t it? Look at Jack trying for me, I’m dying of laughter in my panties instead of sleeping like I should. Look at him humiliate himself at work because he does whatever I want him to. 

It’s one where he almost smirked, teeth showing. Too much. Definitely too obvious with attempt. 

…Fuck this. 

Snap. 

He finally sends you something he can call neutral: his jaw’s slack, expression flat, and he’ll pretend not to care about the sterile glow highlighting everything wrong with his face.

‘There. Happy now?’

He thinks about you glancing at your phone, satisfied? On fire with laughter? He couldn’t know, and he shouldn’t imagine it. That’s pointless. He’s not in the mood for masochism, despite whatever he’s thought in the last five minutes. 

Jack scratches his jaw. 

“Hurry up–” 

His phone buzzes. 

‘😍😍!!!!’ 

Bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear.

‘You don't know how much I professionally miss that face when I'm bumming around. Handsome as ever!'

Jack stares down at the phone.

…His little kiss ass.

[trinsantosgf]

he's lowkey so pathetic but i love it, got me giggling and kicking my feet

[n0cturnalp1g]

Daylight - Jack Abbot

Summary: You were never your parents’ favorite child. You’ve come to accept that part early on in your childhood. All their impossible expectations and disappointment that came with it. So when you chose to become a psychiatrist instead of an “actual doctor” like they wanted, you have accepted that you will forever become the disappointment and your younger brother will forever be the Golden child. Then Christmas Eve rolled around and you brought your boyfriend (fiancé but that was something you’d be telling over dinner), kind of weird to have your parents and baby brother realizing your boyfriend was technically his boss. Characters: Shen!Female Reader x Jack Abbot. John Shen. Parker Ellis. Word Count: 3,819 Warnings: Not Edited. Slight Angst. Scapegoat Child. Golden Child and Scapegoat Child Dynamic. Toxic Family Dynamics (w/ Parents). John and Reader are chill and have a healthy sibling relationship. Profanities. Inaccurate Medical Terms and Procedures. Jack and Shen deserves his own warning.

Masterlist

“Try some ginger ice for that sore throat, Shen. I don’t want you leaving me to deal with this chaos, especially near a full moon.”

To anyone else, Dr. Jack Abbot’s random tips that weren't traditional medicine would turn a few heads but many would agree of the benefits it would have for anyone having a sore throat, it was just a little weird that it had to come from the stoic man himself.

But John Shen was more concerned about how specific it was that Jack would know that was his usual home remedy when he begins feeling under the weather. The usual remedy his own sister would give him the moment he coughs for the first time.

“Duly noted, Boss.” John finds himself muttered before walking away from Jack still fixed on typing on the computer for his charts. Still mildly disturbed by the spot on advice from the man at three in the morning.

John’s eyes immediately caught sight of Parker, the ever dependable Senior Resident in the Pitt and someone that John can genuinely consider as a friend outside of work. Without hesitating, he held onto her arm and dragged her into the closest available bay.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Parker snapped, pulling away from John’s grasp. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I told you to ease down on your Dunkin Donuts fix.”

“Anything weird about Jack lately?” He inquired.

“Anything more than usual? No. He’s his usual self.” Parker pointed out looking at John like he grew a second head. “What are you not telling me, Shen?” She questioned again.

“Nothing. Just weirded out by what Jack said.”

“What? The home remedy? Yeah, a Senior Attending Physician giving home remedy, it’s kind of ironic. But surprisingly effective. His girlfriend has been a good influence on him recently since she moved in with him.”

“Wait, Dr. Jack Abbot has a girlfriend?”

That was news to him more than anything that was constantly happening in the Pitt. Of all the cloak and dagger he presents in the room.

“Wait, you didn’t know? He doesn’t shut up about her. Constantly telling us how much she keeps him on his toes.”

“No huge age gap?”

“Why are you like this, John?” Parker looked at him in disappointment.

“What? It’s a genuine question. You told me she keeps him on his toes, so that’s where my train of thoughts brought me.”

“You’re horrible.” Parker snorted, nudging him on the shoulder. “And next time, if you’re weirded out with our boss, you can just ask him.”

“I think I love my job more than I love to satisfy my curiosity.” John shook his head profusely.

“Suit yourself.” Parker shrugged leaving John all on his own, still slightly weirded out and feeling a sense of Deja Vu for whatever was going on.

~

“You alright, Baby?” You asked your boyfriend upon hearing him clear his throat for the third time this morning.

Your brows furrowed looking at Jack throwing four of your homemade ginger ice cubes into his tea (which was a red flag on its own since he’s always been a coffee guy). You made your way towards him and cupped his cheeks, a slight warmth but not much of a fever just yet.

“I’m good. Your brother’s probably infected me with his horrible germs.” He muttered sipping on his mug with a wince. “I hate the taste of ginger, but I also hate the fact that this actually works.” he grumbled, earning a giggle out of you.

“You are such a baby sometimes.” You grinned cupping his cheeks and taking a good look at him. “You want me to take care of you this morning?”

“Don’t you have clients wanting to talk about their feelings?” He teased earning a light slap on the chest.

“You’re my first patient this morning, Dr. Abbot.” You quipped right back, moving your hand down towards his chest.

“I think I love the sound of that.” He smirked cupping your ass in the process.

“Hornball. I am engaged to a fucking hornball of a man.” You snorted, shoving him away and earning a louder laugh out of you.

“You love that about me.”

“I’m starting to regret it at this point.”

Before either of you could continue on with your banter the sound of your phone broke you from your moment of peace. Rummaging your pocket, the name of your mother immediately had you forming a frown on your face.

“Too early to deal with her, don’t you think?” Jack peered seeing you weren’t answering your phone yet.

You chose not to answer him and instead took the call preparing for the emotionally and mentally draining conversation you were once again going to have with your mother.

“Mother.” Your answer was clipped before walking towards the bedroom not wanting Jack to see you in distress at even the sight of your mother’s name on your phone.

It was going to be like her weekly phone calls. Belittle you for your choice of becoming a Psychiatrist instead of an actual doctor like your younger brother, John. It was numbing at times, tiring more often than it needed to be.

‘Are you bringing anyone for Christman? You’re not getting any younger. You should think about your future. You already wasted so many years on a specialty that doesn’t even make any money. You don’t need to waste any more time having a family.’

You counted to ten in your mind, before taking a deep breath by your mother’s usual jabs.

“My boyfriend is actually joining me this year.” You admitted still wondering why Jack had agreed to come with you to visit your parents instead of helping you with finding another reason not to come home this year.

‘Boyfriend? You’re keeping this from me, why didn’t you tell me you’re seeing someone?’

“I’ve been busy, you know how it is, Mother.” You brushed off not wanting to admit you’ve been dating your boyfriend for two years now–or the fact that you’re already engaged to him.

‘Busy enough to not even tell me something important about your life?’

Not like they’d ever really bothered about anything that has to do with your life or your career. Telling them about your relationship would just mean allowing them to have more ammo to belittle you.

You closed your eyes and slumped down onto your shared bed, listening to your mother begin her usual spiel of ranting about your failures and your younger brother’s success. Listening and choosing to no longer take their words to heart anymore than you once did in the past.

“Listen, Mother. I have to go, I have to head to work.” You lied through your teeth before finally hanging up.

You took a moment to breathe, to compose yourself from the draining one-sided conversation with your mother but with the familiar click your head moved to see Jack standing by the door, watching you with the constant concern on his features after every call with your mother.

“You good? Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head not wanting your mother to ruin your day more than she already did.

“Just the usual stuff, you know how my mother is.” You muttered moving to allow Jack to sit besides you. His arm immediately wraps around your shoulder and pulls you further into him.

“Just because I know how she is doesn’t mean I’m ever gonna tolerate it.” He pointed out. “I’m actually impressed that no matter how horrible your mother is to you, your brother isn’t a piece of work just like them. I mean, he is a piece of work when he wants to be, but not in the same kind as your parents.”

You smiled at the mention of your brother. For all the intensity and disappointment that you somehow made yourself to be in the eyes of your own parents, your younger brother was somehow always there to support you and protect you from your parents’ scrutiny.

“Every single time you mention my brother, I get more and more guilty about hiding our relationship.”

“He’ll get over it.” Jack reassured, kissing your forehead. “Nothing fazes your brother, that much I can assure you.”

“And if he begins to hate me like our parents?”

“Baby, I would see your brother refuse his usual Dunkin Donuts coffee order before he ever hates you.” He pointed out without even an ounce of hesitation. “Your brother thinks of the world of you, I hear it every single time he talks about you with Parker, he always takes pride in your profession and even goes as far as recommending you to anyone who might need therapy, no matter how unethical it was.”

~

Dr. Jack Abbot has faced war head on, lost a leg from it, and the countless of batshit crazies the middle of the night brought him and his crew of misfits. But nothing in this world scared him more than meeting the parents of his girlfriend–well, technically fiance now.

He had thanked his lucky stars that Robby agreed to work the rest of his shift so Jack could actually spend Christmas Eve with you and your parents–and even John who was yet to know about the little secret he has been keeping for a couple of years now.

“Good luck with meeting the parents.” Parker grinned as he was preparing his stuff for the hour-long trip to your hometown. “I’m sure you’re gonna need it, Boss.”

“Let’s hope I come back here without a black eye from John.” Jack muttered wincing as he finally let it slip after hiding it for years at this point. “Don’t.” He warned already seeing the smug smile on Parker’s face.

“I’m gonna keep my mouth shut for now. But I’m gonna need details when you come back.” She proposed.

“Deal.” He sighed, slinging his backpack onto one shoulder and waving at everyone before he made his way to his truck to drive him to your hometown. A small prayer already slipped from his lips knowing the chaos he was bound to place himself into.

For the next hour and a half, Jack found himself mentally and physically preparing for what he needed to say or do once he arrived in your childhood home. He never hid his disdain for your parents for how neglectful and inconsiderate your parents were when it comes to you and your choices in life. But at the same time, he always bit his tongue about his own opinions on them because they were still your family, no matter how tiring your conversation was with them.

Finally stopping at a two storey home in a pretentious suburban neighborhood. Taking his backpack and gym bag that held two-days worth of his clothes with him before walking towards the front door already hearing the familiar scolding from the other side of the door.

Pressing on the doorbell, the sound halted and footsteps soo followed. But instead of you opening the door, the sight of John Shen frowning grew deeper at the sight of Jack standing awkwardly by the porch.

“Jack? What the fuck are you doing here?” John questioned.

Before Jack to explain, you finally made a dash towards him, immediately wrapping your arms around his torso before turning your head towards John.

“This is the boyfriend I was talking about.”

Your head finally returned right back to him and the all too familiar smile finally plastered in your face.

“Hi Baby.” You greeted.

“What did I miss?” Jack asked.

“The usual spiel.”

“Are we just gonna ignore the fact that you’re dating my boss?” John snapped at him  and attention turned right back to Jack. “Dude, what the fuck? My sister, seriously?”

“I didn’t know she was your sister initially.” Jack was quick to point out. “And when I did I can’t really tell you knowing I was still evaluating you back then.”

It took a fraction of a second before John sighed and accepted your choice for a boyfriend.

“I’m not gonna do my usual overprotective brother spiel, we three have bigger fish to deal with.” He pointed out before two individuals nudged John away and the sight of a smaller woman who was a spitting image of you put on an already fake smile Jack was all too familiar with.

“You must be the boyfriend?” The older woman shared a look with her husband, the man an older man that surprisingly looked like an older version of John. “Our daughter tells us great things about you.”

Jack bit his tongue knowing that you chose not to say anything about your relationship until just recently. He wasn’t here to argue, he was here to support you and to actually come clean with your baby brother.

“Come in.”

“I’m gonna help him move his things to my room.” You interrupted holding onto Jack’s hand tightly before you both made a left turn towards the stairs and towards your childhood bedroom.

A moment of peace before what Jack was all too certain would be a mess of a Christmas for everyone involved.

“Should I consider this a Christman miracle that your brother didn’t punch me in the face.”

“Don’t jinx it.” You warned him finally shutting the door to your room and the frown on Jack’s face he couldn’t bother to even hide.

Your bedroom was bare. No pictures, no medals, no awards. Nothing. If you didn’t bring him up here he would have believed it was just another guest room. The only identifier was your own bags and the childhood stuffed toy you refused to part with even in your older age.

“You sure you want to stay here for Christmas? We still have time to drive to my brother’s place.” Jack inquired already two steps ahead if the need arises.

He can deal with the mess that was to come between him and John, but if anything was to ever happen to you, that was another story. He loved you and he loved you enough to make sure to keep you as far away as possible from the very people that should protect and love you if you decide to do so.

“I’m fine. We’re fine. We got news we’re going to share with everyone. How they deal with the news would decide whether or not they will be invited to the wedding.”

“You sure you want to go through with that?”

“As a heartbeat, Jack. I’ve allowed them to walk all over me for far too long and even when John distanced himself from them they still don’t get that they are the problem. I don’t want that in our life if we are to ever get married.”

“Okay. If that is what you want and what you need, I respect it and I will help you in whatever capacity you might need from me moving forward.”

“I just need you to help me deal with the rest of the night then we’ll see what happens after we tell them everything.”

~

In all the years you’ve lived in your parents’ home, you’ve learned to drown out the words of your mother and your father’s care for your mother’s evisceration about your life choices. But somehow having not only your younger brother but as well as your boyfriend–fiance to lay witness to it was just a new ballpark you never truly deserved.

“I’m sure Doctor Abbot can inspire you to change your specialty, just like John.” Your mother continued on so casually ignoring all of the years of hard work to be what you were in this moment.

“She’s making so much change as it is, Mrs. Shen.” Jack’s voice was terse and not only did you realize it, but even John who was constantly cutting off your mother when she crosses too many lines in her usual spiel. “Emergency Medicine is hard, but the brain is a much more difficult thing to treat.”

“She could have chosen neurosurgery then.” She continued on.

You said nothing, watching at the fork in Jack’s hand slowly bend in ways you didn’t know were humanely possible. You were certain that he was trying to keep himself at bay. Knowing if he said what was on his mind, Christmas was going to be over before it even truly started.

“And I’m sure she will be great at it. But at the end of the day, her specialty was her choice and her choice alone. And I’m proud of all the accomplishments she has done in her career.”

“But she is still a disappointment in this family for not following in the path we’ve lined up just for her.”

A slam on the table had you and everyone else in the dining table jump. Your eyes landed straight at your younger brother whose frown was the deepest you have ever seen in your life.

“For one Christmas can we just have a moment to stop criticizing everyone’s career choice and just have a normal Christmas, Jesus Fucking Christ.”

You blinked and before you could reassure both your brother and your boyfriend to let it go, Jack finally stood.  Your hand that housed the engagement ring he proposed with was held with his own. He looked at you, nodding in reassurance and for the first time in a long time you didn’t feel the need to fold when it comes to your parents. You had both your brother and your boyfriend here to protect you when you needed it the most.

“You’re lucky to have a daughter like her.” Jack began. “And if neither you nor your husband could see it, I don’t see the point of either of you coming to the wedding.”

“What?”

Jack lets go of your hand and allows you to show your ring finger to your parents.

“You’re going to marry that man that disrespect us?” Your mother questioned.

“We’re leaving.” It was John that interrupted the tirade, slamming his hand on the table silencing everyone. “And I don’t think I’m joining you guys for the New Year either.”

“I didn’t schedule you for a day off.” Jack protested.

“Dude you owe me for hiding the fact that you’re dating my sister.”

Jack took a second before snorting and nodding in resignation.

“Come on, let’s go.” Jack sighed pulling you with him, ignoring the tirade your mother had once again began. John had multitasked with arguing with her and your father while also getting most of his things from his own bedroom, shielding you from most of the verbal attacks.

“Where are we going now?” John asked, ignoring your mother’s tears now in the arms of your father.

“My brother’s place. We still have an extra seat available for you to join us if you want.”

“I wouldn't dream of anything else right now.” John smirked, already hauling all of your bags onto the trunk.

As soon as Jack had opened the passenger door for you and you found yourself sitting in the emptiness of another messy dinner with your family. Another one. The first that Jack had ever seen and something inside of you broke.

The screaming out on the porch between your fiance and brother against your parents couldn’t hide the sobs that finally escaped your lips. The tears come falling down before you could actually stop it from overflowing and consuming you whole.

“Hey, look at me. You’re alright. You did nothing wrong, okay?”

Eyes filled with tears still, you could barely see Jack’s furrowed brows and the frown that rested on his lips. His hands held onto your cheeks now, thumbs wiping away the tears that still continued to fall.

“Breath for me, Baby.”

And you did, listening to Jack’s words of reassurance as your brother continued arguing with your mother to the point of neighbors coming out of their homes to watch.

“Let’s go. I’m driving and you deal with my sister.”

“You’re lucky I care more about my girlfriend than my god damn truck.” Jack muttered throwing his car keys at John before moving you to the back with him.

It was all too fast, the tears, the mental toll of trying and failing to be what your parents want you to be and now the fear of Jack seeing the worst in all of them and thinking the worst out of you in the process.

“No one’s gonna hurt you anymore. I promise you.” Jack’s words tried to reassure you  but it only brought more tears as you sobbed onto his chest now.

~

Jack was beyond tired the moment they arrived at his brother’s place where his younger brother was already waiting with the Abbot signature look of concern already plastered on his face at the sight of not only you but your younger brother in tow.

“I’d say meeting the parents wasn’t what you planned?” James inquired about helping John with the bags in the trunk.

“Something like that.” Jack sighed looking towards the door to see his sister-in-law and nieces and nephews already waiting with their own shared concern for the sudden arrival. “Sorry for ruining Christmas for you guys.”

“Nah. We’ve got the extra plates and we’ve made her favorite just in case.” James reassuringly clapped him on the back before pulling you in for a gentle hug. “If you need anything, even a lawyer or a hitman, you tell me, little lady, okay?”

Relief washed over him when you let out the first giggle since you’ve all left your parents’ house. Your eyes were still red, puffy even. But it didn’t deter you from putting on a brave smile on your face in front of his side of the family.

“Looks like we’re gonna make a new tradition from now on.” John sighed looking at Jack’s sister-in-law and the kids besides her.

Both you and Jack looked at him in confusion but it immediately clicked before you would comprehend what it truly meant for your family.

“John, you don’t have to do that for me.”

“Of course I do.” John pointed out without even an ounce of hesitation. “You are my big sister and I love you more than anything in this world and I care about your happiness more than anything else in this world. I may be mad at you for hiding the fact that you are dating and going to marry my boss, but I’ll blackmail him for it for a few months but the fact still stays the same. If anyone hurts you, I will not hesitate to cut them off, even if they are our parents.”

Jack held onto your hand, watching the tears fall once again before you pulled John in for a hug, peppering his cheeks with kisses much to the complaint of your younger brother.

“Welcome to the family.” John grunted, finally being pulled away from your form of affection.

[trinsantosgf]

awwww i love this

[trashshart]

betting pool

dr abbot x resident!reader

a drunken girls’ night out results in you being brought into the pitt. or, the pitt staff and their bets on what the hell is going on with their attending and resident.

cw: mdni 18+. will they/won’t they, are they/aren’t they? some outside povs. dubcon? for drunk sex & angry sex (it’s consensual but y’know). semipublic sex. unprotected piv, oral (f and m receiving), spit as lube. jack being mean. age gap (reader’s exact age mentioned once but you can ignore it). injuries and medical inaccuracies. a lil angst, a lil sap, a lil smut, a lotta nonsense. shout out to my jack girlies, dis one’s 4 u

wc: 5.5k

———

john shen was a good doctor—cool, calm, and collected in the face of chaos. he was a good guy—quick to stand up for someone, to be a shoulder to cry on, to offer an easy joke to lighten the mood. but the one thing john was above all else was curious—chismoso according to princess and perlah; a nosy bitch to parker.

so when john sees a frazzled whitaker rush into the ambulance bay doors just after 11pm and grab a wheelchair, it catches his attention.

the pitt was relatively q-word for a saturday night, just enough of a lull in the action to make his last hour smooth—mid shifts really are the best of both worlds.

stepping toward the ambulance bay, john was met by them whooshing open.

“dumbass vs bar! eta now!” a cackling santos announces. she was pushing you in the wheelchair whitaker had just taken, your left leg raised up in the footrest, ankle all purple and swollen. your mascara was running down your cheeks despite you cackling right along santos.

“wait, wait!” santos laughs, “drunk vs table top dancing!” that caused more cackling.

whitaker rushes back in then, two purses, two jackets, and one strappy heel in hand.

“and what do we have here?” john asks as he approaches the trio, whitaker frantically trying to get the girls to quiet.

“johnny boy!” you yell on his approach. “i fought gravity and lost!”

whitaker—seemingly deemed designated driver and therefore sober—clarifies nervously, “uh, 27 year old female presents with severe pain in left ankle after falling from…height—“

“i was dancing on the bar!”

“—ankle had rapid swelling and bruising in route. um, and she’s drunk.”

john looks back down at the r2 in the wheelchair—clearly either the adrenaline or your drunkenness has lessened the pain, you once again cackling with santos about some guy in a fedora you saw earlier.

“south 22 is open,” lena calls from the hub.

“alright, let’s get you guys back—“ john is cut off by two emts pushing in a gurney.

“who the hell parked their car in the bay!?” one shouts.

whitaker let’s out a quick shit! before shoving the items from his arms into john’s.

11:23pm and he now had the perfect case to leave abbot.

SHEN $50 THEY JUST FRICK NASTY

———

jack abbot first took real notice of you during your first stretch of night shifts as an ms4.

you were smart, easily keeping up with the intern you’d been assigned to. you were a team-player, willing to step in wherever needed, even if that led you to scut work or covered in bodily fluids. you were kind, volunteering to hold a toddler’s hand while they received stitches instead of clamoring to do them yourself.

and yeah, jack noticed that you were attractive, okay? objectively, clinically—not in any way he would ever entertain, let himself think twice about. that was until he caught a whiff of your perfume at a patient’s bedside.

it was barely there, like you’d put it on that morning hoping it’d wear off before shift. but it was enough. enough for him to catch the faint vanilla sweetness. enough to be familiar.

enough to remind him of the scent his wife used to wear.

———

bridget takes over wheeling you into the pitt, trinity stumbling in her own heeled boots behind you, now holding your bags and coats.

“so, you all havin’ a fun night?” bridget teases as you arrive.

“yeah! girls’ night out!” you reply, precariously hopping into the bed.

“wasn’t dr. whitaker with you two?”

trinity snorts plopping into the now empty wheelchair, “yeah. like she said, girls’ night out.” that sent you both back into your hysterics.

bridget just smiles with a shake of her head as she sets up for your iv, throwing a blanket over your legs for good measure. your short dress continues to inch up in your antics, no need to give the whole er a show—maybe just a certain doctor.

“just couldn’t stay away, could ya?” bridget asks, making quick work of your iv. a hushed ow, shit! escaping you.

before you could, trinity answers. “she wanted t’see her maaaans,” rolling foward.

that catches the nurse’s attention. “oh, her mans, huh?”

you answer with an exaggerated dreamy sigh, “yeah, hal ‘n i got somethin’ special.” hal, the 70 year old, part-time security guard stationed at the metal detectors. hal, who’s been married for 40 years…to a man.

that earns another snort from trinity, you following shortly. bridget wheels trinity out of the room with a heeey! from both drunken doctors.

BRIDGET $20 ACCIDENTAL PREGNANCY

———

trinity santos wasn’t nice. she was tough and sarcastic and brutally honest, quick with a witty response or teasing dig. trinity santos wasn’t nice, but, as much as she liked to deny it, trinity santos was kind.

she befriended you during her second year of residency.

charting at the hub toward the end of a night shift, trinity couldn’t help but notice your phone vibrating on the counter—again.

“you gonna get that?” trinity asked with raised brows.

not looking up from the computer, you replied, “it’s just my landlord. he’ll leave a message if it’s important.”

“your landlord calls you at 4 in the morning for unimportant things?”

after a beat, you rushed to answer your phone and began walking to the break room.

a while later you returned red eyed and jittery, but went back to your charting without a word. if you weren’t going to mention it, trinity wasn’t going to either.

as he came to return a tablet, dr. abbot also noticed your change in demeanor. “you good, kid?”

head jerking up, you plastered on an obviously forced smile, “yeah! just bad news from the landlord. i’ll be—“ your voice caught in your throat.

dr. abbot looked at you, head leaning forward as to tell you to continue.

letting out a shaky breath, you did, “my apartment building flooded and since i’m on the ground floor my unit is trashed and my landlord said there’s no way i can stay there after my shift and that he won’t know how long the repairs will take or if he’ll just break the lease while work is happening and my roommate said she’s gonna stay with her boyfriend but that there’s no extra room so now i’m just out on the curb and i’m freaking out a little—“

you continued to panic at the nurses station, dr. abbot patting at your shoulder as some form of comfort.

as trinity stood to check on a patient, she caught dennis’ eyes from across the hub.

trinity, we have a couch, they seemed to say.

no fucking way, huckleberry, i haven’t gotten rid of you yet, she willed her expression to reply.

c’mon, he gave with a disappointed tilt of his head.

rolling her eyes, trinity turned to you. “hey, huckleberry and i have a pull-out couch. you can crash with us.”

that’s how you became trinity’s second offering from the fourth year medical student distribution system, one she hoped wouldn’t become a foster-fail like the last.

you ended up staying for two months until you found a new place.

SANTOS $20 SHE MARRIES HIM FOR HIS VA BENEFITS THEN HE MYSTERIOUSLY CROAKS

———

jack abbot’s residents were smart. he made sure of it. only the best and brightest able to last under his tutaledge. his residents were smart, but god could they be idiots.

so seeing santos and whitaker after hours, one clearly drunk sitting in a wheelchair, both dressed like they were going out, he knew it couldn’t be good.

“what are you two doing here?” jack asks as he approaches the pair.

“just an little accident at—“ whitaker answers at the same time santos says, “bar fight,” rolling herself back and forth in the wheelchair.

jack looks between the two. neither look injured—one clearly intoxicated, but not injured.

as if reading his thoughts, santos clarifies. “we’re fine, dr. abbot,” a shit-eating grin slowly growing on her face, “can’t say the same for twinkle toes over there.” she nods her head toward south 22.

looking up at the board, jack sees your name: possible ankle break, iv fluids started.

letting out a huff, he calls over to the other r2 at the far end of the nurses station, “javadi, with me.”

———

the first time you fucked jack abbot was in a bar bathroom toward the end of your final year of medical school.

the day shift had gone out to celebrate dana’s birthday, joined by a few night shift friends not scheduled that evening—jack included. a night filled with drinking and stories and shots and celebration.

you sat at a table with dana, cassie, and jack, picking at some over-priced appetizer platter and listening to them recount stories of the birthday girl. you hadn’t expected to be invited out with your colleagues, but dana insisted that everyone was welcome, even wide-eyed ms4s.

and maybe you were edging a little past tipsy, maybe you were just deluding yourself, but you swore you could feel jack continue to lean closer to you, his focus shift more intently on you. maybe it was the fifth drink you’d seen him down that night, maybe it was the months of you following him around like a starstruck idiot, but you swore you saw his eyes flicker down to your mouth more than once.

trinity appeared then, hands full of unnaturally pink shots, squeezing next to you into the chair you already occupied. “for the birthday girl!” she cheered, raising a shot glass in one hand and handing dana another, “and co,” signaling for the table’s other occupants to take one as well.

coughing after shooting down what must have been strawberry scented nail polish remover, you looked to jack. his normally stoic face was twisted into a look of horror, causing you to burst out laughing. his gaze returned to you, the corners of his mouth twitching up—eyes once again darting to your mouth.

before thinking, you quickly stood and announced that you were running to the restroom, shooting jack a look over your shoulder as you walked away.

it took 27 seconds—you counted—for him to join you in the room, clicking the lock shut behind him.

it took another 14—again, you counted—before his mouth crashed into yours, all clacking teeth and bumping noses, desperate and drunk.

pushing you against the sink, jack moved sloppy kisses across your cheek, over your jaw, down your neck.

“y’changed your perfume,” he said nosing behind your ear. not a question, an observation.

as his mouth moved lower to your collarbone, you answered, “gotta couple diff’rent ones. you noticed?”

jack didn’t reply, just let out an mmm as he worked at the button of your pants, swiftly pulling them down, trapped at the ankle by your shoes.

kneeling in front of you, jack lifted your legs to rest over his shoulders before he dove into you. he was sloppy, uncoordinated, moving your panties to the side to lick into your cunt.

he added his fingers after only a moment, a strangled moan ripping from your mouth at the intrusion. he sucked at your clit as he scissored his thick fingers, attempting to prepare you for the stretch of him.

the mix of alcohol and blood rushing from your head had you dizzy, intoxicated in more ways than one.

satisfied with his work, jack stood between your legs, trapped ankles locking around his hips. you both fumbled at his belt, pulling his jeans down only low enough to free his cock—red and angry and leaking and thick.

you let out a shaky breath as jack spit into his hand, giving a few tugs at his length. he again pulled your panties to the side before bringing himself to your entrance.

the thick of his head breaching your walls ripped a loud moan from you, jack moving his free hand up to quickly cover your mouth.

“y’gotta stay quiet. can’t let ‘em know,” he grunted as he continued to slowly thrust into you.

nodding your head behind his hand, he released it, and you brought him in for another desperate kiss, hand fisted in his hair, tongue fighting for entrance to his mouth.

jack began thrusting into you in earnest then, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing in the small room. he moved his hand back to your swollen clit then, fingers moving expertly to bring you closer to your orgasm.

you trade moans and grunts into each other’s mouths, you keening loudly, too loudly, as you’re brought over the edge, walls spasming around his thick cock.

and he didn’t ask. and you didn’t remind him. so when jack’s orgasm hit him, he came buried deep inside your fluttering warmth, mouth pressed tight against your neck.

after a few moments, he pulled out of you, cum leaking from your cunt. slipping off your shoe to allow one leg to go free, jack stepped back to tuck himself back into his pants.

before he could move out of your reach, you grabbed at the hem of his shirt. mind suddenly devoid of everything you’d ever wanted to say to him, you just stared up at jack, willing him to read your thoughts, for him to say something first. instead, he stepped in and placed a lingering kiss to your forehead before exiting back into the bar.

returning to your seat at the table, you didn’t notice that jack had gone to sit at the bar with robby, downing two more drinks since he’d arrived. leaning your head against trinity’s shoulder, you didn’t notice the drunken smile on your lips—you didn’t notice the knowing expressions adorning cassie and dana’s faces. letting your eyes flutter shut, you didn’t notice jack’s cum dripping out of you.

DANA $10 THEY DANCE AROUND IT UNTIL IT’S TOO LATE :(

MCKAY $10 THEY HOOK UP 1.5 TIMES

———

sometimes victoria javadi still can’t believe she decided to match into emergency medicine. most days it’s great—interesting, thrilling, challenging. some days it’s terrible—tragic, depressing, stomach-turning. but every so often, it’s eye roll-inducing, scoff-worthy, second-hand embarrassing—tonight is one of those nights.

walking into south 22 with dr. abbot, she comes face to face with her fellow r2—though gone are the normal black scrubs and bare face, replaced with a tiny going-out dress and the remnants of eye makeup. you currently had the foot of your good leg in your lap, trying to undo the one strappy heel you still wore.

“vicky!” you exclaim with a smile seeing the doctors’ arrival. “help a comrade out?”

before victoria can, dr. abbot steps forward and makes quick work of the heel, setting it next to the discarded one on the chair next to your coat—weird.

tucking your good leg back under the blanket, dr. abbot asks—smiling? “you really did a number on yourself, huh?”

in lieu of a real answer, you grin and lift your injured leg into the air, letting out a ding!, the hospital blanket the only thing keeping you from flashing everyone—jesus, you must be drunk. that gets an actual laugh from dr. abbot—so weird.

you vaguely listen as victoria presents the case, going over the initial treatment plan—pain meds and x-rays—and future possibilities—ortho consult, surgery, resetting, casting—more interested in the other doctor in the room.

“hey there, handsome,” you say to dr. abbot after victoria finishes, drunken smile on your face.

victoria gasps, quickly whispering, “please don’t say that about our boss, oh my god.” she could not be a witness to your hr violation, couldn’t let yourself get fired.

“why not? jackie’s a catch!” you say looking from dr. abbot to victoria.

“yeah, i’m a catch,” dr. abbot mocks. “i get sweet discounts and get to park wherever i want.” he doesn’t seem upset by the comment, so victoria just excuses herself to call x-ray.

so weird.

JAVADI $5 NOTHING (HE’S OLD, YOU GUYS!)

———

michael robinavitch was a good friend, or least he tried to be. his therapist helping him learn to open up to his friends, and in turn, encouraging his friends to open up to him.

but when robby’s closest friend—his brother in arms, his partner in crime, the pain in his ass—drunk in the passenger seat of his truck on the way home from dana’s party, asked, “get ‘er a dose’a levonorgestrel in the mornin’ fer me, yeah?” robby didn’t know how good of a friend he wanted to be.

“what?” he asked, head snapping between jack and the road.

jack murmured out something that sounded a whole lot like your name, then, “the mornin’ af’er pill. getter a dose. ‘m sure she’ll get one, but jus’in case.”

robby was rendered speechless for the rest of the drive to jack’s.

as he fumbled to open the door with his keys, jack poked robby in the chest. “lev’norges’rel,” all he said before swiftly opening and closing the door in robby’s face.

the next morning, robby found you—his med student, for fuck’s sake—at your locker. pulling the brown pharmacy bag from his backpack, he sat it in the open door.

“what’s this?” you asked peering into the bag, the word levonorgestrel staring back at you.

you quickly crumple the bag closed, head whipping to robby, eyes wide. “what!?” you whisper shouted.

robby held his hands in front of him, palms open. “i’m just the messenger.”

“what did jack tell—“ you start, but are interrupted by robby waving his outstretched hands once, before placing them up to his ears as if to cover them if you try to speak.

“i don’t know anything. i don’t want to know anything,” he stated, turning on his heel to walk out of the hallway.

robby decided he was the greatest friend jack would ever know, and that he owed him big for this.

ROBBY $50 HE JUST PINES UNTIL HER RESIDENCY IS OVER

———

lena doesn’t love using the intercom to announce incoming traumas, not at night. with as many boarders in the pitt as there were anymore, the loud tone followed by a bodiless voice echoing the halls could be startling to those who’d actually manage to fall asleep. so when able, when she knew the current location of the attending, she would gladly walk to them to announce the incoming, giving even a moment of peace to the souls with them for the night.

typically when she found jack, he wasn’t hovering at the bedside of his pretty little resident.

jack has both hands on the bed’s side rail, leaning casually against the edge. he smirks down at you, face softer than lena had seen in a long time.

you were laying partially propped up in the bed, smiling up at jack with a big grin, speaking rapidly about something. the index finger of your hand closest to jack was fiddling with the draw string of his scrub pants—not sexual, not even flirtatious, but familiar, like maybe you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

what really did it for lena, though, was when you said something that caused jack to smile—an honest to god, open-mouthed, teeth-showing smile; that was the jack abbot equivalent of twirling his hair and giggling like a school girl.

lena couldn’t even bring herself to be mad she seemed to be out 15 bucks.

“they’re being weird, right?” dr. javadi says as she steps next to lena, tablet in hand. the young doctor looks legitimately concerned.

bumping her shoulder, lena just replies, “come on, kid.”

walking closer to the curtained room, jack notices the two approaching and quickly backs away, stoic expression returning. if he had noticed lena noticing them, he shows no indication.

“jack, we got a level 2 trauma incoming, 7 minutes out,” lena informs. “the v.i.p. will hafta make due with the resident.”

“yeah, v.i.p., learn your acronyms,” you mock as jack moves to leave, him shooting you a look as he does. you just grin big in return.

as dr. javadi makes work explaining your treatment—non-displaced ankle fracture, walking boot, no weight for a minimum of three weeks—lena adds, “dr. whitaker left to take dr. santos home. told him i’d tell you. said to call when you’re getting dispoed and he’d come back up.”

in reply, you give a small, “sounds good, queen,” the night finally catching up to you, sleep tugging at your eyes.

LENA $15 THEY GO ON ONE AWKWARD DATE

———

the second time you fucked jack abbot, it was on the hospital roof part way through your intern year.

ever since that night in the bar, things had changed between you and jack, grown tense. gone were the puppy dog eyes and good works, replaced by impatience and ever increasing criticisms.

“god! you are such a fucking prick, sometimes!” you screamed at him after reaching the roof. the pitt had grown too used to your spats with jack, but that night’s bout was especially hostile, shouldn’t be heard by hovering ears.

“and you’re a whiny fuckin’ brat when you don’t get your way!” he returned.

“i wasn’t whining, jack! i was advocating for my patient!”

the senior resident you’d been assigned to that shift hadn’t taken your proposed diagnosis seriously, said you were just a little intern hunting zebras. when his treatment plan led the patient to crash, you snapped. you seemed to release all the built-up frustration inside you, all the anger from months of being doubted by your attending. and yeah, maybe the resident shouldn’t have been on the receiving end of it, but your diagnosis was correct, and he did belittle you for it—your rage only pausing when jack stepped in with an enough! before leading you to the elevator.

“maybe so, but you’re sure as fuck are whining now,” jack said lowly, if not a little demeaning.

his tone snapped something deeper in you, giving a shove to his solid chest with a shout of “asshole!” you didn’t know why you did it, you were never a violent person. and though the push barely seemed to rock jack, it made his expression darken.

before you could open your mouth to apologize, jack pulled you in by the neck for a bruising kiss. pulling at each others hair and nipping at lips, he slammed your back against the brick wall of the roof, the hand cradling the back of your head the only softness from him.

“you’re such a mouthy fuckin’ brat,” he grunted into your mouth, tugging at his belt, “y’should put it to better use.”

it shouldn’t have turned you on, guys talking down to you like that usually didn’t, but god, something about it coming from jack made your thighs squeeze together.

dropping to your knees, you finish helping him out of his boxers, gripping the base of his leaking cock.

you placed sloppy open-mouthed kisses along his length as you stared back up at him, his brows furrowed and breaths coming harshly from his nose.

when your mouth finally wrapped around the tip, jack’s hand flew to your hair, grabbing it harshly. he set a steady rhythm with the grip on your hair, you hollowing your cheeks and letting him use your mouth to chase his pleasure.

one hand clawed into his firm asscheek, your other snaked down the front of your scrub pants, fingers attempting to give yourself some relief.

noticing the movements, jack yanked you off him forcefully, an involuntary whine leaving your throat.

hoisting you up, jack turned you to face into the brick wall, ripping your scrub bottoms down. he didn’t offer any prep that time, just glided his cock through your slick folds, gathering your wetness, before slamming into you.

you choked out a shout, or maybe a moan, back arching away from the man behind you, strong hands holding you in place.

pounding into you, jack let out only grunts, no words giving away whatever was going through his mind, what he was thinking.

your hands gripped desperately at the brick of the wall, searching for leverage, for something to hold. jack moved one hand from your hip to rest over the back of yours, fingers lacing together. another moment of softness, cut only by the bruising grip at your hip, the nipping at your neck, the slam of hips against yours.

resting your forehead against the back of his hand curled around yours, you once again reached the other between your legs, rubbing tight circles around your clit—this time, jack allows it.

moaning and panting and grunting, your paces quicken, grips tighten. you came with a sob, the head of jack’s cock hitting the perfect spot inside you, your fingers moving deftly between your thighs.

when jack pulled from you, he tugged at his length until he was coming against your ass, ropes of cum hot in the cool pennsylvania air.

his head dropped to your shoulder, your hand reaching to card through the hairs at the nape of his neck, each of you attempting to catch your breath.

for a moment it was peaceful—no shouting, no bickering, no digging critiques—just two people sharing pleasure.

jack pulled a wet wipe from one of his cargo pockets—a soldier’s always prepared, he used to joke—gently swiping it to clean his spend from you, before pulling your scrubs back up around your hips.

you wanted to say something again, as you did when this happened before, but jack just placed a large hand between your shoulder blades, fingers giving the slightest pressure to your skin, before turning and walking back into the hospital.

when the email came the next morning, stating your night shift rotation was ending early and you were to report back on days, you didn’t try to stop the tears from falling from your eyes.

———

it could have been minutes, but must have been hours, when you wake to jack shifting the hospital blanket further up your body.

“‘t time’s it?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “‘m i bein’ dispoed?”

“around 3, sweetheart,” he answers. “don’t worry about calling whitaker, robby’s heading in an hour early. i’ll drive you to yours to pack.”

“to pack?” you ask, only slightly more conscious.

“you live in a third story walk-up. if you’re plannin’ on leaving it for the next three weeks, you’ll have to stay somewhere else.”

“any ideas where?” you ask, eyes closing again.

jack just smoothes a hand down the top of your head and tells you to go back to sleep. for once, you listen.

———

the third time you fucked jack abbot is at the end of intern year.

after receiving the email all but banishing you to day shift months prior, you only caught glimpses of jack at turnover, all your future night shifts under shen as attending.

you looked for jack in the early hours of the day, hoping to catch him before he left, but he was always unavailable, preoccupied, gone.

he didn’t bicker or criticize anymore. he didn’t banter. he just ignored, he avoided. the silence that stretched between you two grew palpable, suffocating.

and finally you’d had enough.

it’d taken until then, that night, to work with jack again.

“why do you hate me?” you asked after cornering him in the staff parking lot after your shift, dawn settling over pittsburgh.

that gave jack pause. “excuse me?” he replied, looking at you with furrowed brows and squinted eyes, thick arms crossing over his chest.

the weight of jack’s stare was always heavy, intense, but this was nearly unbearable, drowning you in pools of hazel.

but you’d made the decision to confront him, needed to stand your ground. taking a shaky breath, mirroring his stance, you said again, “you heard me. why do you hate me?”

jack’s brow twitched minutely, a nearly imperceivable crack in his armor. he saw you mirror his stance, but your posture was vulnerable, your eyes sorrowful. it compelled him to start honestly, “i don’t hate you.”

that wasn’t what you were expecting—a dismissal, probably; a confirmation, maybe, but not that.

your stance shifted, weight rocking from one foot to the other, arms wrapping tighter around you. “then why—“ you started, looking away then seemingly forcing your gaze back to jack, steeling yourself.

speaking firmer, you continued, “we were fine until—until dana’s party and then things changed. you changed. not even oh-shit-i-screwed-my-med-student awkward changed—“

“lower your voice—“ jack said stepping forward. that wasn’t something he needed overheard.

“but you got…mean. cruel even. you criticized me harsher than everyone, like suddenly i lost all credibility—“

“that’s not—“

“—like i was suddenly an ms3 on her first day again, trying to impress everyone and feeling like an idiot every step of—“

“i was impressed by you as an ms3.”

“—the way and you’ve been so fucking—wait, what the fuck is that supposed mean?” you finally paused your rant, take aback by jack’s words, the intensity of his stare.

“you’ve always been impressive. and i’ve never hated you, that’s the problem. i let myself slip that night and—“ his hands moved to his hips, his head hanging to look at the ground instead of in your eyes, “and pushing you away with cruelty was easier than staying away in silence,” he finished, head moving to look off to the side.

“jack, what are you—“

his gaze shot back to yours, stepping closer, “but even with the cruelty you came closer, just as fiery, calling out my bullshit because you knew that’s exactly what it was. and that still didn’t fuckin’ stop my mind from slipping again.”

“jack—“

he pushed the heels of his palm into his eyes as he continued, “and now i’m all scrambled in my head and i can’t get myself to keep this up. i can’t fucking tell when i stopped chasing a ghost and started chasing you. i don’t know how to act around you anymore—“

“jack! what are you trying to say?” you had to interrupt him, had to, before your mind spun his words into something they weren’t, into something that lit a spark of hope in your chest.

“i lo—“ he blew out a breath, dropping his hands to his sides, “i like you. care about you. more than i should. not like an attending should a resident. not like a teacher should a student. like how a man cares for a woman, how—“

“have dinner with me.”

“what?”

now you took the step closer, eyes never leaving his. “have dinner with me. like a date.”

he tried turning away as he said, “honey, i’ve been so fucking bad to you—“ but you chased his gaze.

“then make it up to me. have dinner with me.”

and he did. and it goes great, how it should when a man cares for a woman.

he drove you home afterward. and he said yes when you invited him up, holding his hand, smile on your face. and he said yes when you asked him to come inside, fist in his hair, moan in your throat.

the first time jack abbot made love to you was after your first date.

———

six am comes quickly. a pain behind your eyes accompanies the pain in your ankle as you’re shuffled back into a wheelchair by bridget. jacket around your shoulders, booted ankle propped up in the footrest, you’re rolled through the ambulance bay doors once more.

the drive back to your apartment with jack is quiet, peaceful.

“you never answered my question, by the way,” you say, turning to look at him.

“you asked a whole lotta questions last night, baby. gonna have to be more specific,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice.

rolling your eyes and hitting his arm with the back of your hand, you answer, “the one where i asked where i was supposed to stay.”

glancing to you, he smirks, “you’re stayin’ with me ‘til you’re at least able to put weight on that ankle.”

“hmm, just ‘til then?” you ask playfully.

jack just looks back to the road, reaching to curl your hand in his and giving the back of it a kiss, fighting the smile tugging at his lips.

———

dennis whitaker was raised to believe that honesty was the best policy; that lies were sinful and would only lead to ruin, that truth would lead to blessings. but growing older, growing beyond his small nebraska town, dennis grew to know that a white lie to spare someone’s feelings was better than brutal honesty just for honesty’s sake.

maybe that’s why he kept the betting pool a secret from you for so long.

you may have thought it uncomfortable, inappropriate even, if you found out the way your coworkers had bet on whatever the hell was going on with you and dr. abbot. he thought maybe it was a kindness to spare you the theories and guesses regarding your personal life. and maybe he would have never mentioned it, had your attitude toward dr. abbot not again changed recently.

disagreements and debates had replaced curiosity and longing glances over year ago, but now, palpable tension and suppressed smiles where the norm between you too.

“there’s a betting pool, y’know?” dennis asked out of the blue one afternoon.

you turned from your charting, “there usually is. what’s this one on?”

dennis shook his head. “no, there’s a secret betting pool. on you…and dr. abbot,” he ended in a whisper, hoping no one heard him spill the beans.

your face lit up in amusement at that, “oh, is there now? what’re people saying?”

“i don’t think you wanna know.”

you huffed a laugh at his seriousness. “well, then what was your bet? maybe i could help ya win some money, denny.”

dennis just shook his head, “sorry, no influencing. it wouldn’t be fair.”

dennis whitaker was an honest guy. and maybe that honesty helped bless him a whole lot of money.

WHITAKER $20 THEY FALL IN LOVE

———

jack abbot wasn’t a religious man, not anymore. but he liked to think his wife was still out there, somewhere peaceful, watching out for him. maybe she had sent him a gift—someone new to love, and to love him in return. someone who held him accountable, called him on his bullshit. someone warm. someone sent wrapped in the scent of sweet vanilla.

———

if you caught it yes that was indeed a white chicks quote hehehe

[trinsantosgf]

THIS WAS SO GOODDDD

[trashshart]

sugar talkin’

dr robby x psychiatrist!reader

part 1

when robby returns from his sabbatical, he is determined to get you back. when robby tries to get you back, you are determined to make him work for it.

cw: mdni 18+. angst w/ happy ending. explicit sex (oral f receiving, semi public sex, unprotected piv). crying during sex (bad kind), crying drying sex (good kind). brief mentions of sex toys, m masturbation, dry humping, robby creaming his jorts. down bad robby. getting back together. sappy because i can’t help myself. meddling kids coworkers. medical inaccuracies. v brief mention of robby’s father being abusive. your honor, they both still need therapy but are at least getting it this time.

wc: 7.9k

a/n: i was incapable of leaving part 1 as-is oopsie 🤪 probably should read that one first to experience full angst capacity ja feel. shout out to the like five people who wanted a part 2, dis one is 4 u

he returned in the fall.

“son of a bitch!” you hissed, seeing an unwelcome motorcycle and it’s even more unwelcome rider parked in your guest spot as you arrived home.

ripping your keys out of the ignition, you rushed out of your car. “are you fucking kidding me, right now?” you sputtered.

three months. it’d been three months since you’d seen or heard from robby. three months of silence and confusion and pitying looks and weekly therapy sessions.

three months of nothing, and now he was here, leaning against his stupid motorcycle at your apartment complex.

robby still wore his riding leathers, overstuffed backpack still strapped to the back of the bike, hair mussed from the helmet that hung from the handlebars—like he’d come straight to your place before he even returned home. he looked tired, more than just physically so, not like someone who’d just gotten back from a three month vacation. his hair was longer, his beard unruly and speckled with more gray than you’d remembered—still as handsome as ever, even with the shaggy mountain-man look he was sporting, your traitorous mind provided.

standing from where he leaned, breathing out your name, robby started, “can we—“

“absolutely not,” you interrupted, moving quickly to pull your belongings from your car. you were not doing this, not now, maybe not ever. devistation over how he left burned out and rose from the ashes as righteous anger—toward robby, but also at yourself for knowing one sweet word could send you right back into his arms, undoing the work you’d done in therapy.

moving to follow when you began to walk away, robby continued, “sweetheart, please—“

“don’t fucking call me that,” you seethed, whipping around to face him. up close, you could see the circles under his eyes, the extra gray at his temples, the wetness in his eyes.

robby tried again, voice still soft even as yours grew colder, “please, i’d like to explain—“

“explain?” you let out an incredulous laugh. “explain what? why you snuck out of work and took your shit from my place like the fucking grinch?” (not your cleverest work, but months of anger and anguish overtook your wit by miles) “why you disappeared without a word? oh wait! i’m sorry, with only a fucking note? why i had to hear from dana that you were, in fact, still alive when my mind went there?” you let in a shaky breath, lungs aching in your rant. “no, robby, spare me your bullshit, please,” you ended, continuing the walk inside, ignoring the calls of your name from robby.

—

maybe it wasn’t the best idea, showing up at your place unannounced, but the second robby had hit the new york-pennsylvania border, his mind became consumed with a single thought: seeing you.

he was sure he looked crazed, probably didn’t smell the best, but seeing you, hearing you yell at him, he couldn’t bring himself to care—that was the sweetest thing he’d heard in months.

robby had thought about turning around the minute he left, rush back to you on his hands and knees, apologetic and pathetic. even in deciding against that, he never could get himself further west than chicago, never more than 8 hours outside of pittsburgh in any given direction, like the pull of your gravity was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

with weeks of attempted self-reflection and silence, cut only by a weekly check-in with jack, robby could now, at the very least, admit to himself that he needed help. that he couldn’t muscle through his past and present traumas alone like he’d been doing for years, couldn’t continue pushing away those in his life just wanting to help him.

even still, his first move wasn’t to call for that referral—he needed to get ready for work, to rejoin society, to face the unavoidable that would come before he’d even have the chance to grow and heal with therapy.

maybe that’s why he thought it a good idea to send the flowers.

—

walking into the psych unit, you saw some of your staff huddled around the nurses’ station, hushed voices echoing through the halls

walking into the huddle, you asked, “what’s going on?”

some scattered, some looked away like they were hard at work, a few lingered when they realized the question came from their chief.

your charge nurse was the only one brave enough to speak. “flower delivery. quite pretty, no?”

“i mean, yeah. but why all the hubbub?” you asked, eyeing the arrangement—it was full of your favorites, the recipient would be lucky to get them. even if flowers weren’t permitted in patient rooms, they could still brighten up the common area.

“they were here when i arrived at 7:30. didn’t see who delivered ‘em, but—“ she said, pulling a card from her scrub pocket and handing it to you, “they left a note. pulled it off so the looky-loos couldn’t read it, when i saw who they were for.”

looking down, your name sat staring back at you. i swear to god, you thought opening the card. but sure enough, in that unmistakable handwriting—

i would have brought these the other night, but the bike would have destroyed them. i’m sorry, sweetheart. i miss you. please, can we talk? - robby

son of a— you thought, picking up the flowers and quickly moving over to the trashcan, fully prepared to toss them inside.

“hey! what’d the flowers do to you, huh?” the nurse exclaimed. “don’t gotta toss ‘em just ‘cause they’re from dr. ro—” she cut herself off after you whipped your head to her, aware that she just revealed she was just as much a ‘looky loo’ as her subordinates.

placating, she added, “you don’t want ‘em up here, i get that, but i gotta better idea, yeah?”

—

robby’s first morning back was…interesting. the chaos of the pitt was ever the same, but somehow changed in his absence.

the med students he’d never get to teach at the end of their emergency medicine rotation seemed to be surviving, his residents thriving under his substitute attending’s care.

even still, they welcomed him back with open arms and warm smiles, a few tension-cutting jokes tossed in for good measure.

before he could even attempt to speak with the one repeat-r4 he needed to, robby caught glimpse of a familiar bouquet being carried to the hub by someone in dark green scrubs—psych nurse.

he didn’t make it across the floor before the nurse took leave, left to face the one person in the pitt that would see right through him.

“what’re these doing down here?” robby asked, hands shoved in his fleece pockets as he rocked back on his heels, aiming for nonchalance.

“charge from psych brought ‘em down. said they got delivered up there by mistake,” dana answered, pulling out her glasses to read the card.

before she could, robby snatched it from the arraignment and shoved it into his pocket—smooth, robinavitch. not conspicuous at all.

looking up through a raised brow, dana sighed incredulously, knowingly. “cap, you didn’t. please tell me you didn’t.”

robby thanked the universe for the nearby code blue that allowed him to flee before his interrogation began.

—

the flowers continued, your return-to-sender message clearly not received—or maybe it had been, the subsequent batches no longer accompanied by cards.

for weeks, a new bouquet would arrive every five or six days, time enough for the previous one to begin to wilt. not that you ever saw them get to that point, each arraignment being promptly carted off to another department—oncology, l&d, the icu; only to the ed if you were feeling particularly petulant and knew robby was working.

but it wasn’t just the bouquets, oh no. the treats began a few days after the first set of flowers.

it was just a coffee, still hot and on your desk when you arrived, innocuous enough in its to-go cup that you assumed someone did a run before shift.

but then the same afternoon, a cup of tea took its place, appearing right around the time you always needed a caffeine boost but we’re too lazy do anything about—the same way robby used to bring you something in the beginning.

morning coffees continued—oh so suspiciously only on days robby was working. afternoon teas followed the same, on days ed cases weren’t clogging the hospital charting system.

you couldn’t bring yourself to throw the drinks out, the gesture sitting strangely in your chest, conflicting with how it sat in your head.

even with the flowers and caffeine, no notes again joined them. no calls or texts from robby appeared on your phone. no unscheduled visits to your apartment. he didn’t try to explain just like you asked him not to, your rare communications professional and concise.

but—even with your therapist’s discouragement, even with a warmth in your chest growing, maybe because your intransigent brain felt it starting to work—you couldn’t help but take robby’s gifts as him trying to butter you up.

and that much, you were determined to tell him.

you made a mistake in the winter.

to say that the text was a surprise would’ve been an understatement. robby hadn’t heard from you outside of clipped consults since that night at your apartment two months ago, so when the please come up to my office after your shift lit up his phone, it gave him pause. where you finally going to talk? fight? tell him to fuck off? forgive him?

knocking at your door, robby heard a come in from the other side.

“hi, swee—hi,” robby corrected himself quickly, shutting the door behind him as he walked in.

“stop,” you blurted out, causing robby to pause quite literally in the middle of sitting down, confused. “no, not—jesus. sit down.”.

taking a shaky breath through your nose, you started again. “robby, you gotta stop with the flowers, and the coffee—” robby opened his mouth to interject, but was cut off by the look you threw him—mouth pursed, brows furrowed, but eyes wide, flicking back and forth with his. “a-and i know that dinner when i had to stay late a couple weeks ago was you, too, but no more of that either—”

“i just wanted to do something nice,” he interrupted, almost pouty—god what am i, five? he thought. you huffed out an incredulous laugh at that, arms crossing and eyes drifting to stare at the ceiling. “but i’ll admit it got to be a little about pulling at your pigtails, trying to get you to talk to me.”

eyes snapping back to his, your expression was no longer conflicting, all bitterness. “well, i’m here. so talk.”

robby paused, not expecting that. suddenly put on the spot, nothing came to mind beyond i’m sorry and i miss you and i still love you, but he had enough sense to know that wasn’t what you were looking for.

“you in therapy?”

“i—“ he started, rubbing his hand over his beard. robby had called in the referral when he arrived back, he had. but he quit the first therapist after three sessions when he told robby to stop with the flowers—the guy was right, but robby was feeling especially bullheaded that day. and a month later, he fired the second after only one session—she just reminded him just a little too much of you. “not really.”

“of course not,” you mumbled out, barely audible, turning your head away from robby. he would have thought it was out of irritation if not for the quick swipe of the hand you gave your cheek—you were crying.

standing to come around your desk, robby sank to his knees in front of you, gently cupping your face in his hands. “please don’t cry, sweetheart,” he plead quietly. your watery eyes turned sharp for a moment at the petname, before filling again, your chin wobbling.

“sorry,” robby continued. “i’m so sorry for everything. i don’t even know where to begin to try to earn your forgiveness, to make it up to you. i-i’m trying, yeah?” he swiped at your tears as they fell.

“you’re trying?” you choked out. “robby, gifts aren’t apologies—“

“i know, i know,” he interrupted. adverting his gaze briefly, blowing out a breath, trying to collect his thoughts, he continued, “i tried a couple of shrinks, but they weren’t—i didn’t—they just didn’t work out. but i promise you i’m trying.” his eyes darted between yours, willing his expression to convey everything he felt, even if his words were failing him.

you reach a shaky hand to grasp loosely around his wrist, cheek pressing into his palm. “robby, your words are just that: words. without action to back them up they—“ you started, voice caught in your throat.

maybe his eyes darted to your mouth, and maybe you noticed. maybe you leaned imperceptibly closer, or maybe robby was deluding himself.

whatever the reality, robby leaned in and captured your lips in a longing kiss, you returning it even as a tear fell once more.

—

when you called robby to your office, you had a plan: tell him to stop with the gifts, tell him to keep your relationship strictly professional, and tell him the name of the referral your therapist had gotten for him. three things. simple. straightforward.

so how you ended up letting him bury his face between your thighs, you couldn’t be sure, but at the time, you also couldn’t care less.

robby had one of your thighs thrown over his shoulder, pencil skirt bunched up around your hips, panties dangling from your ankle. he lapped at you like he was a dying man in the desert, and your cunt an oasis, if he didn’t drink from your core, he was sure to perish.

squeezing at the fat of your thigh, robby pulled you closer into his mouth, doe eyes looking up in search of yours. you could only screw your eyes shut—out of pleasure? sure; out of avoidance? outrage? fear that you’d say something stupid—like i hate you or i forgive you or i still love you? maybe.

robby continued his ministrations, licking and sucking at your clit, taking you apart with his tongue like it was second nature to him, your hand gripping tight at his hair, urging him on.

you had to cover your mouth with your other palm as robby slid his fingers into you, breaths coming out harsh and short from your nose as he curled them into your sweet spot expertly, moans caught behind your hand. moving his fingers in time with his suckling at your clit, you reached your peak with a muffled cry, heel digging into robby’s shoulder, hand pulling what must have been painfully at his hair.

as he worked you through the aftershocks, you finally chanced a glance down at robby—red-cheeked, sweaty-templed, eyes closed as he hummed into your core, like he was completely content to forever worship at the altar between your thighs.

“stand up and pull your pants down.”

you couldn’t say what possessed you to say it. maybe the endorphins, maybe his reverence, probably your loneliness. but next you knew, you were sitting against your desk, blindly fumbling along with robby to undo his scrub pants, kissing sloppily—all tongue and saliva and your orgasm.

when he breached your walls, you caught each others’ moans in your mouths, your hands grasping at his shoulders. as he rocked into you, robby once again cradled your face in his large hands. “please look at me, baby,” he plead softly.

unscrewing your eyelids, a sudden wave of anxiety rushed through you when you met robby’s gaze. his eyes—too gentle, too adoring, too venerating—burned into yours—suddenly panicked, filling with the sting of tears, too aware of what was happening and why it shouldn’t be, despite how much you craved it.

“waitwaitwait, robby, stop—“ you rushed out, pushing at his shoulders, breaths coming out short for a different reason now.

robby pulled away immediately, expression curled into confusion or heartbreak or despair or— “baby, what happened?“ he asked softly, concerned, brows furrowed.

“please—“ you choked out, pushing your palm against his chest when he tried to step toward you again. “please, i can’t do this, not like this,” you sobbed, eyes pinching shut, chin tucking into your chest. “robby, i need you to leave. i need you to help yourself, find someone who can help you. i can’t be the only one trying to fix what’s broken between us, not again, it isn’t fair to me, it isn’t fair to us. please—” you couldn’t let robby back in, not yet, not without him doing the work too. not when you knew how easily you could fall right back into the deep end with him, so sure he’d eventually again tire of your suffocating affection.

robby didn’t say anything as you bawled, just moved to tuck himself away. curling a shaky hand around your head, he placed a lingering kiss to your crown before listening to you, and leaving.

things were quiet in the spring.

“we got called for a consult in the pitt,” you heard javadi say from behind you.

you turned to lean against the nurses’ station, facing your med student, “okay.”

javadi shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “right now. the residents are both busy.”

glancing down to your watch, you saw that it was the middle of group therapy, lead by your r4 and observed by your r2.

tightening her arms around the tablet she held, javadi continued, “would you come supervise me?”

“have you done the initial already?” the ms4 had been in her psych rotation for three months, and she had been taking initial consults on her own for nearly two.

blinking up at you with her bambi eyes, javadi started again, “no, but mel—um, dr. king said it was a clear case of amphetamine-induced psychosis. i—the patient’s girlfriend said he’s been using heavily again, so i figured—not that i know better or anything—but i figured we’d just save the trip and—“

“breath, javadi,” you chuckled, the med student inhaling heavily. “that the chart?” you gestured to the tablet still gripped in her hands.

she nodded, handing it over. reading through it, she was correct, all information pointing to dr. king’s diagnosis. scrolling further, though, you couldn’t help but notice below melissa king - resident physician, was written michael robinavitch - attending physician.

glancing through your brow at javadi, you asked the student, “dr. king said the consult needed to be right now? couldn’t wait 40 minutes for the residents to be freed up?” couldn’t wait for the group therapy session to end? the one that happened every single day at the exact same time as it had since you started? the one you knew that robby’s nosy but well-meaning staff knew left you the only available psychiatrist for those 90 minutes?

she quickly looked away, hands pulling at the sleeves of her sweater. “mmhm,” all she gave in reply.

tucking the tablet under your arm, you let out a small sigh. “lead the way.”

—

robby didn’t need to be there. he knew it, mel knew it, yet when she brought her findings to him, she also asked him to observe while the psych consult was held—“i haven’t done many on my own,” she had stated, “i’d just like to make sure i’m conducting them properly.”

“psych is here,” mel informed as she walked around the hub to robby, waiting for him to join her walk to bh1.

then, robby saw you.

you were standing next to javadi as she read over the tablet in her hand, your hair falling from behind your ear—her hair is shorter—as you leaned over to follow along.

looking to his watch—1:57, group, no residents—robby was growing ever more aware as to why mel had insisted he observe. and now, with javadi peeking up with her nonexistent pokerface, her eyes darting between him and you, he was also growing suspicious as to why it only took 10 minutes for the consult to arrive.

—

“you supervising r3s now?” you asked, leaning back on your elbows against the counter of the hub, mirroring robby’s position.

“no, but mel insisted i observe,” robby answered. you let out a small hmm in response.

the two of you watched as the resident and med student discussed the patient, treatment options, the transfer upstairs. they weren’t even pretending like they needed their respective attending’s guidance, easily handing over the tablet for signature on their orders.

dr. king excused herself to check on a patient. javadi blurted a “no! i’ll get these orders upstairs to the residents. you take your time!” before scurrying away.

“you’re raising some meddling kids, robinavitch,” you teased quietly, robby blowing out a chuckle.

since the turn of the new year, you had only caught glimpses of robby—in staff meetings, across the cafeteria, at the occasional consult where the conversation was nothing but succinct and civil.

your grief over what you and robby lost, the sadness and anger that formed in its wake, had been replaced with a calm acceptance. you didn’t know if robby would ever be a part of your life again, contented that you may never be more than just colleagues.

(that hadn’t stopped some of his staff from butting in recently, though; dr. king and javadi were not the first to try to pull these antics.)

“how—” robby started, clearing his throat, “how have you been?” you turned to face him finally, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders shrugged up as he did when he attempted to shrink his large frame.

“i’ve been fine, busy,” you said with the shrug. “you? you look…good.” though you meant it as happier, relaxed, rested, you couldn’t lie and say he didn’t also look good.

his hair was cut and unruly from the day as opposed to from the length, his beard trimmed neatly. the circles under his eyes no longer dark and heavy, returned to the best they could be for an emergency physician, eyes above having regained some of their luster. he seemed to have lost a little of his belly, gained a broadness across his arms and shoulders.

(“been makin’ robby go to the gym with me,” jack—meddler-in-chief—had told you a few weeks ago. he may or may not have caught you staring at robby’s arms where they pulled his scrub top taut. “exercise is good for the ol’ mental health, too, y’know?”)

“yeah, i’ve been doing better,” robby replied, bringing you out of your thoughts. “i’ve been, uh, in therapy. since the holidays. finally found someone i like. doesn’t let me bullshit my way through it. gives me lots of homework,” he continued with a small chuckle, rubbing a hand over his neck, ears red.

“that’s great robby, really. i’m glad for you.” you gave him the first genuine smile you had in what felt like a lifetime.

“thank you, sweetheart.”

that earned him scowl, albeit one that didn’t carry much weight, smile still adorning your face. you let the petname otherwise slide, choosing to ignore the flutter it prompted in your stomach.

—

robby had never been so grateful for his ‘meddling kids’ as he was then, with you looking at him with a playful glare, fighting the smile tugging at your cheeks.

“you’re hair, it’s different. it’s nice,” robby blurted out, making you turn to him.

“oh! thanks,” you said with a small smile, attempting to tuck a piece hair behind ear, it falling back to your temple.

robby had the overwhelming urge to brush that lock back—cup your cheek, kiss you stupid. he settled on flexing his hand wide where it rested on the counter.

“see you around, robby,” you said after a beat, before walking away.

robby just stood there watching you leave, idiotic smile on his face, ears hot.

“that was almost unbearable to watch,” he heard from behind him.

turning, he saw perlah at the computer, hands steepled under her chin, sly grin plastered on her face. robby huffed out a humorless laugh. “aren’t you scheduled to be a busybody somewhere else?”

you gave him a chance in the summer.

after your encounter at the end of last year, robby knew it was rock bottom for your relationship—he thought he had hit it already and then some, but his life was just full of fun surprises.

so when jack silently handed him a new therapist referral a few days after, it seemed kismet, like the universe knew he needed guidance and delivered.

“‘s not from my guy. she asked me to give it to you,” jack supplied, head nodding in a general up direction. so maybe not the universe, maybe just the person robby broke again, the person who was still trying to help piece him back together despite that.

but he called, he owed it to you to call. and boy did it kick his ass.

his new therapist waited approximately 17 minutes into their third session before calling robby on his bullshit—this time, though, robby stayed. he hated it at the beginning, felt petulant, scolded, obstinate, humbled—

but, loath as he was to admit it, therapy was helping.

for the first time in years, robby felt like he could wade through the pool of his thoughts without fear of being pulled under by a riptide.

felt like he was finally capable of releasing at least some of the guilt he carried on his shoulders—adamson, leah, langdon.

felt like he was allowed to extricate the rubble from the father-shaped hole in his heart, clearing way for it to be filled with the affection of those he cared for—his friends, his coworkers, and maybe one day again, you.

it didn’t lessen the pressure and responsibility thrust upon him in the pitt, but it gave him the means to better cope with those stressors.

it provided him the tools and guidance to finally talk with langdon—with frank; not as his attending, but as his friend. allowed robby to apologize for not seeing the signs, for not reaching out sooner, for how he handled it that day—and in turn, letting robby hear frank out, accepting his apology, and, maybe only half-begrudgingly, admitting that yeah, they were friends.

that conversation took a lot out of robby, filled more than a few sessions to work up to it, work out what he would say—and that was supposed to be his easy one.

your clipped consults had begun shifting into pleasant small talk recently, tucked away in the pitt between bouts of chaos, but never more than a fleeting moment, robby never saying what he truly wished to.

it’d been nearly eight months of weekly appointments, plus whatever homework his therapist threw at him, before robby felt even remotely in a good enough place to speak with you, to have that uncomfortable conversation.

he knew it was past due—that was, if you were even ready to speak with him, even willing.

when he confided in jack—because apparently he did that now when he wasn’t having a breakdown—he just assured robby that you seemed to be in a good place too. that you didn’t seem to have a storm cloud looming over your head anymore. that maybe jack had overheard a nightshift nurse mention that some anesthesiologist was gung-ho on you to go out with him—and maybe that lit a bit of a fire under robby’s ass.

(“don’t worry, brother. i’ve been sowing the seeds. you just a gotta reap ‘em.”

“jack, what the fuck are you talking about?”)

maybe that’s why robby sent you one—just one—more bouquet.

—

there were flowers outside your apartment door.

after a month of nagging, you had caved and agreed to go out with the insistent anesthesiologist.

the date was lousy. the conversation was mediocre. the company was grating. you weren’t even sure why you said yes, he wasn’t your type. short and lean, teeth too big in his clean-shaven mouth, light-haired and lighter-eyed, cocky without any substance to back it up—not warm, not easy to make blush, not robby.

the night ended without so much as a handshake. you saying you were better off as colleagues, him insisting on a second date, you rejecting him firmly. you thought he got the message.

but now, two weeks later, there were flowers outside your apartment door.

shuffling your bags and now the bouquet inside, you were ready to toss them out, but were stopped by the card: your name, and written in all too familiar handwriting—

whenever you’re ready, whenever you want—if you’re ever ready, if you ever want—i owe you an apology. i’ll be here, however long you need.

and further down, p.s. i promise this is the only one i’ll send this time.

robby.

your dud of a date didn’t know where you live, you realized, of course it was robby.

the urge to throw out the flowers suddenly dissipated, replaced by those treacherous butterflies in your stomach, goading you to say yes, yes, yes!

and you resisted. for a few days. but seeing the bouquet every morning and every evening, the temptation was too much. robby was trying, he was being respectful of your boundaries. the conversations you two shared in passing no longer felt tense, but comfortable, familiar. you wanted to hear him out, wanted closure if nothing else.

when you texted come to mine. tomorrow at 8. you didn’t expect a quick reply. still didn’t even after all this time.

but robby replied almost immediately. i’ll be there.

as if on cue, there was a knock at your door—7:53, early.

“hi,” robby breathed when you opened the door. “someone was coming out when i got here so i didn’t buzz up, sorry if—“

“just come in, robby,” you snicker, robby following you in.

—

robby being back in your place again felt too good, too right. like he hadn’t fully made it home from leave until he stepped into yours.

“want something to drink? water? beer?”

“water, please,” robby replied, rocking on his heels at your counter. “i, uh—i haven’t been drinking.”

“good answer,” you smirked, handing him a glass as you walked past him into your living room. “so,” you continued, patting the other side of the couch from where you sat.

robby joined you, downing half his water before turning to face you. “i’m so, so sorry”

“for?”

“you—i didn’t—you don’t deserve me.”

your brows furrowed at that, frown forming, before robby quickly clarified, “shit, no—i mean, fuck, i’ve spent hours going over what i want to—need to say, how to say it, but it’s all just—“ robby runs his hands over his face, red creeping up his neck. “you deserve better than me, don’t deserve to put up with me. i don’t deserve you.”

“go on,” you prompted.

“how i ended things, it was cowardly. what’d you call me? the grinch?” there was an unintentional hint of humor in his voice at the comparison, causing a smile to tug at your lips. but robby coughed, steadying himself. “i was a coward. i knew if i saw you after i made my decision, i’d fold immediately, i’d stay, and god, you didn’t deserve that. i had no right to make you deal with my shit.”

crossing your arms loosely, you leaned to rest against the armrest. “so a note then?”

“i guess—fuck, i’m sorry,” robby croaked, heels of his palms digging into his eyes. “i—i could have written an actual letter, an explanation, something, but i also couldn’t. not without sounding like a fucking lunatic or saying something that could be taken even worse, without the ability to clarify.”

“i dunno, what you said felt pretty ‘worse’ to me.”

robby turned to look at you again, willing his expression to convey his sincerity. you didn’t hold his gaze, dipping your head to look at your knees. “and i’ll regret it forever,” he replied, head lowering to chase your eyes. only when yours finally met his did he continue.

“i never learned how to let people in, not fully. how to express what i was feeling without it coming out as sarcasm or rage or panic. i just got really good at holding it in, boxing it up, and shoving it away. maybe it was from the boys-don’t-cry bullshit my father preached before he split. maybe it was me trying to make life as easy as i could for my mother and grandma. i don’t know. it’s not an excuse, just an explanation.

“but the…avoidance, it touched every relationship i ever had, tainted it. it was unfair to you. you’re the only one—you’re not the first to call me out on it, but you’re the only one i’ve heard, that i was willing to do the work for,” he blew out an exhale. “and i’m so sorry it still took this fucking long.”

robby looked off to the side, mouth twisting and nose scrunching, attempting to keep from crying. sitting back up, you tugged gently at the fabric on his knee resting on the couch—he took it as a silent plea to continue.

“even in the beginning, there was a voice in my head telling me that you were too good for me, that i’d ruin you, that you were worthy of so much better. but i was selfish, i shoved it down, i ignored it. maybe if i hadn’t, it would never—i wouldn’t have gotten so bad,” robby turned to face you again, voice cracking slightly.

“you were always so open with me about your past and your insecurities and i didn’t trust myself to do the same. i wanted to be so good for you but instead i just took your trust and used it to hurt you, shoved it right back in your face just because i was hurting and wouldn’t deal with it—” breaking eye contact, robby moved his hand next to yours still holding his knee, thumb brushing lightly at your knuckles.

“and fuck i regretted it the second it happened, the second i said it. i’m so fucking sorry for it. i took and took and brought you down right along with me.” robby’s voice was coming out in sobs now. “you don’t do that to someone you love. i saw my father abuse my mom for years and swore i’d never be like him but fuck if i didn’t—”

“whoa! robby, hey!” you interrupted, scooting closer, feet tucking under his leg. “what you did, how you acted, i can’t lie and say it didn’t fucking hurt me because it did. but i need you to understand one thing, and that’s that you were never anything like him.

“what you did—how you acted, it stemmed from grief and trauma and years of repression, not from the essence of your being. in your hurt you hurt me, yes, but that wasn’t—isn’t who you are at your core, i know that. it—it’ll take time, but you’ve already made so much progress and i’m so happy for you, and one day you’ll see that. see that you’re not like your father.”

you reach for robby’s cheek, tilting his face to look to you again. when he does, your eyes were red and watery, darting back and forth between his.

you stayed like that for a beat, gently thumbing at robby’s cheekbone, letting his breathing slow, before continuing. “you’re maybe a bit of a dick—” robby let out a wet laugh, hand scrubbing at his eyes “—but holy shit, never abusive. you’re therapist didn’t say that you were, right? because if so i’m gonna have to have a talk with—”

“god no. i’ve gone way off script,” robby assured, large hand wrapping around yours on his cheek, moving them to rest in his lap. “i was picturing something simpler with less crying and that left me with a little more dignity.”

you gave robby’s hand a squeeze. “thank you. for apologizing. for letting me in. i can’t…i can’t say i completely forgive you right now, not yet, but i understand. and i appreciate the work you’re doing and you opening up. i still lo—” you cleared your throat, but robby still caught the almost-slip, his heart skipping a beat. “you’re still so important to me, and i don’t…i don’t want to go back to being strangers. please, just give me a little time—”

“i’ll give you all the time in the world,” robby interjected earnestly. “you’re it for me. however you let me back into your life, if you ever do, i’ll take.” maybe that was too much for him to say, but in that moment he wanted—needed you to know.

“thank you, honey,” you smiled sweetly, the petname like music to his ears.

robby leaned to kiss the back of your hand, holding it tight for a moment. “i should probably head out.”

you only nodded, rising to follow him as he walked to the door.

turning in the doorframe, robby looked back to you one final time. “just again for the record, i am truly sorry.”

rising on your toes, you leaned and placed a delicate kiss to the hollow of his cheek. “good night, robby.”

“goodnight, sweetheart.”

—

it’d been nearly a month since robby’s apology.

a month of conversations with him—easy, comfortable, never rushing, never pressuring—and about him—with your mother, who just wanted you happy; your friends, who still wanted to wring his neck; with your therapist, who told you to trust your gut, that if it felt right, it felt right.

(“so, you and robby seem awfully chummy again,” dr. mckay said one evening when you accompanied your intern on a consult.

“glad to see even the senior residents are churning the rumor mill,” you replied, not bothering to look up from the chart. “it’s like you all have money riding on this or something,” you mumbled.

the silence that followed spoke for itself.)

and for once, your heart and your head wanted the same thing.

—

entering the pitt that late summer morning, robby felt eyes on him, watched.

there was whitaker and santos at the hub—the latter, openly staring, chin resting on her fist; the former, at least pretending to look at a tablet, even if the screen was very much black.

“what’s with the look?” robby questioned.

“special delivery,” lena answered with a smirk as she leaned over a computer with dana.

robby turned then to jack, confusion on his face at everyone’s weirdness.

jack just tilted his head, eyes pointing to the computer typically occupied by robby.

sitting next to the keyboard was a paper coffee cup, three of those yellow daisy-looking flowers that grew everywhere placed inside. stuck to the side was a sticky note, and in your looping handwriting:

i forgive you. have dinner with me.

it began again in the fall.

you remembered why it’d been so easy to fall for robby in the beginning—all charm and sweet touches and a playful personality. he was still all that, but now also more at ease, more forthcoming, mending.

“i know this is my seventh last chance, and i want to prove to you that i won’t need more, that this is worth it,” robby had stated.

it wouldn’t always simple, you knew that, neither of you were simple people.

“keep going to therapy. i’ll do the same,” you insisted.

“deal.”

“if your appointment frequency scales back that’s fine, as long as you’re still putting in the work.”

“i’d go every day if you wanted,” robby assured.

there were ground rules, discussed and agreed upon, lines of communication open and honest.

“and i’m taking you out once a week,” robby added.

“honey—”

“at least.”

“robby, you’re busy. your hours are more chaotic than mine. you don’t need to commit to date night,” you countered—don’t make promises you can’t keep.

“but i’m gonna,” he smiled.

and he did. even if he was bone tired, even if you were on call, even if it was just takeout at the park in your lounge clothes, he did—always dropping you back home with a soft smile and kiss to your forehead.

“i want to take things slow,” robby had stated, and you agreed.

you decided against sleepovers, at least for the time being. no lunchtime trysts in your office.

“well, i mean—i don’t, but i need to prove i’m here fully—emotionally, not just physically,” robby added, cheeks your favorite shade of red.

“whatever you need, honey,” you promised.

robby didn’t kiss you until after your fourth date. it was slow and longing and hopeful, your hands on his chest, his cupped around your cheeks delicately, like one false move and you’d shatter. but once you deepened it, robby followed—promising, anticipatory, pulling you into him, dominating the kiss.

it wasn’t until date seven that anything more than kissing happened.

robby never took, only gave—and gave and gave and gave. with his hands, his mouth, your vibrator, his thighs.

he never asked you to return the favor, politely declined when you’d offer.

“this isn’t about me, baby. making you feel good makes me feel good,” robby insisted each time.

in all your less-than-covert efforts, you’d only managed to get robby there twice since this all restarted. once, on your couch, grinding desperately in his lap, him only letting himself go after you were already riding the aftershocks of your own orgasm. the second, though unintentional, had robby coming untouched in his pants, all ruddy-cheeked and abashed, like he hadn’t just spent the last hour taking you apart with your toys.

“fuck, that’s emb—“

“hot,” you interrupted him, pulling him in for a filthy kiss.

what you didn’t know, however—assumed maybe, hoped even, but didn’t know—was that the man was barely making it into his house before he was shoving his pants down, tugging at his weeping cock, orgasm slamming into him embarrassingly quick.

robby was sincere in his words, about wanting to take it slow, rebuild your emotional relationship, your trust, perfectly content to only focus on your pleasure—but fuck if he wasn’t still a weak man.

even still, you and robby took your time—reintroduced yourselves to each other, learned parts you’d kept hidden, parts you’d been healing. it wasn’t always simple, neither of you were simple people, but you both tried not to deflect, wouldn’t let the other cower away.

robby never pushed to label anything, and you never pushed him further than he willing went himself. you both knew that you were exclusive, yet neither ever saying those three words you used to trade so easily, even if they now felt truer than ever.

but after date number 15 in half as many weeks, as robby walked you to your door, you finally decided to nudge.

“are you ever gonna ask me to be your girlfriend? again?” you deadpanned.

“i don’t wanna rush—i mean, i do but i won’t—i—” robby sputtered. “i wanna give you plenty of time to come to your senses.” he chuckled lowly, self-deprecating.

“ask me.”

“what?”

“ask me,” you prompted again, stepping closer to robby, coy smile tugging at your lips.

he just looked back at you, eyes crinkling as a smile grew on his own face. “hmm, well when you ask so nicely,” he jested, sliding a hand up your neck to tangle in the hair at your nape, pulling your mouth closer to his. “will you be my girlfriend? again?”

“why, yes i will,” you sealed with a kiss, feeling robby smile into it. after a moment, you added softly, “will you take me to bed, robby?”

and fuck if robby wasn’t captive to your being, subservient to your words, at the mercy of your touch—a weak man.

—

you and robby came back together slowly, reverently.

robby undressed you like a gift, placing feather-light kisses in his wake—to your neck, your shoulder, your spine. calloused hands gliding petal-soft across your throat, cupping your breasts, rolling a nipple between pinched fingers, traveling down, down your stomach. he let his hand rest low on your belly, pinky dipping just under the waistband of your panties.

you could feel him standing behind you, hardness pressing against your ass. sliding a hand around to the small of his back, you urged robby closer, to rut into the valley of your cheeks, earning you a rumbling groan in your ear.

robby’s tongue laved across your jaw, down your neck, as his hand pushed into your underwear. he gathered your arousal, bringing it to glide against your clit, fingers deft in the art of taking you apart.

you let out breathy moans, hand reaching up to scratch at the hairs on robby’s neck, pulling his mouth closer to your pulse.

robby paused his ministrations, spinning you in his arms to reconnect your mouths. tongues met and caressed as he guided you to the bed, laying you down against the edge.

robby sucked bruising kisses down your sternum, your belly as he slid your panties down your legs, dropping to his knees between yours, mouth following to your hip, your thigh. it was a position he’d been in often, recently and before, pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed, satisfied to offer his veneration to your core.

“honey,” you breathed, sitting up to face robby, “i just want you tonight. please.”

robby sat back on his heels, contemplating—not if he’d give you what you want, but how long he wanted to draw it out, work you up. but looking up at you, eyes hooded, teeth biting at your lower lip, chest already heaving, robby knew his teasing could wait.

“whatever you want, baby,” robby said, placing a chaste kiss to your knee.

you inched backward on the bed as robby rose again, pushing his boxers off, cock springing free. he crawled over you, caging you with his large frame, capturing your mouth with his once more.

reaching between your bodies, you tugged at robby’s length, just as hot and thick as you remembered, ankles wrapping behind his thighs, bringing him closer. he let out a groan as he thrusted into your fist.

breaking from the kiss, robby smiled down at you, brushing a hair from your temple. replacing your hand with his, he slid his cock through your folds, gathering your wetness, head teasing your clit.

aligning himself with your entrance, robby’s eyes searched yours. “you sure?”

nodding, you dug your heels into his ass, pulling him into you. you let out a gasp as robby entered you, the stretch burning as good as you remembered, body contorting to take his length inch by torturous inch.

hips flushed with yours, robby dropped to his elbows, arms caging your head. biting at that spot below your ear that made you squirm, he let you adjust to him, longer and thicker than his fingers and any of the toys he’d used on you. the intrusion was a lot, heavy, not just in the physical sense, but oh so welcome.

raking your nails up his back, you breathed into his ear, “fuck me, robby.”

and robby, nothing if not generous, obliged. pulling your knees into the crooks of his elbows, robby pulled out nearly completely before slamming back into you.

moans and grunts ripped from your throats, breaths coming in pants as robby set a near-brutal pace. the chain around his neck dangled at the hollow of your throat, metal cool against your burning skin, his balls slamming into your ass with every thrust.

robby grunted out a need more, baby before repositioning you, bringing your legs up to his shoulders, bending you nearly in half as he pounded into your sopping core. he caught your scream in his mouth at the shift in angle, his cock hitting your sweet spot head on.

the weight of your emotions, the weight of robby’s large frame pinning you down, reduced you to a keening mess, whimpering out robbybabybabybabys into his mouth.

you felt tears welling in your eyes, the pressure grow in your belly. trapped below the bulk of robby, all you could do was bite your nails into his triceps, your teeth into his lip.

robby, flushed and sweaty and always a little smug in bed, just cooed. “aw, my sweet girl…so perfect…takin’ me so well…i’ll take care of you, always will, sweet baby.”

dropping one leg to wrap around his upper back, robby moved his hand between your legs, thumb circling your clit.

you gasped, tears now escaping your lashes, rolling down your cheeks. robby just bent to kiss and lick them away as the fell, murmuring sweet nothings and sweeter filth between each tear.

the band in your belly was growing taut, ready to snap. “ro-obby!” you plead, “‘m so close s’close, please—“

“shh, baby, i gotcha. jus’ let go f’me,” he hummed, speeding his thumb and his thrusts. “‘ love you s’much,” he added, panting in your ear.

your orgasm crashed into you then, thighs shaking, hips attempting to buck up from under robby, a sob ripping from you chest.

robby’s ministrations didn’t slow, working you through your aftershocks and into his own climax, painting your walls with a guttural groan of his own.

he collapsed on you, releasing the leg from around his shoulder, chests heaving against each others. the weight of robby tethered you to earth, to him, cock softening inside you.

he pulled out slowly, a shiver ripping through you at the emptiness, returning to lay half on you, half on the bed.

robby smoothed his hand over your hair, propped up on an elbow over you. “i love you, sweetheart,” he said, kissing at your tear-stained cheeks.

you hummed, pulling robby closer to you. “i love you too, honey. so fucking much.”

it was good in the fall.

me @ me: write a fic without mentioning betting in the pitt challenge (impossible)

[trinsantosgf]

was kind of skeptical of what the groveling would look like but this was perfect