𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: James, who constantly follows you around, finds himself debating his career after something happens with a patient, so you invite him out for drinks to talk. What could possibly go wrong with that?
Warnings: Death mentioned, crying, SMUTTT holy fuck this is a lot of dirty shit, handjob, semi-public handjob, oral sex (both male and female receiving), riding, names, the word 'pathetic' used to degrade, dacryphilia, degradation, praise, pet names used (baby), ma'am kink, no use of a condom (they just raw dog this shit bruh). MINORS DNI WITH THIS, THIS IS STRICTLY 18+ !!
a/n: guys, I'm sorry to admit, but I am in fact horny for this man. It's most definitely ovulation, but I don't care. I need him NEOW. So yes, I wrote this on Easter Sunday, and I'm sure that's a sin somewhere, but I genuinely don't care. It's 11 at night where I live, I'm watching Caseoh, and I'm listening to old Rihanna, so I'm basically in heaven right now. Also, no, I haven't watched the most recent episode where Ogilvie cries after losing the patient and is found by Whitaker in the Ambuance bay, but I've seen clips on TikTok so this is based off of that. wc. 10,159 (holy shit guys this was so long)
James Ogilvie loves to follow you around.
You noticed it on the second or third hour he was there.
He was always behind you, even though you weren’t his assigned R2. He asked you multiple questions over multiple minutes, kept looking towards you to see if you caught him correcting dosages and calling out the right names for things, etc.
You knew he liked being smarter than most people. That was more than apparent on multiple occasions. So, when he started coming up to you, asking questions once again, to try and show off his knowledge, you had just had about enough.
“Should I start fluids?”
You don’t even look up at first, you’re halfway through a chart, pen moving quickly, mentally juggling three different patients and a lab result you’re still waiting on.
“Yeah,” you say, distracted. “Go ahead.”
“Okay.”
It happens again, not ten minutes later. “Do you want me in room three or five?”
That makes you glance up. Ogilvie’s already standing there, chart in hand, eyes on you. He’s focused on your face in a way that feels just a little too intent for such a simple question.
“Do whatever you want, Ogilvie. Three is fine,” you answer.
“Got it.” He turns immediately, like the decision unlocked something, and disappears down the hall. You frown faintly, but it doesn’t stick; there’s too much going on to think anything about it.
By mid-shift, it’s constant. Not annoying, not yet exactly, but noticeable in a way that starts to itch at the back of your brain.
“Is this okay?”, “Should I call for labs?”, “Do you want me to page cardio?”, “Should I—”
“Yes, Ogilvie,” you say, cutting him off gently but firmly. “That’s fine.”
“Okay.”
Always okay.
He always responds with okay. An immediate response. ‘And soon enough, he’ll be waiting for permission to breathe’, Cassie told you.
“You realize he’d let you ruin his life if you asked nicely, right?” The voice slides in from your left, dry and amused.
You don’t need to look to know it’s Trinity Santos. Still, you do. She’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching Ogilvie move between rooms with a kind of lazy curiosity. Like she’s observing something mildly entertaining.
You exhale through your nose. “That’s dramatic.”
“Is it?” she tilts her head. “Watch him.”
You don’t respond right away, but you do watch.
“I dare you to call him over here. Say his name and watch him come running.” Trinity tells you, poking your arm.
“That’s mean, Trinity.” You say, continuing to watch as Ogilvie looks over at where you two are standing for a moment before looking back at the patient, smiling. “Come onnnn.” Trinity practically whines. “The day is almost over, night shift is coming in soon. I want to have some fun before the day is over.”
You roll your eyes. “You owe me a white-claw.” You tell her before calling him over. “Ogilvie.” You barely even raise your voice as he appears almost instantly.
“Yeah?” he asks, a little breathless, as he got there faster than he expected to.
And then he just… waits expectantly. Eyes on you. His shoulders were slightly squared. Hands still. So ready. The realization settles slowly.
You hand him a chart. “Take this one. Initial workup.”
“Okay,” he says quickly, already reaching for it. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”
He’s not incompetent. Not even close. Maybe a little apathetic, but he’s good, careful, and attentive. He notices things other people miss. Which is why what happens next shouldn’t have happened.
A patient comes in just before you’re all supposed to clock out. He complains of having chest pain. Being mid-fifties, you have a fear of it being a heart attack. He looks pale, and he’s sweating buckets, but when he clutches his side like he’s trying to hold something in his body together, your mind shifts to maybe appendicitis.
His vitals aren’t great, but not immediately catastrophic. They’re somewhat manageable, and you’ve definitely seen worse.
“Ogilvie, take point,” you say, passing him the chart. “Run the initial workup. I’ll check in.”
“Okay,” he says again, quick and certain. “Yeah.” There’s no hesitation from him and no uncertainty. At first, everything goes exactly as it should. EKG. Labs. Monitoring.
He moves efficiently, calmly, voice steady as he talks the patient through everything. You pass by once, glance in, and see everything under control, so you keep moving. He’s got this. He’s not alone either, he has Trinity and Robby.
But even with all the help, the patient still crashes.
While the patient was quick to get here, the appendicitis had gone too long untreated, and he had succumbed to it. Everyone held a moment of silence for the patient, then tried to clean the room for another.
It wasn’t until about 30 minutes later that a few of you realized the obnoxious intern was not…here.
“Where’s Ogilvie?” Robby asked, looking around the room. All of you shrugged, you included. “Go find him.” He says, pointing to you.
You nod, and as soon as Robby turns his back, you look at Trinity, Cassie, and Perlah, raising your arms in a ‘what?’ gesture and giving them a ‘wtf why me’ before going off to find wherever the overachiever went.
It was warmer outside than in, and you let out a breath as you looked around the ambulance bay.
“Ogilvie?” But there’s no answer. You shrug, figuring, “Hey, good enough”, and turn to walk back inside. But over the potted plants near the sliding doors, you see a head of blond curls peeking through the greenery. “Ogilvie?” You say again.
But he’s quiet. He looks like he’s trying to shrink away. Like, if he stays small enough, he won’t exist at all.
You step closer now. “James?” He finally looks up at you, and you realize that he’s been…crying. He’s been crying. Why has he been crying? “What’s wrong? Why are you out here? And why are you crying?” you ask, softer now.
He doesn’t answer, he just keeps looking at you. It looks like he doesn’t even know why he’s crying. He doesn’t even know what crying is. He seems as though he’s waiting for you to tell him what this is, whatever he’s feeling. What to do with it, how to fix it.
You hesitate, just for a second, before you decide to sit down beside him. You notice the surgical gown that he hasn’t taken off yet is covered in blood. The concrete is cold through your scrubs, and somewhere behind you, ambulance doors slam.
Neither of you speaks for a long moment; there’s just the sound of his uneven breathing.
“You can’t save everyone, y’know? I learned that the hard way.”
“I didn’t know what to do.” His voice is quiet. It sounds like it took too much from him to even say that.
You sigh. “You did,” you say gently. “You handled it. It was a tough case—”
“I thought if I just—” he exhales shakily. “If I did everything Robby said, it would be fine.” He swallows hard. His hands curl slightly against each other. “Can you just…” he starts, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me what I should’ve done?”
The question lands right in your hands. Your instinct is immediate. Answer him. Fix it. Fix how he’s feeling, give him something solid to hold onto. But you stop. Because now you see it. The way he’s been leaning on you all day without you even realizing it.
He likes you. A lot. Probably more than just an intern and an R2, whatever an R2 can mean to someone like him. You already know he wants any attention he can get, to be praised and told he did a great job. But you can’t give that to him, you don’t want to give in. You want him to figure this out for himself this time. As you said, you can’t save everyone who comes through those doors.
You shake your head. “No.”
He flinches at your answer. Confusion replaces the sadness, just for a second. “What? Why?”
You take a breath. “Because you do know what to do, James.”
He shakes his head and laughs ruefully. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” you interrupt, softer this time. “You followed Robby’s orders, right? Sometimes that’s all we can do.”
He shakes his head, frustration creeping in. “If you had been there—”
“No.” This time, your voice is more firm. “You can’t keep doing this,” you say quietly. “You can’t wait for someone else to tell you how to do your job. Most of the time, you’re figuring it out as you go.” His shoulders tense, and his gaze drops again. “I’m not always going to be there. And as I said, we can’t promise everyone we will save them.”
For a second, you think he’s going to shut down again. Retreat back into that quiet, unreachable place of his. But thankfully, he doesn’t. “I just didn’t want to mess it up. It….” He exhales before continuing. “It sucks to mess up.”
“Hey,” you say, softer now. He doesn’t look at you, so you nudge his shoulder, gently. “Hey. Look at me.” He does, but he’s reluctant. “You’re allowed to mess up,” you tell him. “It’s your first day still, mind you.”
He frowns immediately, like the concept is foreign to him. “Not like that.”
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Even like that.” He shakes his head; he doesn’t believe you. You exhale slowly. “James… you don’t have to get everything right just to be good at this.” You soften your voice even more. “You don’t have to earn anything.”
That’s all you say. You two both go back to staying silent, listening to the sounds of the city. The far-off police sirens howling, car horns honking, people on break chatting away as they walk by, coffee in hand.
You debate asking your next question, but you had always appreciated it when Dana or Mateo asked. You suck in a breath, looking at Ogilvie, who is still staring at the ground. You do have to admit to yourself that he’s kind of cute. “Do you want to get a drink after shift? I mean,” you add, a little quieter now, “you don’t have to. I just thought it might help. It always helps me.”
He studies your face. You watch his eyes move around as you look back at him. You look at his own eyes before dropping down to his lips and then back up again. He seems like he’s trying to figure out what the right answer is, so you add: “You can say no.”
That seems to snap him out of whatever hypnosis he’s in because he replies, “…Why would I?” he asks, genuinely.
A small, breathy laugh escapes you. “Just…think about it,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “Slow down before answering right away.”
You grab your bag from the locker room, rolling your shoulders as you step out into the cool evening air.
The sky is dim, washed in a muted blue-gray that sits just before full dark. The world doesn’t know what just happened inside those walls, and you like it. You always try to separate your home and work life, but now it’s sort of blending as you see Ogilvie.
You spot him a few feet away. He’s standing near the edge of the parking lot, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself. He looks… out of place. Not in scrubs anymore, not actively working, just standing there, waiting.
For you.
“You still up for that drink?” you ask as you approach.
He straightens almost immediately, as the sound of your voice pulls him back into reality.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, softer, like he’s correcting himself, “—yeah. If you are.”
You nod toward the street. “There’s a place a couple blocks down. Nothing fancy.”
“That’s fine,” he says, falling into step beside you without another question.
The walk is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable. He asks a question every now and then, and you, being you, answer every time. The city hums around you in low, distant sounds—cars passing, the murmur of people further down the street, the occasional flicker of neon from half-lit storefronts.
Ogilvie keeps his hands in his pockets the whole time.
His shoulders brush yours once, just barely, and he shifts immediately, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to take up that much space.
You obviously notice, but you don’t say anything. You’re testing the waters as well, doing this.
The bar you arrive at is small. A dimly lit interior spills out onto the sidewalk, warm yellow light cutting through the cool evening air. The sign above the door flickers faintly, and inside, the noises are low. There are soft conversations all around, the clink of glasses, muted music humming somewhere beneath it all.
It’s not crowded, but there are certainly a lot of people here.
“This okay?” you ask, glancing at him.
He nods. “Yeah. It’s good.” There’s something almost relieved in his voice. Inside, the air is warmer. It smells faintly of alcohol and wood polish. The lighting is low enough that you can see, but it takes your eyes a few seconds to adjust. You catch a booth in the far corner that’s free, so you motion towards it.
You slide into it, your back to the wall behind you, as James slides into the other that’s facing you. “What do you want?” you ask, glancing over at him.
He blinks, the question catching him off guard. “Uh…whatever you’re getting is fine.”
You tilt your head slightly. “That’s not how this works.” There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your mouth. “Pick something.”
He looks at the menu like it’s more complicated than it should be, like there’s a right answer hidden somewhere between the lines. “…Tequila?” he says finally, uncertain.
“That works,” you nod, standing up and stepping out of the booth. “I’ll go get us a bottle of Tequila and two shot glasses. Maybe some limes while we’re at it. I’ll be back.” You give him a small smile and a squeeze on his shoulder.
You ask the bartender for two glasses and a full bottle, giving him the money and making your way back over to your quaint little booth. You pour some for Ogilvie and then yourself, counting down the first shot as you knock it back.
It goes down easier for you, not as easily for James. The burning sensation crawls down your throat, and it’s just enough to make you feel a little better about today. Across from you, James coughs slightly after his, his shoulders tensing before he exhales, a little surprised.
“Okay?” you ask, amused.
“Yeah,” he says quickly, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that’s—yeah.”
You huff a quiet laugh before pouring more liquid into the two shot glasses and knocking it back again. James handles it a little better this time around. “So,” you say, resting your elbow on the table, your chin propped lightly in your hand. “Do you always do that?”
He blinks. “Do what?”
“Look at me like you’re waiting for something.”
His face flushes almost immediately. It creeps up from his collar to his cheeks, quick and unmistakable. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops. “I mean—I didn’t realize I was—”
“You were,” you say, not unkindly. “All day.”
He looks down at the bar, fingers brushing lightly against the rim of his glass. “Sorry.”
You reach out without really thinking about it, and your hand lands lightly on his forearm. Warm and solid. It makes him still instantly. “Hey,” you say, softer now. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine.”
He glances up at you, clearly thrown off—not just by the words, but by the contact. You can feel it under your hand, the way his muscles tense, the way he seems to freeze for a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “You don’t have to apologize for everything,” you add.
He swallows. His gaze flickers—not away, but down, just briefly, like he’s aware of how close you are now. Of your hand still resting on him.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “No more apologizing.”
You don’t move your hand right away, and you don’t really want to. There’s something about him like this—flustered, a little overwhelmed, trying so hard to get it right even now—that pulls at you in a way you weren’t expecting.
You pull your hand back eventually, letting it drop to the table, fingers brushing against your own glass. “Another?” you ask.
He nods. By the third shot, there’s a looseness to him now, a slight delay in his reactions, like he’s not filtering himself as carefully. His shoulders aren’t as tight. His posture isn’t as rigid.
And when he looks at you, it lingers, just a little longer than before. You notice. Of course you do.
“You’re staring,” you say lightly, a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. His eyes widen slightly.
“I—no, I wasn’t—I mean—”
“You were,” you interrupt, softer this time.
He huffs out a small, nervous breath. Then, after a second, he responds with “…Sorry. You’re just…really pretty.”
You laugh. You actually laugh this time. And without thinking, you reach out again, your hand brushing his arm this time. “James.” You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You know,” you say, voice dipping just a little, “you’re allowed to look at me.” Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth.
When you look back up, he’s already looking at you, and there’s something new in it. Something that wasn’t there before. You lean in, just a fraction. It’s not enough to cross the line, but it’s certainly enough to make heat start to curl in your stomach and between your thighs.
Your hand lifts again, this time settling more deliberately against his shoulder, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. And the best part of all of this is that he lets you do it. He’s so willing in this situation. Always so willing.
Your heart kicks a little harder in your chest because suddenly, it’s not about whether you can, it’s more about whether you should.
“James,” you murmur.
His name sounds different like this. You like the name, James. It suits him. “Yeah?” he breathes. He’s looking at you as if you asked—
But you stop the thought before it can continue as your mind remembers Trinity’s voice echoing in your head. You realize he’d let you ruin his life if you asked nicely, right? Your grip on his shoulder softens. You don’t pull away, but you don’t close the distance either. Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against him, against the collar of his throat, and you watch as his Adam’s apple bobs in response.
You smile—just a little. “Slow down,” you say quietly.
He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “What?” he asks, a little dazed.
You chuckle. “Nothing,” you say, leaning back just slightly, enough to give him space. “Just… don’t let me make all your decisions tonight, okay?”
“‘M’not.” He says, shaking his head. “I promise.”
“If you say so.” You release his shirt, and he slumps back against the booth.
The night stretches as you keep pouring the Tequila. You’ve moved from sitting across from him to sitting next to him now. You look at him while he talks, your face resting in your hand that leans on the table.
Every time he tries to make eye contact with you, he sees you’re already looking at him, so his eyes go back to the wall or the window or just something else that’s not you. You clearly make him nervous.
And he’s cute when he’s nervous. Really cute. It’s not just the alcohol talking.
Your foot finds his leg under the table, and you begin to move it up and down, slowly. You watch as he stumbles over his words, his hand going to your thigh. But then you’re quick to pull your shoe away, and he looks more sad than he was in the ambulance bay.
He leans in to kiss you, but you stop him, shaking your head. “Mmm. Keep talking. I like listening.” You tell him, and he nods, continuing with his story about something stupid he did as a teenager that was a dare from his friends.
Your hand goes to his thigh, and you look up at him. He’s biting his lower lip and looking up towards the ceiling. He won’t look at you.
“Tell me if this is not okay, okay?” You tell him, reaching your free hand up to grab his chin, forcing him to look down at you.
“Mhm.” He nods vigorously.
“Words.” You reply.
“O-okay.” He tells you.
You smile, nodding. “Good. Keep going.” You lean into him as he begins to talk once more, and you press your lips against the side of his throat. At the same time, your hand slides higher, and you hear him choke. Your lips curl into another smile against his skin, and you go even higher, reaching the top of his jeans.
“Is this okay?” You ask him, breaking away from him for a moment. “Shit. I should’ve asked before this but are you clean?”
“Yes and yes.” He says, looking as though he’s in bliss and you’ve barely touched him. One of his hands finds yours and slowly begins to guide it between his thighs. He’s breathing fast, his chest moving up and down quickly as he continues to slowly move your hand along.
When you finally make contact with the bump of his jeans, he lets out an audible sigh and a ‘fuck’. His shoulders shake as he lets out a small, humorless laugh. It’s more like a breath of relief as he pulls down his fly, and you sneak your hand underneath the fabric of his boxers.
He’s heavy in your hand as you grasp him, and above you, James gasps as your stomach twists with butterflies. “Good. I am too. Shhhh.” You have to tell him, trying to remind him that you are both still in a bar.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He apologizes. Your thumb comes up to swipe over his tip, and his knee makes contact with the table, and it makes you laugh, burying your face into his neck. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologized again, and you shook your head.
“It’s okay. But if you want me to keep going, I think we should leave here.”
He just nods, scrambling to re-button his pants and make sure you two both look like you didn’t just give the start of a hand job, before you guys walk out of the small bar.
The walk back to your apartment feels like the slowest thing in the world. You’re both walking side by side, obviously, on the sidewalk as you reach for his hand. He lets you take it, but he’s hesitant about it still.
He doesn’t touch you in any way besides that. He still has a hard-on in his pants, and you’re trying your best to quickly get back home to finish this up, but you’re both still slightly stumbling and bumping into each other.
Which is why you’re so incredibly grateful when you finally reach the front door of your brownstone.
You pull him inside, immediately connecting his lips with yours, and kicking the door shut. “Jesus Christ.” You sigh into his mouth, grabbing at his clothes. His hands are still by his side, even though you know he wants this too. “What’s wrong?” You ask, pulling away. You wipe the spit from your lips, your chest heaving.
“What? Nothing’s wrong.” He pants, moving in to kiss you again, but you stop him with a hand to his chest.
“You’re not touching me.” You state, plain as day.
He looks down at his hands. “Oh, I.. ‘cause I didn’t know if you wanted me to. O-or not.”
“Of course I want you to.”
“Okay. Okay.” He says, leaning in to try and kiss you again, and this time you let him. You grab his hands too, putting them on your hips. You can feel him shaking and hear his shaky breathing as he exhales.
“Why’re you so nervous, hm?” You ask him and he honestly doesn’t know. James Ogilvie is not a nervous person. But by god as soon as he gets a pretty girl in front of him…it all goes to shit. He can’t think of any other words except for ‘okay’ and ‘yes’ and ‘fuck’. He thinks about if you would like it if he called you ‘ma’am’ but he doesn’t voice that out loud.
“Don’t know.” he replies.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to be nervous with me.” You smile, trying to make him feel a little more at ease. “Or are you nervous because…you’ve never…are you a virgin?”
He bites his bottom lip, looking down at you. “Um…I mean, I’ve never…I’ve gotten like…ha-hand jobs before but never…”
“Oh.” You say, understanding. “Okay, that’s okay. Do you want me to fix that, or would you rather just take it slow?”
“I want you to fix it. Please?” He begs. And he just begs so nicely that you can’t say no, really. So, you grab him by the hand and lead him to the living room, gently pushing his shoulders, urging him to sit down on the couch.
You kiss him again, and he whines against your lips as your tongue glides with his. He’s still so hesitant to touch you, and you have to grab his hands again to tell him it’s okay to touch you.
“James, you can touch me whenever you want. It’s okay.” You reassure him.
“I know, I know. I-I just…”
“Do you like it when I tell you what to do?” You ask the question that’s been on your mind all day, even though you absolutely, with no doubt in your mind, know he does. He likes it when anyone tells him what to do. He likes it when he’s praised for doing a good job, he likes it when he’s asked questions he can easily answer, and he even likes it when Trinity says some sort of sarcastic comment towards him because it means at least someone is paying attention to him.
He nods, looking up at you. His hands rest on your hips, too scared to move them away from where you placed them.
“Can I tell you something?” You swallow, leaning back. “I think you’re pathetic-”
“So pathetic,” He whispers, his head coming forward to bury itself in your stomach.
“Take your pants off for me, yeah?” You ask him, and you watch as he unbuttons his jeans and pulls down his fly, his thumbs catching the hem of his pants and ever so slowly pulling the fabric downwards. Your breath stutters as his skin and blond, coarse hair are gradually revealed right in front of your eyes, the hemline making a mouthwatering triangle shape that runs alongside the lines of his Adonis belt.
“Jesus, Ogilvie.” You whisper, watching the show. You figured he was at least somewhat lean, as he had a tenancy, whether intentional or not, to show off his biceps as he hauled a patient off a stretcher onto an actual bed, or helped Robby restrain someone, etc. But you didn’t know he was this…well…jacked.
When he stops just at the very base of his cock, it takes you a second to realize he’s waiting for you to tell him to keep going. Your eyes flick down to look at him, slowly running his thumb along the slope of flesh peeking out of the blond curls.
Oh fuck, how did you even get to this point right now? And why are you so wet already?
“Keep going.”
He’s immediately using his other hand to reach inside and shift up just a bit before he eases his cock out of his pants by cupping his balls and letting the fabric hooked in his thumb rest under them before he shuffles the fabric all the way down his legs, resting at his feet.
He’s already half hard for you, already thick as he carefully lowers himself back down again onto the cushions. He’s pretty. He looks…good. His cock looks really nice.
God, you want him in your mouth. You have no idea why that’s your first thought. Okay, well, no, that’s not exactly true- you know exactly why that’s your first thought, especially when you can physically see him getting harder and harder right in front of you, watching her trace his fingers down his shaft and lazily brush them over the head.
“I…do you not want to…do this…anymore?” He asks, out of breath. The head of his cock lies against his stomach. His hands go back to your hips and tighten on them, his breathing subtly picking up.
“What? God, no. I just want to look at you. You’re so pretty.” You settle into his lap, feeling his cock brush against your cunt through your pants. His hands are now on your sides. “Did you know that? And I want to help you forget about today.” You catch the fabric of his shirt near his neck.
“I’ve been told once or twice.” He says, trying to be funny, but he stops trying when you yank his collar to the side and lick a slow, hot, wet line up his throat. “I…I-fuck- that…you feel good…and…and…I want you to help me forget-”
His breath catches when you bite down on the thick cord of muscle that connects his neck to his shoulder. He murmurs your name when you reach between the two of you and wrap your hand around his hard cock.
“I really want to fuck you,” you whisper against his skin, feeling him shudder under your lips as you slowly pull your hand up nd down the thick length of him. “But right now, I think you should lie back and let me suck your cock for a little bit. What do you think?”
He doesn’t answer with words, but he throbs under your hand, and his body is surprisingly malleable as you urge him to move back more, just enough for you to slip between his already spread enough legs. You keep stroking him the entire time, sucking marks down his neck.
At one point or another, you decide that his not having his shirt off isn’t sufficient enough, so you reach down and pull it up from the bottom, lifting up up up- up until he does the rest, pulling it over his head and letting it fall somewhere on the floor.
Your free hand rests gently on his soft abs, and you lean your head up to whisper against his lips, “Will you let me suck your cock, James?”
“No one’s ever…how do you even know you’ll-”
“Like it? That’s up for me to decide. You just lean back and take it, okay? I know you like to be told what to do, so shut up and listen, okay?”
“Okay.” He nods; his back is now right up against the sofa cushions. “Is it- h-how do you- does it always feel this good?”
“You’re a doctor intern. You tell me. You’re smart enough to figure it out.” You tell him, beginning to slide down his body.
“I-yeah, yeah, you’re right.”
The warmth that settles in the pit of your stomach is intensified by the clear drop of precum shining at the tip of his cock, which is now achingly swollen and a shade darker in color than a few seconds ago. “Keep talking,” you whisper. “I like hearing you stutter over your words.”
And then you slide his head into your mouth and let your tongue flutter gently along his frenulum. Ogilvie instantly goes rigid and grabs a fistful of the couch’s armrest, his back arching a little and his head peering up towards the ceiling. You hum as you taste his precum, slowly brushing your tongue over his tip to see if you can get any more out of him like this without going deeper.
“Fuck-” he whines while lifting his hips, every muscle in his body tensing under you. “Y-your mouth is- fuck-” he gasps when you gently swirl circles around the pulsing head, his open palm circles around the pulsing head, his open palm coming down hard on the cushion beside him with a dull thud. “-fuck, your mouth is s-so, fe-feels so good.”
You pop off of him, and he whimpers. He actually whimpers, and that just makes you more delirious with pleasure as you look up at him. He looks down at you at the same time, stomach pushing up and down as he breathes heavily.
“I’ve barely touched you.” You smile, sliding your hands down to take off his shoes and then his jeans, throwing them somewhere you couldn’t care less about at this moment. You take him back into your mouth, and he moans, jerking forward as you open your jaw and take him down a few inches so he can really feel your throat. You’re satisfied when his head falls back, and his hands go to your hair.
He’s gentle, so so gentle. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you do get why he’s only had a hand job. He’s not the most friendly person, but he grows on you. Takes a while, but he does.
You slowly begin bobbing up and down, dragging the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft and getting him nice and wet. His thighs almost feel like stones he’s strained so hard. You can only get around half of him in your mouth without straining for it, so you soon lift off him and start coating your palm and fingers in spit. His head rears immediately, exposed chest heaving as he watches. You never knew he was this big.
“You’re so tense, James,” you murmur, reaching down and starting to jerk him with your slick hand. He doesn’t relax into it; instead, he straightens his back even more, his hips starting to thrust into your grip. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Fuck, no. Please don’t do that. Don’t stop. I just…I want to ple-please you so bad.” He moans, the exact opposite of relaxed. “You-”
“This is all about you, James.”
“But I read once that-” he cuts himself off with a groan when you take him back down again, only deeper this time. And then he relents and starts slowly fucking into your mouth, gradually rolling his hips further and further with every thrust. One hand fists itself into the blanket while the other holds your hair back as you open your throat and work the rest of his length.
When you take him down as far as you can, and you drop your free hand to cradle his balls, Ogilvie just about loses his mind.
“C-can I fuck you? At some point? Pl-please?” He starts rasping at the ceiling. “Please, l-let me please you too? I-I want to make you feel go-good too, like you’re doing to me…”
You hold there and swallow around his thick cock, letting your other hand slither down between your own legs and start rubbing your clit. Thank god you were wearing an easy pair of pants that you could slip your hand into. He probably can’t see you do it from this angle, but it feels so much better this way, regardless, having him as far down as your throat as possible and listening to him babble while you touch yourself.
The sound you make pulling off him to breathe isn’t necessarily the most attractive thing in the world, but with the way he groans and tugs your hair gently in response, you’d think it was the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. You keep jerking this throbbing cock and rubbing circles around your lit, before moving down to take one of his balls into your mouth.
His grip tightens, along with the soft skin under your tongue. “W-wait, wait, wait, stop, st-stop I don’t-”
You look up at him. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and everything about him is unbearably stiff, even with the way his body is sprawled out, and his chest rocks up and down with exertion. You obviously pull off of him again, not wanting to go against his wishes and continue.
It might be too much for him, seeing as this is his first time getting head, and he might need a break. That or he doesn’t want to continue anymore. Which in that case, you’ll help him clean up and make sure he’s okay.
“S-sorry, I just- I was-” he gasps, “I wa-I was about to cum-”
“I want you to cum,” you murmur, blinking up at him and dragging your tongue up the length of his swollen, throbbing cock. “That’s why I’m doing this.”
“I didn’t know if I- if I was allowed to.”
“You what?” You ask, spitting on him.
“If I ha-had to ask. I know some girls don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to ask me, Ogilvie.” But suddenly it comes clearer to you. He loves asking. He wants to ask if he has permission to cum for you. You look at his face, and your lips spread into a smile. “Ohhhh. You like asking, don’t you?” And he nods in response. “What did I say about words?”
“Yes. Yes, I like asking.”
You get another idea too and decide to push him. “Yes, what?”
“Y-yes…ma’am?”
“There you go.” You kiss his thighs, and it makes him whine. “I want you to cum for me, okay?”
“Okay.” He whines, nodding as you start to gently suck on his tip and look up at him innocently after telling him you want to swallow his load. Maybe he could’ve stopped the way his balls suddenly pull up tight, the way his grip on your hair turns to steel, and his head rolls to the side.
There’s a subtle shift of his head too, and you finally know that he can see your hand moving between your legs. You can tell because he makes a sort of sob/choking sound and his stomach flexes.
“O-oh fuck. I’m cumming, I-I’m gonna cum.” He warns you, and then he’s cumming down your throat exactly like you wanted. There’s a second between the moment of detonation and the explosive result of it. It’s just enough time for him to slowly tilt his chin up and let out the smallest, quietest moan you’ve heard from him this whole night before his cock starts throbbing on your tongue, his balls working to steadily pump cum up his shaft.
You pull up a little bit, swirling circles around his head as the first spurt hits your tongue, moaning at the taste of him, which makes him hoarsely whine your name. You swallow everything he gives you until he’s trembling on your couch.
You suck on him a little longer after that, and just look at how stunning his body is exposed and spread out for you on the couch like this. “If-if you keep doing that, I’m go-gonna get hard again,” he eventually tells you, his voice coming out sounding like sandpaper in his throat.
You hum and finally pull off of him. “You like overstimulation too, huh?” You lean down and bite at his hipbone, which has him jerking in response.
“Is it that obvious?” He asks you, smiling a little as you crawl back up his frame into his lap.
“Can I test it?”
“Can I eat you out first?”
“You still want to? I figured you’d be a little too tired.” You push some of his curls out of his face.
“God no,” he shakes his head, looking at you still in your clothes. “Please, can I eat you out? Please? Please, please, please,” he begs you, kissing your neck.
“Yeah, baby.” You nod, your hands tangling into his hair before he’s standing both of you up.
“Can we go to your bedroom…or is that off limits?” he jokes, and you laugh a little.
“No, it’s not off limits. Come on.”
You hear yourself take one shaky breath as you stand, grabbing his hand and guiding him behind you to the last door in the hallway to the right. You don’t get too far into the room before he’s closing the door and pushing you up against it. He kisses you and moans when he tastes himself on your tongue.
“Could you take off your shirt?” He whispers, his hands coming down to the hem of it. He’s gotten bolder with his handling. You nod, and he slowly lifts your shirt, his fingertips grazing your skin, which makes you shudder in response. “Pants too?” He asks, and you nod.
Once your shirt is thrown off, he drops to his knees and begins to take off your pants along with your underwear. He presses his lips to your hipbone, and you groan. He looks up at you with his brown eyes, and you have to bite your lip to suppress a moan.
“Don’t tease me. I didn’t tease you.”
“I’m not teasing,” he says, kissing the tops of your thighs. “I would never tease you.”
That’s when he finally makes contact with your cunt, and you hiss. You look down at him, your hand tangled in his curls, as a soft, dexterous heat slowly envelopes your clit. It nearly hurts with how good it feels. You were so focused on giving Ogilvie pleasure that you didn’t realize just how pent up you were. The noise you make is indescribable in its obscenity. His mouth is a furnace, a slick furnace between your folds, and his tongue comes out like velvet to flutter gently over your clit, humming low in his throat as he tastes you for the first time.
This feels amazing. It feels like heaven, having him on his knees like this for you. He knows as much about you as you do about him, which is absolutely nothing, as this is his first month in the ER as an intern. But you both now know the taste of each other’s pleasure, which has to count for something.
“James…oh, fuck-” Your words are barely discernible. His fingers curl against your thighs, his tongue starting to swirl gentle circles around your swollen clit. Your hips almost feel like they’re doing too much to seek out more pleasure, rutting against his mouth. But he seems to like it, moaning each time it happens. And he keeps his eyes on you the entire time. “I thought you said you were a virgin.” You ask him, but it’s not really a question, more of a statement.
Part of you doesn’t want him to answer, because that means he’ll have to stop whatever he’s doing with his mouth to give you this much pleasure. “I am,” he says, licking his lips. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t read a book or two to know what most women like. Can I use my fingers?”
You nod, out of breath. “Yeah. Use your fingers.” And you nearly combust as he sinks two of his fingers deep inside your cunt. “Oh-f-fuck-” You can’t tell if the short, rough little growl he makes into your warmth is from the way your fingers feel tugging on his hair or the way you feel clamped around his own, but it still rocks down your spine and sparks lightning deep inside nonetheless. It doesn’t matter, because he pulls them out and then pushes them back in again, doing it steadily over and over, until you’re sweating, hips arching in presentation.
He continues to lick his hot tongue through your folds and finger fuck you, so utterly slow and steadfast that you’re so close to just completely pulling him back up to his feet and riding him until he’s past the point of tears.
You feel something wicked beginning to burn in your core, spreading along the muscles in your pelvis. It rises up through your abdomen like high tide, seeps down into your knees, and wraps around them. Your breathing gets more shallow.
“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, everything inside you quickly pulling up fierce and tight, your chest heaving, and your grip in his hair turning to iron. “-oh fuck, James, I’m g-gonna cum- I-”
But then his mouth leaves you at the same time his fingers do, and there’s a split-second delay in his rhythm before both his mouth and his fingers come back- only his fingers feel a bit slicker than they did moments before.
Something about it hits you just right, settles down low, and locks your hips in position. “Yes, fuck right there, right there!”
A quiet whine rumbles low in his throat, and then he takes a second to softly suck on your clit as if he could pull it out of you that way. His fingers curl, press up hard against something that almost makes your knees buckle, and you have to stifle a yelp when your body suddenly erupts in searing hot pleasure above him.
Your back arches away from the door, and a white light flashes, your thighs going rigid and your pussy flooding itself between your legs. You shatter, cumming in his mouth, wailing his name while he moans and whines raggedly and drags you through it. It’s hot and wet, and everything feels like it’s not important, just you and everything he’s giving to you.
Things slowly return to you one by one; his tongue still fluttering against your clit, the angle of his fingers still touching that spot within you. The solid weight of him between your knees helps to somewhat ground you, and you realize that your fingers are clamped tight in his hair.
You loosen up your grip on his scalp, and he slowly pulls out of your swollen heat and holds your thighs open with wet fingers, pausing to give your sensitive clit a few more gentle sucks, and only lets go once you tap on his head to stop.
You’re still trying to calm your breathing when he stands and kisses your face all over before pressing his lips to yours. You can taste yourself on him as you feel his fingers fumble with your bra clip.
He takes it off successfully and drops it to the ground. You notice that he’s moving his hips against your thigh, groaning quietly to himself. You watch him rub his hardening cock against your skin, and his head slowly tips back at the sensation.
“Wi-will you let me- ju-just for a second, let me put it in? Ngh- righ-right now?” His breathing stutters, hips beginning to rock against yours. “Let me-f-feel you?”
For being such an asshole, he becomes such a pleaser when he’s rubbing his hard cock against you, doesn’t he? You don’t even respond, just desperately start moving off and away from the door towards your bed. His exhale is shaky as he follows, his hands grasping at your hips.
God dammit, you never thought sex with Ogilvie could feel this good. You and Trinity, as well as Victoria, a little bit, all made bets on who is the best in bed. Of course, it was just between the three of you; it never went any further than that. Occasionally, Dennis would join in, but that was it.
You had told them all that you know for an absolute fact that Jack Abbott and Cassie McKay were the best in bed. Parker Ellis, too, and Emery Walsh. Trinity said there was no way Dr. McKay was good in bed, as she hadn’t had any tail since Chad. Trinity voted for Yolanda and, against her better judgment, Langdon. But you told her Yolanda doesn’t count, as she knows Yolanda is good in bed.
Dennis said Dana looks like she’d be good, and Robby, too. Victoria said Langdon as well as Cassie.
But all four of you agreed strongly that there’s no way with that attitude and know-it-all behavior, Ogilvie was good in bed. God, were you so wrong.
The bed is soft underneath you, and it doesn’t take long for Ogilvie to follow suit. “Shit,” he huffs, breaking away from you. “I-I don’t know..”
“What to do? Yeah, I know.” You said before switching positions, so you’re now on top. “I’ll show you. That’s what good R2’s do, right?” You bury your face into his neck and reach your hand down between you two, stroking his cock again. He sucks in a deep breath, his body jerking when you grab onto his cock and downright purr into the crook of his neck when you find him rock hard and throbbing.
“R-right ma’am.” He whines.
You move so you’re hovering slightly above him, your legs on either side of him. Your hips move forward, engulfing the hard underside of him between your slick, swollen lips. His entire body shudders at the blazing heat of you, and he grits a curse when you gradually begin to move back and forth along the thick length of him.
“Such a good boy.” You whisper, your hands coming to press down on his shoulders as your hips drag against his, sliding his cock through your drenched slit, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck. “You still okay? I’m on birth control, so I’m just going to-”
“Ye-yes. I’m still okay-” He gasps, tilting his head to give you more room and hands coming down to clamp tight over your hips, “fuck, I’m- I’m so good. Please do it. I do-don’t care.”
“Good,” you breathe into the crook of his neck, grinding your pussy against his throbbing cock. You gasp, tightening your hold around him as your clit drags over his thick erection. “Such a good listener, too. When you want to be.”
“Fuck, thank you,” he whines, slowly tipping his head back. “Please, please don’t tease me. I’ve been go-good, lik-like you said.”
“I know,” you whine too, rolling your hips along his body.
“You-” James cuts himself off abruptly with a groan, his grip turning to steel on your hips. “I’ll always listen to you.” His fingers dig into your hips so hard, you’re forced to immediately stop gliding your pussy over him. One of your hands moves to clamp down over his shoulder while the other threads through the thick locks at the base of his neck. You pull your hips up and tilt them just a bit, just enough to position the tip of his cock at your entrance.
You bite his neck and slowly start to sink onto him. He lets out a choked cry as you shove your cunt the rest of the way down his thick cock and then further, pressing him up so far inside you with such a chaotic movement that he lets out a sob next to your ear.
Fuck, he hits amazingly sweet from this angle. He stretches you and fills you spectacularly, forces you to yield to him while you breathe heavy through your nose, wondering how dark a bruise he’ll have on his neck from your bites and kisses.
Ogilvie likes it, though. You can tell. His hand comes up to the back of your neck, silently asking you to lean down and kiss him while you gradually begin to pull your hips up, clamp down around him as hard as you can, and slowly drag his thick cock out of your cunt. He likes this. He likes feeling your teeth in his neck while you start to fuck yourself on him.
“Oh my god,” he nearly spits, his hand squeezing your thigh hard enough to leave a mark. You honestly should’ve given him a moment to adjust to you, to feel you, but you had completely forgotten this was his first time from the way he had made you cum seconds earlier. “F-fuck this is- god this feels amazing- ho-holy fuck.”
You whimper, also thinking how good it feels. How the head of his cock is pushed up tight against your G-spot, spreading wildfire in your lower belly and seeping through your pelvis and into your upper thighs. You just started, and it’s already becoming a hassle for you. But fuck, you grind the head of his cock slowly and hard inside you and try not to dig your nails into his arms where your fingers are clutching tight.
“Is this what you think about wh-when you look at me at work like that?” You whisper, already half out of your mind with the aching bliss, saying whatever the fuck comes into your head first and not thinking anything past it. “When I guide your hands on a patient or when I praise you for getting a diagnosis right, hm?”
“Yes, yes god yes!” He sobs, his hips jerking up into yours almost unintentionally with the sentiment. “Oh, my god.”
“And will you be thinking of this?” you moan, starting to move as best you can with his thrusts. His fingers are scraping down your back, the pleasure obviously being too much for him. It just adds to the slowly building pleasure inside you until it’s simmering and burning under your skin. “The next time I tell you ‘good save’ or when I guide your hands again? I bet you will. You really are that pathetic, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He cries, but it’s way too breathless. “I-I’m not gonna last- I ca-an’t-”
You can hear how wet you are. Your pussy is nearly drowning him now, slick and hot and drenched as you roll your hips up and down on top of him. “Does me talking like that turn you on?” You murmur, breathing hot air onto his neck and riding his cock slow and steady.
He can’t make any sounds anymore. No more words come from his mouth as your hand comes up to dig into his cheeks, forcefully opening his mouth. Only moans and whines grace your ears.
You watch as his stomach tenses up again, and you know he’s about to cum. You lift off of him and delight in his confused reaction. “Wha-what? Why’d you do that? I was so close, please! Are you kidding me-”
He cuts himself off with a grunt as you slowly sink back onto him. Your cunt tightens around him, and the power trip you’re experiencing from this is starting to get to your head, you fear. You feel brash. Reckless and bold, and it translates into a quicker pace of your hips, shoving down onto him at the apex of his thrusts upwards and hitting a spot inside you that he had somehow found with his fingers as well.
“Answer my question,” you pant, still holding his jaw.
“What que-question?” God, he’s so drunk on you, he can’t even remember what you had asked of him.
“Does it turn you on? To hear me talking like that? Calling you pathetic for following me around all day like a little lost puppy? Do you rub one out in the bathroom after each shift with me?”
“You’re- fuck-” He drags his nails down your arms, leaving marks. “You’re asking if it…if it tu-turns me on to hear you tell me what a good job I did?”
“I us-used to think about it,” You gasp, your eyes squeezing shut and just trying to breathe through it. “Some-sometimes. I knew it got to you in a different way than it would just from being praised normally. Used to get off thinking about it. Used to think about you, like this, and touch myself and make myself cum on the floor of my apartment.”
The sound he makes is one you haven’t heard yet. You watch as his face contorts into pleasure and he begins to tell you he’s about to cum again. You slip off of him once more, and he fully whines this time. It turns into a string of curse words as he nearly sobs into the air and desperately claws at you.
You finally decide to let him cum once you know he won’t automatically do it as you slip him back inside you. Your hips don’t give his cock time to realize that he’s back inside of you as you just begin moving at a rapid pace. Your thighs hurt, they’re on fire, but the sounds coming from him make your motivation skyrocket.
He full-on fucking sobs now, his chest heaving as he cries. You look down at him, and he looks beautiful, really. He looks so fucking good as he cries for you, whining and whimpering and sobbing your name as you move on him.
It’s fucking debilitating. It’s madness. The pleasure flowing through both of you feels like you’re about to explode. You just dig your nails into his shoulders and listen as he cries brokenly for you at the ceiling, letting his hips collide roughly with yours as you fuck him down hard into the mattress of your bed.
Your mouth is at his neck as you grit the words darkly against his throat. “Fuck, you’re amazing. You’re so good. Such a good boy, listening to me, doing exactly what I tell you to do.”
“I’m-” He gasps, eyes screwed up so tight you don’t notice the tear slipping down his cheek. You lean down to lick it. “It’s ca-cause I like you.”
“Fuck- of course you do. All those longing looks from across the nurse’s station while I talk to Trinity. You think I didn’t notice those? You’re not as bright as you say you are, are you? Hm?” Fuck, he’s hard and throbbing, and he probably can barely hear you over the sound of his crying, so fucking close to the edge and begging for you. “If you want me that bad, next time take me to the bathroom and beg me to get on my knees for you.”
You shift your weight so you can use one of your hands to grab his and lead it down between your legs. “Come on, Ogilvie. Come on. I know you can do it. Make me cum, and I’ll let you cum too, m'promise.” You feel like you can’t even breathe anymore. “Does that sound good?”
“Ye-yes.” He wails, beginning to rub tight circles over your clit and pounding directly into your G-spot with such precision and force, your eyes roll back, and white-hot pleasure licks its way up your spine.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, James,” you whisper, your voice frantic and rushed and breathless as your hands plant themselves on either side of his head. Everything inside you suddenly pulls up sharp and burning, and you’re already starting to bear down on him, starting to slowly squeeze his cock and tighten down hard in preparation for it. “I’m gonna cum, James, you-you’re gonna make me cum-”
He begins to babble, but you don’t hear him. Everything is suddenly drowned out by the roaring of blood rushing through your ears, your body locking down so fucking tight around him. Ogilvie keeps going as your orgasm slams through you with such force that your voice cracks. He rubs at your clit and makes sure with the right amount of pressure for you, which forces you even higher through the explosive pleasure and muttering filth about how gorgeous you are, how he’ll never stop looking at you across the Nurse’s station, how he wants to make you cum so many more times, but he can’t hold it back-
“I’m gonna cum, fuck, please can I cum?! Please? Please, I’ve been good this who-whole time, please,” he cries and whimpers, stuttering to a halt inside you. You can feel him swollen and throbbing hard inside you now that he’s still. Can I- can I cu-cum inside you? Please? Oh fuck, please? I can’t, I can’t hold it anymore, I can-”
“Yes,” you gasp, not needing anything else. “Please.” He can cum wherever the fuck he wants to. His body jolts with pleasure beneath you, and a sob tears itself from his throat as he immediately does as he’s told. He cums, spurting thick ropes of his warmth inside you and gasping out curses and thank you’s.
His entire body is spasming as it happens, and you hear him whimper your name as he lets go. When Ogilvie’s body finally stops shaking, and he slows down your movements with his hands on your hips, you wait a few seconds before asking.
summary: dr whitaker thinks he has a pretty good handle on his crush on you, until he sees you out of your scrubs for the first time.
pairing: fem!reader x dennis whitaker
warnings/tags: dennis being the little nervous cutie that he is, alcohol consumption, flirting, fluff, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you'd expect from the pitt!
notes: i can't believe it's taken me this long to write for the pitt, I love it sm <3
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
Growing up on a farm, Dennis Whitaker learnt early on the benefits of effectively compartmentalising things.
Like a flick of a switch, he could shut off one part of his brain when he went into work and could switch it back on when he stepped out of the PTMC doors.
It was a skill that served him well as an ER resident. A place where you were literally in sink or swim, life or death situations for 12 hours straight.
Steady hands, steady voice, steady mind. No matter how intense things got, how quickly he needed to react, he handled it.
Which is why his very manageable, very under-control crush on you had never been a problem.
He wasn't completely unaffected of course, he wasn't a total robot.
His heart rate still picked up when you smiled at him from across the pitt, his eyes sometimes lingered just a touch too long when you laughed, his pulse thrummed in his ears when you teased him and said his name coyly - Whitaker - like you knew just how much of an effect you had on him.
He noticed little things too, like the way you pushed your hair back with your wrist when you were gloved up and stressed, how you would bite your lip when you were locked in on charting, or the way you would anonymously (or at least thought you did) leave snacks in the break room for your colleagues.
But it was fine.
You and your radiant smile were completely compartmentalised.
Filed neatly away under do not open - things that will get me fired or someone killed or both if I think about it at work.
Until tonight.
Javadi's 21st birthday - organised by Princess, Perlah and Dana despite her weeks of protesting against it.
He almost hadn't come.
The clinical side of his brain warned him that mixing coworkers with alcohol and personal time was a bad move - teetering way too close to the 'friend' sphere - which would make it all the more harder for him to engage his compartmentalisation switch.
"You literally live with me, I think that ship has sailed Huckleberry." Santos had remarked when he'd confided in her about his doubts.
Amy had texted him that afternoon asking him if he was coming up to the farm. His thumbs had hovered over his phone, willing up the courage to text Javadi to say he wasn't going to be able to make it.
Then, his phone buzzed.
His heart leapt.
A message from you that simply read:
You're coming tonight, right?
An hour later, he was walking to the bar with Santos, trying to keep any thoughts of you shoved firmly in your assigned compartment.
When he stepped inside, he spotted the group instantly. Milling around in a corner clustered around a bunch of high tables, a set of slightly deflated pink balloons numbered '21' floating half heartedly above them.
A chorus of greetings met them as they approached. Dennis tried not to think about how weird it was to see everyone out of uniform, glowing in that post-shift, one drink in kind of buzz.
"Drink?" Santos turned to him.
He nodded, suddenly eager to be on the same level as his colleagues. They had just made their way to the bar when a set of wolf whistles and cheers erupted from their area.
"Watch out Pittsburgh!"
He turned to locate the source of their ruckus.
And then everything - every neatly labelled, meticulously stored thought - came crashing down around him.
You were not in scrubs.
Logically he had known that would be the case. People did not wear scrubs to bars. You were not going to be an exception. He had psyched himself up for this exact sight on the walk over.
But seeing it in person was something he could never have prepared himself for.
Your hair was down and styled, not tied back in that purely practical way he had grown so used to. Your makeup sculpted your features in a way that made you look even more angelic than usual.
Your outfit fit your body perfectly, hugging you in places and curves he had never dared to let himself think about, had trained himself very deliberately never to follow.
He found himself silently thanking the inventor of scrubs for designing them to be so baggy, because if this is how you looked all the time - he wouldn't be able to control himself.
Heck, who was he kidding, how was he ever going to control himself again now that he'd seen you like this?
He watched as you crossed the crowded bar, oblivious to the hungry looks of random men that you passed. A huge grin was on your face as you twirled around to show off your outfit to the group, causing another huge bout of cheers.
There was no clipped efficiency, no fluorescent lighting washing you out, no neat, clinical version he could pretend was easier to ignore.
This was what everyone else outside of the pitt had the privilege of seeing.
It felt almost wrong, like he was seeing a version of you that he hadn't been cleared access for.
"You might want to put your tongue back in your mouth Fuckleberry."
Dennis' cheeks bloomed violent red.
"W-what?" He stammered, finally tearing his eyes away from you.
"Trust me, I have eyes too. I get it." Santos continued, her gaze flickering over to you. "But she is so out of your league."
He huffed. "Gee thanks. Want to tell me something I don't know?" He grumbled before pressing his drink to his lips and downing it in one go.
"Atta boy Fuckleberry." Santos slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically. "Drown your sorrows with me."
"Why, Garcia not paying you enough attention?"
Santos shot him a glare. "Watch it or-" She cut herself off as she glanced over Whittaker's shoulder.
"Oh shit - incoming."
Dennis turned to see you making your way towards the bar.
"I gotta pee, good luck farmboy." Before he could protest, Santos pushed off the bar and disappeared into the crowd.
By the time he turned back around, you had spotted him.
Your smile widened when you locked eyes.
You slipped through the crowd toward him like it was the most casual thing in the world, like you hadn’t just fundamentally altered his understanding of reality.
"Whitaker!" You called out by way of greeting.
God. It was somehow even worse outside the pitt.
"I was worried you were going to bail." You teased as you slid in beside him at the bar. You were so close he could smell your perfume, see the flecks of mascara painting your lashes, the pink sheen of your lip gloss.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He cleared his throat, motioning for the bartender to try and stop the red from creeping back into his cheeks. "Yeah. I um- yeah. Do you want something to drink?"
Smooth.
"Please, I'll have whatever you're having."
You leant an arm against the bar, angling your body towards him. You tilted your head slightly, your eyes roaming his body as he ordered for you in a way that made his pulse trip over itself.
And then you grinned.
"You know, you scrub off quite well Whitaker."
Dennis was pretty sure there was a full, tangible moment where his brain fully short-circuited.
You had to be teasing him, surely. You'd probably made the same joke to every single one of his colleagues, who had all probably laughed in a way that only you could illicit from them.
He let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's uh.. that's not how that phrase usually goes."
"I know." You said easily. "I'm reinventing it."
"Right."
"I have a theory." You continued. He watched as you twisted around, pressing your back into the wooden edge of the bar.
"You either look way better in scrubs or way better out of scrubs, there's no in between."
You gestured to your table.
"Take Robby for example, can you imagine that man in anything other than scrubs? I saw him out on a run once and I can confirm, it was disturbing."
Dennis let out a genuine chuckle at that.
"Ok, I like this game." He nodded, feeling himself relax slightly without being under your intense gaze. "Javadi's an out of scrubs for sure."
Your grin widened at his willingness to go along with it. "Exactly. I never thought I'd see her part with that purple sweater."
Dennis laughed again, watching out of the corner of his eye at the way your eyes crinkled as you smiled.
"So uh- which one am I then?" He asked sheepishly just as the bartender plonked your drinks down on the sticky surface.
You grabbed your drink before you turned your attention back to him. You took a sip from your straw as your eyes flitted up and down his figure, a smirk forming on your lips.
"I haven't decided yet."
Dennis gulped.
"Thanks for the drink Whitaker."
He watched helplessly as you walked away.
All composure and restraint had flown out the window. He was a man completely undone, like putty in your gentle hands.
"What did I miss?" Santos reappeared at his side, surveying the dance floor with eagle eyes.
"She... she said I scrub off quite well." He murmured, his eyes never leaving your figure as you animatedly chatted with Mohan.
"Huh?"
"She said everyone either suits scrubs or normal clothes more, so I asked her which one I was."
"And?"
"She said she hadn't decided yet."
Santos looked over at him in disbelief. "Oh my fucking god."
Dennis' neck snapped to look at her. "What?"
"Huckleberry, she was fucking flirting with you!"
"What?" He repeated, blinking in a few times. "No she wasn't."
"Uh yeah - she was." Santos insisted. "What you just told me? That's a fucking line. She lined you!"
"No I-" Dennis stammered. "There's- there's no way she was flirting with me. Aren't you the one who said she was way out of my league anyway?"
"I did." Santos nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. "But even geniuses can be wrong on the rare occasion."
She turned to face him fully, her face completely serious. "This is your chance."
"What-"
"Go flirt with her! Ask her out! Do something!"
"B-but I-" He cut himself off as he glanced up, watching you twirl Javadi around.
"If you don't Huckleberry, I will."
One look at her face and Dennis knew she was fully serious.
-
As the night wore on, people began siphoning into the 'I have work at 7am tomorrow' and the 'I have a day off tomorrow' camps.
Mohan and Ellis were doing shots off a strangers stomach. Mel and Langdon were animatedly discussion the upcoming renaissance fair. Santos was making a point of flirting with any girl within earshot of Garcia.
Dennis had found himself and you alone, clustered together on stools at one of the high tables. He tried to ignore the way your shoulder casually brushed against his every now and then, sending a shiver up his spine. He couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse.
"I think Javadi is going to have a headache for about a week." You remarked. "I'm also pretty sure I just saw her sneak into the bathroom with Matteo."
"We've all been there."
You raised a brow.
"What, hooking up with co-workers?"
The tips of his ears turned pink. "No-no I-"
"Relax, I'm teasing." You laughed.
He let out a breathless chuckle. "Oh, right."
The thumping bass enveloped the two of you, preventing the possibility of awkward silence.
"You're quieter than usual." You observed after a few moments.
"I-" He cut himself off before he tried to deny it as you looked at him imploringly.
Who was he kidding? You would see right through him, you were way too good at reading people. He saw it everyday at work. It was a skill he'd always admired in you, your ability to coax the truth out of patients, but right now he found himself cursing your keen eye.
"Yeah, sorry." Was what he ended up saying.
You frowned. "You okay?"
He hesitated, then exhaled.
"Yeah I think just seeing everyone and you like this kind of threw me off."
You stilled, just slightly.
"Like what?"
"Like..." He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Like not in clinical grade hospital lighting."
That earned a quiet laugh from you.
He didn't know why he opened his mouth again. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Santos' words from earlier, maybe it was the way you'd ignored every single man in here tonight who had tried to hit on you and only seemed to want to talk to him, and he couldn’t help but hold onto the smallest spark of hope that it meant something.
"You um-" He gestured vaguely to your figure, immediately regretting it. "You just look... different."
He winced as the awkward words rolled off his tongue.
But instead of the teasing look he'd expected, your expression shifted into something gentler.
"Different....good?"
He huffed a small laugh, looking down at his drink for a second before gathering himself.
"Yeah." He looked up at you, his voice quieter. "Different good."
Your smile widened.
The familiar bass of Maneater started thumping through the bar speakers.
The sound of your name being called made the two of you break eye contact.
A slightly dishevelled Javadi, apparently having been summoned from the bathroom by Nelly Furtado, was grinning at you.
“This is our song!”
You and Dennis laughed as she pointed at you, demanding your presence on the dance floor immediately.
“Sorry, duty calls.”
Dennis pressed his two fingers to his head in mock salute. “Good luck soldier.”
You grinned, giving him a salute back before going to join the small dance circle that had started to form.
Dennis’ eyes followed you all the way there.
-
As the night wore on, the herd thinned.
Santos and Garcia had conveniently left at the same time. Abbott had muttered something about sunrise yoga before vanishing. Princess and Perlah were slow dancing in the corner.
It seemed you were next in line for departure. Dennis watched from his chair as you started doing your rounds, handing out obligatory goodbyes.
Dennis turned as Robby cleared his throat this throat beside him.
“You know, she told me she walked here.”
Dennis followed Robby’s gaze, leading directly back to you.
“Lives just a couple of blocks away.”
“Uh… ok.”
“So… she’ll probably walk home.” He spoke slowly, like he was describing some incredibly complex medical term to one of his patients.
“And she’d probably appreciate it if someone were to.. oh I don’t know…” His lips quirked ever so slightly, “… offer to walk her home?”
“Oh.” Dennis balked, jerking his head over to look at you as realisation hit him. “Right yeah- that’s a great idea.” He shot up of his seat so quickly that the table shuddered, half drunk, forgotten drinks sloshed in their glasses.
“Thanks Robby.”
Robby's eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched Dennis hastily make his way towards you.
“Kids.” He muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.
You were rifling through your purse, making sure you had everything as Dennis approached you.
“Hey.” He jerked a thumb towards the door. “You heading home?”
“Yeah.” You sighed. “Figured I should try and get at least four hours sleep before my shift, I don’t think it would be ethical otherwise.”
Dennis chuckled. “Yeah I feel that.”
There was a slight pause before.
“So, how are you getting home?”
“Oh I was just going to walk. I only live a couple blocks that way.” You gestured vaguely behind you.
“Right.” Dennis nodded. A heartbeat passed.
“Would you um- would you like me to walk you home? You can totally say no.”
You smiled softly. “Yeah I’d love that, thanks.”
He shot you a tight lipped smile back as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Great ok, well we can head off whenever you’re ready.”
You glanced over Dennis’ shoulder to see Robby watching the two of you.
“See you tomorrow Robby!”
Robby raised a hand in passive acknowledgment. “Later kiddo.”
The Pittsburgh weather had decided to be kind to the both of you as you spilled out onto the lamplit street. A warm, gentle breeze lapped at the two of you as you began the short walk to your apartment.
You made small talk, mostly about work, giggling about the crazy patients you'd both had recently, until you came to a reluctant stop at your doorstep.
Things felt calmer out here, away from the loud music and the preying eyes of co-workers.
“This is me.” You gestured to your building.
Dennis felt his heart sink. He thought he would have more time. More time to build up the courage to finally say something.
How was it that he could intubate a critical patient without breaking a sweat, but the thought of saying anything remotely risky to you was enough to turn him into a quivering, spiralling mess.
You peered up at him. “Thanks for walking me home.”
“Happy to.”
You observed him for a few moments.
Dennis wondered if you could tell exactly what he was thinking. Wondered if you knew the effect that you had on him. If you could tell that he was frantically flicking through a list of things to say that could stop this moment from ever ending.
“You’re giving me that look again.”
“What look?”
Your smile curved. “Like you’re still trying to get used to seeing me not under clinical grade hospital lighting.”
Dennis chuckled weakly. “Sorry for being weird tonight I…” He sighed as he looked at you.
As the soft light of the street lamp hit you, Dennis felt something unfurl beneath his ribs.
You were so beautiful, both in your scrubs and out of them. Neither one was better than the other. One would not exist without the other. Both sides made you whole, culminating in one perfect, sweet, smart person.
And now he had seen both sides, he didn't think that he could ever live without either of them again.
That feeling swelled in him, creating a tidal wave finally ready to knock down those barricades he'd held so stubbornly in place for so long.
He met your eyes then, properly, and whatever nerves he had seemed to settle into something steadier, the realisation grounding him.
"I've spent a long time trying to pretend that you don't exist outside of work." He finally said.
"Why's that?"
There was something so open about your face that made his remaining walls crumble, made him desperately want to spill all of his thoughts at your altar.
"Because... because I knew that you were someone I really, really wanted to know outside of work." He confessed.
"And uh-" He gestured to you. "I don't think I can keep pretending anymore. Actually, I think it might make me go insane if I keep trying."
You smiled softly.
"You know how you asked me earlier whether I thought you were a scrubs or no scrubs type?"
Dennis nodded, thrown off by the sudden change in conversation.
"Well, I've been waiting all night for you to ask me again. I uh- I had this whole thing planned out, I was going to say something lame like, 'I don't know, I think I'd need to see you a few more times not in your scrubs to make an assessment.'"
"Holy shit." Dennis blinked. "You were flirting with me."
That made you burst out into a fit of giggles, relieving some of the tense energy crackling between the two of you.
"Yeah no kidding. Trin said I was going to have to lay it on pretty thick for you to get it, but I didn't realise how thick she meant."
"Wait-" He stared down at you, eyes wide. "Santos knew about this?"
You nodded.
"I'm going to kill her."
"Wait no, don't be mad at her - I swore her to secrecy." You said hastily. "I only asked her for advice after none of my more subtle attempts worked. I figured since you literally live with her, she'd know you pretty well."
Dennis thought his brain was about to implode.
"What... what other subtle attempts?"
For the first time tonight, Dennis finally caught a hint of colour in your cheeks.
You chuckled sheepishly. "I don't know... I always made an excuse to consult with you, or to take a break at the same time. And didn't you think it was weird that I started bringing in your favourite snacks every time you mentioned what you liked?"
"Wait - you don't like Doritos? I thought you said you loved them."
You shrugged. "More of a Fritos girl."
Anyone who walked past them must have thought that Dennis resembled a stunned mullet.
"I'm an idiot." He stated matter-of-factly.
"You're not an idiot." You reassured him. "You're just-"
"Blind? Stupid? A combination of both?" He let out a dramatic groan, burying his face into his hands.
"I'm so sorry I- I was so focused on keeping you off my mind and convincing myself that I didn't like you that I had total tunnel vision at work."
"It's ok, really." You insisted. "I can get so emotional at work." You huffed. "But you...you're always so composed and clinical and precise." You cut yourself off before you started rambling.
Dennis' heart hammered in his chest.
"Really?"
"Really. I wish I was more like you at work."
Dennis' brow furrowed. How could you not see that you were perfect?
"What do you mean? You're a literal ball of sunshine at work. Everyone loves you, you manage to make the grumpiest of patients smile. Jesus Christ I'm pretty sure I even saw Park the Shark crack a smile once-"
"-I think he was just trying not to sneeze."
He glared at you playfully. "It was a smile...by Park's standards anyway." He insisted. "You light up every room you're in. And you just get patients. If anything, I wish I was more like you."
This time, a fully fledged blush flushed your cheeks.
"Well then…I guess we balance each other out."
Dennis smiled, "I guess we do."
"And for the record." Dennis continued, "That's one of the many reasons why I.. you know..." He bit his lip as he glanced down at his feet. "...like you."
He looked up at you shyly, his nerves making his stomach churn. There was a pause. Then you whispered your next words so quietly that Dennis almost missed it.
"I like you too, Whitaker."
You eyed each other for a few moments, like you were both trying to figure out the new energy that swirled between the two of you.
It was uncharted territory, but it was something new and exciting, something that you both wanted to explore.
You only broke your eye contact to glance down at your phone, wincing at the time.
"I really should get to bed." You eventually said reluctantly.
"Yeah, me to." Dennis studied you for a moment. "I guess I'll see you today?"
You chuckled. "I guess you will."
A small silence settled between you.
Not awkward.
Just...comfortable, full.
"Good night Whitaker." You finally said, your eyes bright despite your sleep deprivation.
"Good night." He replied softly.
Dennis waited until you were up the stairs, behind the safety of a locked door and out of sight before he started his walk home.
You didn't need to know that his apartment was in the complete opposite direction of yours, meaning he had to double back past the very bar you had just been in.
As he approached the bar, he noticed a familiar figure standing by the curb.
Robby looked up from his phone as Whitaker approached. He peered over his glasses, observing the biggest grin he had ever seen on Whitaker plastered across his face.
"You get our bundle of sunshine home safely?"
"Delivered without a scratch."
"Alright, well I'll see you bright and early."
Whittaker's grin somehow widened as he patted Robby on the shoulder as he walked past.
"Thanks Robby."
This time, Robby couldn't fight the smile that appeared on his features.
"Anytime kiddo."
-
Five hours later, you shuffled through the ED doors, clinging to a double strength red bull like it was your life blood.
Shen rounded the corner, his eyes lighting up when he spotted you.
"Well well well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
You shot him a weak smile, pressing the can to your lips.
"What? No witty reply?"
"I don't have the brain capacity."
Shen chuckled, twisting around to grab something off one of the nurses desks.
“Here. This might help.”
He watched as your eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning at the sight of an extra large Dunkin iced coffee.
You immediately threw your measly substitute in the bin beside you.
“You are a lifesaver.”
“Actually it’s pronounced doctor.”
You let that joke slide as you eagerly took a sip, resisting the urge to let out a moan. If you could, you would have this stuff injected straight into your veins.
“Thank you. Seriously.”
“Anytime. Oh and good luck today, it’s a shit show.” He called out after you.
“As opposed to what?” You called back, giving him one final wave before making your way to your locker.
You went to keypad in your code, only to realise the door was slightly ajar. You were the worst offender when it came to leaving your locker unlocked, much to Dana's despair.
You froze when you yanked open the door.
Placed unassumingly on top of your things, was a packet of Fritos.
Upon closer inspection, you realised there was a small note attached to it, fastened with what appeared to be surgical floss contorted into a delicate looking bow.
You glanced around to make sure no one was in sight before leaning forward and carefully unfolding the note, revealing scrawling handwriting.
Figured you would need some sustenance to get you through this shift.
P.S I've completed my initial assessment. My findings are that you scrub up just as well as you scrub off.
P.P.S To really make sure, I think I need to run some further observations. Dinner this Saturday?
You bit your lip, unable to contain the wide grin that spread across your face.
Unbeknownst to you, Dennis was peaking through the glass, scrutinising every micro expression that appeared on your features.
A smile just as wide as yours spread across his face as he watched you fold the note back up neatly and tuck it into the front pocket of your scrubs.
Dennis subconsciously filed you under a different tab.
Except this time, it was labelled something far more dangerous.
High risk, once in a lifetime opportunity - proceed anyway.
He allowed himself to stare at you for moment before making his way towards the centre of the pitt for the day shift handover.
"Whitaker!"
He turned around, his heart rate increasing at the sight of you making your way towards him.
"Morning."
"Good morning."
The two of you naturally fell into step with one another.
"Ready for another day in paradise?"
He glanced over at you to see you peering up at him.
"With you? Always."
Both your smiles widened.
Then, very deliberately, he turned off the switch.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
synopsisyou and Trinity decide you've had enough of being the casual booty call, agreeing to play hard to get to prove to your partners you can go without them. easier said then done
warningsmut. oral (f! receiving) fingering, language, pinv, unprotected sex, MDNI. slight praise kink. no use of y/n
authornotethe way in which i need to be driven mad by this man using me is concerning to feminism
main masterlist. other Robby fic
“I don't get it!” said Santos for... well, you had no idea how many times she'd repeated herself but you were considering making it a drinking game. Every time she said she 'didn't understand' you resolved to take a shot. “I thought we were fine, doing great and casual- what- what is casual?”
Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”
“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”
You nodded along, humming.
She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”
You took a long gulp of your wine.
“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.
“Me?”
“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”
“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.
The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.
When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.
“It's um?” Trinity asked.
“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.
Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.
Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.
You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.
Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”
You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”
“Different how?” asked Dennis.
“Is it still casual?”
You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”
“You want to be more?”
You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"
“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”
With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.
“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”
She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.
“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”
“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.
On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.
She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.
You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G
“You're gonna leave them,” he said.
You and Trinity sat up. “What?”
“No!”
There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Their medicine?” you asked.
Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”
You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.
“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”
The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.
“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.
“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”
You thought we was giving them too much credit.
Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”
He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”
That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.
Easier in practise when you work with them.
The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.
“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”
“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.
“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”
Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”
“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.
“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”
“Which one was Mark?” you asked.
“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”
Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.
You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”
“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”
“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.
Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.
“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”
Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”
“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”
Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.
“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.
“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.
Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”
“On a Wednesday? Nop.”
“Wanna come over?”
There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.
You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.
Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”
He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”
The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.
“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.
Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.
You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”
He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.
“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”
“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.
Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”
Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.
He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”
“Films,” you confirm.
“And talk.”
“We talk.”
Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”
“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”
“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.
You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.
Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”
You answered truthfully. “No.”
That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.
Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.
You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.
Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.
The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.
The next day passed like another dry spell.
It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.
It felt something like punishment.
Or a test.
By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.
“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.
“What? No.”
“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.
Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”
You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”
It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.
“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.
Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.
You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”
Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.
“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”
It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.
Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”
“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”
He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”
“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.
He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”
By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.
“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”
“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.
“No other choice.”
You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”
“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”
Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.
“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.
“Blood loss is slowing down.”
“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.
“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.
“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.
Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”
“Trin-” you snap.
“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”
You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.
It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!
But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.
“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.
“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.
“You think you could show me?”
You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.
“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”
You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.
“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”
You nodded with an absent mind.
Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”
You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.
He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”
Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?
With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.
You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.
“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.
You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-
Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.
“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.
If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.
“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.
You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.
“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”
Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.
“Good girl.”
When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.
“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.
Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”
“Where's Huckleberry?”
“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”
You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”
“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”
You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”
“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.
“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”
“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”
She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.
You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.
You'd never do that again.
Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.
Your phone was heavy in your pocket.
Call him.
But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.
You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.
Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.
You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-
That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.
You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.
Robby stood on the other side of the door.
You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”
His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”
You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.
Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.
“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”
“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.
“Oh?”
He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”
“Oh.”
His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”
You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”
“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.
“What-what-what do you mean?”
Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”
“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.
“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”
It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.
“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.
They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”
If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.
“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”
Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”
“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”
Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?
“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”
Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-
You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”
Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.
“Robby-”
“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”
“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.
He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”
Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?
“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”
His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”
Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”
Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.
His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.
Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”
“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.
You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”
“Good girl.”
You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.
He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.
You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.
“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.
His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”
His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.
“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.
Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.
“I should hope so.”
You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.
You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.
“Michael-”
He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.
Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.
He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.
“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.
Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.
All the while you wet down his scrubs.
“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.
You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.
Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”
His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.
“Mmph-”
“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”
Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.
His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.
His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.
You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”
He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.
“Michael-”
His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”
With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.
“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”
You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.
“All mine, huh?”
“Yes,” you said, breathless.
Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”
“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.
You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.
Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”
Slowly, he sank to his knees.
“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.
Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”
The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.
Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.
“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.
He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”
You shook your head.
Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.
His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.
“Want your cock, Robby-”
He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.
“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.
You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.
“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”
You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.
The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.
“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.
“Michael.”
He nodded.
“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.
Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-
Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”
When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-
Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.
His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”
Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.
“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.
The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.
Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.
“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.
“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”
Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.
His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”
“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”
“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.
Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.
“Oh god,” he uttered.
You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.
The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.
Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.
“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”
In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.
If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.
He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.
You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.
He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.
Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.
If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.
Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-
A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.
Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.
Robby stirred next to you. Last night.
He stayed.
“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.
You hummed, nodding and readying to move-
His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”
You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”
Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”
Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.
You hadn't closed the door.
“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.
“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”
The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.
You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.
Robby beside you didn't even stir.
“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.
He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.
You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.
summary: spencer hasn’t been sleeping well lately. thankfully, you’re a great roommate, who’s more than eager to help him relax. genre: smut, fluff tags/cw: MDNI, smut, subby!spencer (a little), soft dom!reader (kind of), blowjob, handjob, kissing, making out, begging, boobs, spit, an offensive amount of ’i don’t know’s, whiny spencer, mention of condoms, insomnia, no use of y/n w/c: 4.3k. a/n: first part of a roommate!spencer mini series is here! it’s my first time writing smut so let me know what you think and i am very open to advice. gif by @reidgif !!
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Living with Spencer proves, day by day, to be better than you could have ever expected. You didn’t expect much, to be honest – initially just hoping for some peace and quiet. Ideally, for him not to be a creep.
After meeting with him, your worries started slowly fading away. It was hard not to take notice of his, rather timid, nature. Spencer Reid – agent of the FBI, as you later found out – did not seem like a guy who likes throwing parties late at night or spying on you while you’re naked in the shower.
Actually moving in with him ended any doubts you could’ve had. In fact, you learned pretty early on that you probably couldn’t have found a better person to share your living space with. Well, his living space.
Spencer turned out to be perfectly respectful. He always takes your opinion into account, which is honestly more than you’d ever expect from a guy. He’s neat, though not as quiet as you thought in the beginning.
It was in no way bad, though. The exact opposite, actually. The longer you lived together, the more comfortable you got with each other, which encouraged both of you to open up – share facts and stories about your lives until you got to know one another so well, you could say with confidence that you’ve never been closer with a person than you have with Spencer. Not even the friend you lived with all throughout college, the one who kicked you out of her apartment – the very reason you found Spencer at all. A blessing in disguise, as they call it. (Though you’re pretty sure They don’t understand the meaning of this saying as well as you do. Not when they never had the courtesy of experiencing him.)
So, overall, living with Spencer ended up being nearly perfect. With the small exception of his very demanding, very time-consuming job. While it made you feel safer at first, with time, the feeling turned more into one of frustration. You’d gotten so used to his presence that whenever he’d have to leave for a case – which you initially considered a free-of-charge bonus – you’d end up missing him like crazy, all while worrying for his life until he’d send you an occasional text – even more rarely, a call – or let you know he’d be coming back.
Thankfully, Spencer isn’t away right now. He’s as close as he can be – in your shared kitchen, where you can hear him moving around as you wake, probably preparing his morning coffee. And normally, you wouldn’t think anything of it, but last night he sent you a text, letting you know he’d be going out for drinks with his team. And you have no idea when he got back, because before you could even realise, you passed out after a busy week of work.
So, while you got your – approximately – ten hours of sleep, you’re sure Spencer came back much later into the night, waking earlier than you, considering he’s already up and… doing things people usually do when they’re awake.
Still, you don’t want to seem neurotic – though you discovered pretty early on that Spencer understands such behaviour better than anyone – or overbearing, confronting him about his sleeping habits first thing in the morning, so you head to the bathroom first, making sure you look presentable.
And then it’s on.
—
“Morning, Spence,” you say, as cheerfully as you can at 8:30 in the morning, walking into the kitchen where Spencer sits at the table – still in his pajamas, a cup of coffee in one hand, a rich fountain pen in the other. Most likely to do the crossword from the morning paper, another one of his day-off rituals. He doesn’t bother using a pencil like other mortals, his genius brain never makes any mistakes.
“Hi. Good morning,” he replies, a soft smile on his tired, pretty face. “Did you sleep well?”
“Oh, yeah. Went, like, straight to bed last night.”
“Yeah, I figured. It was all dark and quiet when I got back,” His chuckle forces a smile of your own. It’s impossible to keep a straight face, even in the most tiresome of mornings, when the person you’re pretty sure is your best friend in the world greets you like this.
“What about you?” you ask, subtly concealing concern in this overall normal question. “Did you sleep well?”
“Uh– Not really. That’s my second cup,” He lifts his coffee up for you to see, emphasizing his point, a flat, almost-smile decorating his face.
“No!” you gasp. “Spencer! Get back to bed right now– What are you doing?”
“N-no! I won’t be able to sleep anyway, I’d just be wasting my day.”
“If you keep drinking the coffee, then maybe, but I’m sure if you just lie down–”
“Honey…” he replies, the smile on his face almost condescending. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“Well… I mean, can’t you just try?” you ask as you, not so subtly, grab his hands and urge him out of the chair, slowly walking backwards in the direction of his bedroom. Leading him right back to bed. “Please?”
For all that it’s worth, he actually entertains your whining. He follows you obediently until you’re on his bed – knees navigating over the nicely made covers – and he stands in front of it, waiting for further instructions. His hands still in your grasp.
“Okay, now you’re in my bed. What’s the plan?” he asks, sarcastically but now cruelly. Never cruelly. Pretty boy’s got jokes now.
“I’m not in your bed, I’m on it,” Your reply comes with a playful frown. “And the plan is that you get on it with me. Not even with me, actually, by yourself would do just fine. But since I have to lead you by the hand now…”
“Whoa, okay! No need to get all– hostile with me,” he says, but still sits on the bed, facing you. “But, you know, since you’re basically forcing me to do this, the least you could do is stay here with me. Entertain me a little.”
The laugh escapes your lips before you could even think about stopping it – quick, disbelieving, probably a little louder and more honest than what you’d usually feel comfortable sharing with a guy. That never stops Spencer's gaze from trailing down, down, down your face with a soft smirk of his own, until it reaches the source.
“You, my dear, do not get to demand any entertainment from me. You’re supposed to be sleeping, remember? Lie down.”
He rolls his eyes but settles his back against the pillow anyway – not really lying, more like… sitting back.
“I’m serious, Spence,” you say as you lean over his body, resting on your elbow by his side – not bothering to hide the concern anymore. “I’m worried about you. You’re already not getting enough sleep as it is, and you know how important it is, and it’s Saturday! You’re allowed to sleep in a little! Instead, you’re getting up earlier than the birds. How are they gonna get their worms, huh, genius?”
“I–” He can’t help but laugh at how, even when worried, playful you are. “I know that, and I appreciate your concern – I really do – but I just can’t. I would have slept in if I felt like I had it in me, but it’s just… not working.”
You let out an annoyed huff, throwing yourself back against the pillow and staring at the ceiling of genius Spencer Reid’s bedroom. You hate how he always has a good point.
“You seriously need to relax more. Maybe you should start doing yoga? Or get laid.”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“Oh yeah? And how would I do that, oh mastermind plan maker?”
“I don’t know – go to a bar, talk to a pretty lady. I don’t know how you pick up girls.”
“I don’t,” he replies, looking at you partially as if you just said the silliest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth, partially in a way he usually does when he starts doubting himself. “Besides, I’m not really… into that.”
“What, you’re not into sex?”
“I’m not into casual sex. You know,” he starts, his eyes locked onto yours before they drift away slowly, making their way over the entirety of the space he can see without pulling his head from the pillow. “Sex is a powerful ritual. It’s intimate and vulnerable, and it’s not something I feel comfortable sharing with a stranger. Even for just one night. Or especially for just one night. I can’t imagine doing it all and then just leaving as if nothing happened when it’s done. Not without a connection.”
You look at him in silence for a minute, staring at his profile as his eyes bore into the ceiling.
“And it’s not like I can just form the connection. I’ve never been good at talking to women, and with the job and everything… I don’t know, I just don’t really see myself getting into a relationship anytime soon.”
You take a deep breath, gathering words that will seem smart, since he’s always smart, and the least he deserves from you is good advice. After all, you’re the one who forced him into bed. And into this conversation.
“I understand what you mean. But it’s not like you can’t talk to women – you’re doing just fine with me! You just… don’t think of yourself as highly as you should. But I get it, I’m not going to try to convince you to get into a relationship. It’s just… you could if you tried.”
You stay silent for a minute more. He lets out a hum, you know he doesn’t believe your words. You’re both stubborn when it comes to it, both hellbent on holding your ground. Neither of you really feels like arguing about whether or not Spencer Reid is capable of picking up a woman.
“At least a little self-care, then. Or, you know, I’m always here if you need me,” Your words are playful, though not completely unserious. Beneath the joke lies a very real proposition that feels entirely too heavy to just say outright.
“Wow, such a good roommate I have.”
“Oh, you know it,” You hold eye contact for a while, each of you sporting a teasing smile. “But, I mean, why not? We have a connection, right? Some kind of connection, at least. If you, I don’t know, don’t feel like it’s too weird or something, I wouldn’t mind.”
You shrug, playing it off as if you were completely nonchalant and friendly about it, even though the thought of his rejection is suddenly making you feel more and more like an idiot by each passing second.
He stays silent. Thinks about it.
“I don’t know– don’t you think it would be weird? Or something?”
“I don’t think so? We already live together, it’s kinda like we can’t get much closer than that. And if it means I could help you finally relax… Sounds like a win-win situation to me.”
Your heart is beating faster as the possibility of hooking up with Spencer gets more real. He’s chill about it. Be chill about it.
He lets out a resigned half-laugh. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You wouldn’t be asking,” You shrug. “I offered.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Mhmm. Are you sure?”
Spencer’s mind miraculously turns slower at your proposition. It’s not something he would usually do – probably not ever – especially with someone as close and dear to him as you. But the truth is, even though he discards your concern, he can feel the tiredness in his body. He’s pent up, tense, obviously not getting enough sleep – as you so wisely pointed out – and it’s been a while since he felt truly relaxed. Also, it’s not every day that your gorgeous flatmate offers to help you take care of it. So it’s kind of a no-brainer in his book.
“Yeah. I am.”
You lean over his body, face nearing his own, while your gazes stay locked on one another. You love it when his eyes get all dark, but right now, courtesy of the sunlight falling through the window, they resemble liquid honey more than the usual milk chocolate. You think, very briefly, that you might actually prefer this sight.
And then you kiss.
His lips feel softer than you thought they would, considering he often bites them, and he tastes faintly of the coffee he drank not so long ago. Which reminds you he was drinking coffee to stay awake instead of trying to fall back asleep like he should have been–
The thought doesn’t dwell in your mind for much longer, as he brings his hand to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deeper, the way his tongue is inside your mouth.
You didn’t really imagine what it would feel like to kiss Spencer much – maybe once or twice in passing – but it’s safe to say you’re surprised at how good he is. The way he talks about his inability to get women to notice him – in a positive light at least – would make you think he’s completely inexperienced or just very lousy. And here he is, making you forget you were ever even the slightest bit annoyed at him. Making you forget anything that isn’t him, touching you, kissing, pulling you closer until your chests touch.
You move, hand drifting slowly – starting from his shoulder, resting there just for a little while, before it starts trailing down, lower, until it reaches his abdomen and the waistband of his pajamas.
“Is this okay?”
“Y-yeah.”
He nods quickly, cheeks flushed, lips pink – raw from the kissing. You have a feeling you’re not looking much better. Certainly not any more put together, as your hand finally reaches him, still over his clothes.
He’s half hard already – quick, you think – the makeout clearly taking its effect. You start rubbing your hand over his cock, and it takes barely a few seconds before Spencer's head falls back against the pillow, soft puffs of air and quiet noises escaping his parted lips. So plump. So pretty…
He looks so pretty like this. His hair has been getting longer, and even though it’s not as messy as it usually is right after he gets out of bed, something tells you it will need some work after you’re done with him – the way he just can’t keep still.
“Feels– that feels good.”
He says and tilts his head up to chase your lips. The kisses are dizzying, and he’s not really sure how much more he can take before snapping like a cheap rubber band – quickly, pathetically.
“Yeah? Can I touch it now?”
“You are. T-touching it,” His mind is a little hazy with pleasure and, oh look! Seems like you finally found a way to dumb down the genius.
“You know what I mean.”
“Uh-huh,” Spencer nods eagerly, a few strands of hair falling over his face. “Yeah. Please.”
You run your nails gently over his stomach, dripping low. He shudders at the touch. It feels good – he's as hard as can be now, but it’s not nearly enough.
He laughs weakly – it’s more of a breath than a laugh – but it catches your attention. As if he didn't already have all of it.
“You said you were going to touch me now,”
“And you said that I am touching you.”
You smirk down at him, but you’re not cruel. He looks like he needs it – you know he needs it – so you decide not to deprive him of your touch any longer.
Your hand finds its way into his pajamas, then into his boxers, until it finally reaches the smooth skin of his cock. You run over it a few times, rub it just a little, before taking him into your hand. He feels heavy, and you’re not entirely sure you’re ready to see it just yet, but you lower his clothes and– Oh.
To say Spencer is pretty all over would be an understatement.
Soft sounds escape his lips, bordering on needy and ruined, when you pull your hand away. He looks as if he’s about to protest until he notices you bring the hand up to your lips, and then his eyes are fixed on your spit as it drips from them, your own gaze never leaving his face.
The drop lands on your open palm like a prophecy of what he’s about to experience. He can barely form a thought other than you and how good it feels when you finally start stroking his cock, your lips running over his jaw, then down his neck.
“Thank you. Ngh– Thank you.”
“It’s okay, baby,” You press a single kiss to his lips. He chases them for more. “Does it feel good?”
“God, yes,” The whines would sound pathetic even to his own ears if he were capable of caring about anything other than his pleasure right now. To you, they’re dizzyingly beautiful. Enough to make arousal drip between your legs.
Your hand starts moving faster, gripping him tighter until he can barely breathe. And, if there’s any thought in his head, it’s that:
“I don’t… I don’t have any condoms.”
You take a moment to think about his words, not stopping the movement of your hand. You couldn’t, not when he looks so pretty, falling apart for you.
“That’s fine. We won’t need them today.”
Normally, if Spencer’s mind was working the way it usually does (which it is not), he’d think about your words, make sense of them. However, that doesn’t happen so quickly. Not while you’re kissing his lips, glossy with spit, not when your kisses start moving down his jaw and neck. Not until he feels you pull away and push his shirt up, lowering your face to reach low on his abdomen and start pressing kisses there, dangerously close to his needy cock, which throbs for attention.
“Wan’ me to use my mouth on you?” Kiss. Deliciously messy. “Gonna let me do that?”
Spencer’s head jumps from the pillow to look down at you before dropping back again with a moan. He doesn’t think he can handle the sight. Not unless he’s ready to finish right now. (He’s not. Please, let him keep his composure just a bit longer. Forever, ideally.)
“You don’t have to do that, honey.”
“I didn’t say that I have to, I asked, nicely, if I could,” you say and lean back, sitting on your knees, as your hands grasp the very bottom of your shirt, tugging it up, and off, until it ends up at the end of his bed. “So?”
“Yes. I need it, angel, please.”
That’s what you are to him. With your lips wrapped around his cock, you’re the closest thing to a deity he’s ever known. The only one he wants to believe in.
His eyes travel between your mouth – so warm against him – and your bare breasts. He feels like the world's biggest asshole at the thought of never being able to forget the sight. Damn his stupid eidetic memory.
“Fuck– that’s it,” He begins, but the words are interrupted by a loud whine as you suck, then slowly lower your head until you’re ready to go back to his head. “Please, don’t stop.”
Spencer can feel you hum around his length, most likely meant as reassurance – It’s okay, I’m not stopping – but the vibration only serves to give him more pleasure. It’s hot and overwhelming, and he’s not sure how his hand is ever supposed to live up to this.
And he’s trying – really trying – not to ruin this, but it’s impossible to focus on anything other than the feeling of you, touching him, you all over him– Fuck. He’s getting really close.
He takes a second longer, desperately fighting with his mind to wait until he’s ready for it to be over, but it’s getting harder each time you suck, run your tongue over him, hum – do the things that you do that drive him positively crazy – and he doesn’t even notice when his hands tangle in your hair. Then in his sheets, then your hair again, because, fuck, he truly doesn’t know what to do with his body.
What he does notice is your own hand, joining your soft, wet mouth on his cock, following after your head, up and down.
It’s then that Spencer realises his end is painfully near.
“Wait– stop! Mgh– honey, stop.”
“What is it?” you ask, pulling away in concern, though your hand stays on him.
“I’m getting close. I don’t wanna finish yet. Don’t wan’ it to be over…”
You don’t want him to think you’re laughing at him, but it sure is hard to keep it from slipping out.
“Spence, you’re supposed to enjoy yourself. Relax. You can cum, baby.”
He’s almost ready to protest, beg you to wait – just a second – until he can think straight again, but then he sees you take him back into your mouth. And it’s over before it really begins.
He gets loud, just seconds before the coil inside him snaps, and he tries to warn you, but you stay near, and soon, hot cum floods your mouth.
And it all goes quiet. Only in his head, though Spencer could swear it’s a feeling he’s never felt before. He moans and whines, hands tighten in your hair – his attempt to keep himself grounded as his hips lift from the bed and his head turns deliriously empty.
Only when he settles back down do you finally pull away, pressing one last kiss onto the head of his cock, before tucking him back into his pants.
“Wow, doctor. Seems like you really needed this,” You say with a playful smile, your eyes now at the same level as his.
“Yeah, I… I’m sorry, I don’t… finish this fast, usually. It’s just been a while…”
“Don’t worry, I’m glad I could help,” You look at his flushed face, tender hands brushing strands of hair from his sweaty forehead. Then, you press a kiss against his jaw.
“That was– perfect. You’re incredible. Thank you,” Spencer pulls you into a kiss, his hands once again in your hair. There was a moment when he was worried it might be too much – too intimate – but thoughts as mundane as this one meant nothing to his soft, mushy brain, possessed by post-release hormones.
You, in turn, were cautious of kissing him in case he found it gross, considering you’ve just had him in your mouth. Spencer, however, continues to prove that he’s different from any other guy you’ve ever known.
“How about you get some sleep now, hm?” you ask, petting his cheek gently.
Truth is, your attempt of tiring him out seemed to work, as his glassy eyes keep growing heavier by the second.
“Mmm… Could you stay?” He grasps your wrist and looks at you in a way that makes you believe you could never refuse anything he asks of you.
“Okay.”
And when you get under the covers next to him, his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest. Though soon, as he drifts further into sleep, they begin to loosen, only sometimes tightening involuntarily.
You can’t help but think – you’re not sure whether this is a sleep or a sex thing – that Spencer Reid is a cuddler.
—
When you wake, the sun is high and bright, signalling that you’ve slept far longer than appropriate, and you’ll most likely regret it later.
Still, you try to keep your movements as subtle as possible so as not to disturb Spencer. He deserves this, you think, for all that he does for you, and the whole country, for that matter.
It’s hard not to stare a little as you pull away from his body. You never get to see him like this. He naps on the couch sometimes, though very rarely, since he tries to keep the common spaces available to you at all times. But even when it happens, he’s usually facing the couch, or his face is scrunched up in this really cute way that tells you he’s actually somewhat conscious and will likely wake up if you’re not careful enough.
You’ve never seen him like this, though. So soft and relaxed, gentle in the sweetest way possible. It makes something warm and fuzzy settle deep in your chest.
So you get up from the bed. Debate pressing one last gentle kiss somewhere on his skin – his forehead, maybe – then decide against it.
Even the thought alone feels far too intimate despite the fact that you can still faintly taste him at the back of your throat. You find it leaving you all giddy instead of disgusted. That’s something to worry about another time, though. Right now, you need to start functioning – even if normal people have probably already been up for hours – and leave your sweet, exhausted roommate to get his rest.
You wish him sweet dreams in your head. Scold yourself for it because it’s stupid and he can’t even hear it – and giving him a blowjob was probably more than enough for sweet dreams – but for a reason unknown to you, you don’t actually despise yourself for thinking it.
Maybe you’re just a little embarrassed by your mind.
likes, reblogs and interactions of any kind are greatly appreciated!!!
a/n pt2: i did the thing. gradient title and dividers, i feel all fancy and professional
married spencer reid and reader where every time they try to get freaky with each other, they are interrupted by spencer getting called into a case 😼😼 so they are both just super desperate and needy
this is the shit i live for fr
thank you for the request, hope you enjoy 🤭
-
pairing: spencer reid x f!wife!reader
rating: explicit. 18+, minors do not interact.
warnings: spencer is obsessed with his wife (can i get a hell ya), reader works at a publishing house in this fic, mentions of light alcohol consumption, lots of teasing and yearning, aaron hotchner and derek morgan are unintentionally the biggest cockblocks, soft dom!spence, smut (fingering, f oral receiving, unprotected piv, one [1] ass smack), reader is nondescript aside from being shorter than spencer and wears a dress. no use of y/n.
word count: 3.6k
a/n: this has zero revision so sorry for any grammatical errors / spelling mistakes
-
Thirty seven days.
It’d been thirty seven days since you and your husband have had any chance at being intimate, and truth be told, it was driving you fucking insane.
You understand that his job is very demanding. You really do.
And you obviously know crime doesn’t stop for anyone, even right after he and his coworkers close a case.
But every time you two try to initiate anything, it always seems to get interrupted with the ringtone of his phone you’ve come to learn and dread.
And every time, your husband leaves the house half hard and you feeling needier for him than the last time this reoccurrence took place.
You try and make it work, truly, but your job is also pretty demanding and your hours can be odd.
You’ve given up on trying at this point, because if it happens, it happens. You don’t want to set any expectations up only to be let down once again.
Spencer feels awful about it too. When it’s just you two in your space, he loves to be all over you or has to be touching you in some way. He sees the disappointment in your eyes every single time his phone rings, but you never complain about it to him.
You just give him a small smile as you walk him to the door with a sweet kiss and a be safe out there, baby, before sending him on his way.
He just got back from a case earlier this morning, and now you’re both sitting at your dining room table working on some extra paperwork for your jobs. You, a rough draft manuscript for a new author your publishing house just brought on board, and him, the case file paperwork from the case he just came home from.
It’s silent in the house aside from pens writing on paper and pages being flipped.
His knee brushes yours under the table, and every time it does, electricity zings through your body. You’re in denial that a single brush of a knee could get you so wound up, but it’s been weeks of tension building between you two with no release.
You glance up at Spencer, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip in concentration as he reads impossibly fast before scrawling something on his paperwork.
The furrow in his brow and concentration on his face makes you wonder what he’s reading that’s got him so deep in thought.
You know better than to interrupt him, though, so you get back to your own work. Two more pages to go.
When you’re on your last paragraph, Spencer closes his case file and stacks it neatly with the other paperwork surrounding him.
You’re marking a few more words and highlighting a line before you sigh, finally finished with your work. You roll your shoulders back and close your eyes, taking another deep breath.
When you open them, Spencer is staring at you.
“What?” you huff a laugh, putting your pen down before stacking your papers to be orderly.
“C’mere,” he coaxes, jerking his head.
You grin before moving yourself to straddle Spencer on the chair he’s sitting in. He softly smiles at you as you trace his features with your fingertips, tucking a curl behind his ear.
“My mind is exhausted. I just wanna turn my brain off,” you joke half-heartedly.
“Oh yeah? Maybe I can help with that,” he murmurs.
Heat strikes your core like lightning, warmth flooding through your veins as you stare down at him. You can see the neediness in his eyes, feel it in the way his hands twitch around your waist.
He wants you just as badly as you want him, so he decides it’s time he does something about it.
You run your fingers through his hair, and Spencer shuts his eyes for a few seconds before re-opening them. This time, they’re much darker and full of a burning, carnal desire.
“Spence,” you whisper, and his mouth is on yours. Not in a soft way, no. More feral. More ravenous.
You match his energy all the same, moaning into him as he grips the sides of your face with such urgency, deepening the kiss.
You trail your hands down his chest, frantically trying to unbutton his shirt as you go.
His tongue sweeps over yours, and it’s messy for a few seconds. Teeth clashing, lips smacking and full-fledged desperation.
His hands roam your body, immediately finding the hem of your dress. One of his hands travels between your legs, fingers brushing your clothed cunt.
The whine that evades you is involuntary, but his touch is making you have the utmost visceral reaction. You grip his shoulders tightly as he moves your panties to the side, sliding his fingers through your arousal.
“Please, Spence,” you cry. He hums against you and separates himself from you to see the look on your face as he circles his fingers around your clit.
“You’re so fucking wet, angel. You want me this bad?”
You look down at him, chest heaving rapidly as you desperately try to catch your breath.
“You have no idea how badly I want you, Spencer. I need you.”
He groans at your words, and you can feel his hard length against your thigh. All you have to do is unbuckle his belt, and he’ll be yours….
And then his fucking phone rings.
You let out a half-laugh half-sob, slumping your shoulders as you look down at the phone on the table behind you.
Derek Morgan’s name flashes across the screen, and you sigh before picking up his phone to hand it to him.
He looks absolutely crushed as he removes his hand from between your legs. You move to get up, but his grip stops you in your tracks. He shakes his head at you while he answers his phone.
“Hey Morgan, what’s up?”
His grip on your waist tightens, and you slump into him a little more just to be closer to him. Your nails lightly scratch the nape of his neck, patiently waiting for him to get off the phone only to probably tell you he has to leave again.
Except he doesn’t. “What time?” he asks Derek.
He moves the phone away from his ear slightly. “Derek wants to know if you’re up for drinks at Shaw’s in half an hour. Everyone’s going.”
You rear back slightly, not expecting the invitation. You shrug a shoulder and give him a nod, thinking a drink or two will distract you from him. Plus, knowing you’ll get to see Penelope, Emily and JJ brightens the mood a bit.
It’s been awhile since you’ve hung out with them with everyone being busy and all, so you’re looking forward to some girl talk.
“Okay, see you in a bit. Bye,” he says, hanging up the phone.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m so sorry, my love.”
You shrug. “Don’t worry about it, Spence.”
You pat his chest to get up, but his grip tightens once again on you. He leans up to kiss you softly before giving your ass a love tap.
You hope to god these drinks become a decent distraction.
-
“You made it!” Penelope squeals with excitement, bringing you into a welcoming bone-crushing hug.
“Easy with my wife, Garcia. She’s precious cargo,” Spencer jokes.
You laugh as you hug her back, kissing her hair before separating from her.
She puts on her best grumpy pout and points an accusatory finger at Spencer. “Well I wouldn’t hug her so enthusiastically if you didn’t keep her away from us so much.”
Spencer puts his hands up in surrender. “It’s not intentional, I swear,” he pleads.
“I missed you too, Pen,” you laugh, hugging her again before saying hi to Emily, JJ, and Derek. You wave at Aaron and Dave, and you all walk over to a large booth that could easily hold ten people comfortably.
“Drinks, ladies?” Derek asks, and you all list off what you’d like. The men all head toward the bar as you and the girls get comfy in your seats.
“So how’ve you been? It’s been so long since we’ve last hung out,” JJ asks with a small pout.
“Too long,” you sigh, “But I’ve been good. Just working a lot.”
“Amen to that,” Emily says.
“So are you and Spence gonna try for kids anytime soon?” Penelope gets straight to the point, and while Emily and JJ look at her in horror, you laugh.
“Not quite yet. We barely even have time to… you know,” your hand gestures around, but they get the point.
“God, don’t I know it,” JJ huffs. “How long has it been for you?”
You tip your head side to side. “A little over a month.”
“Yeah. No offense to him, but your guys’ boss is a total cockblock.”
All three of them laugh loudly, drawing Spencer and Derek’s attention.
“Can I ask how?” Emily says, raising her brow in curiosity.
“Every single time, and I mean every. single. time. Spence and I try to get intimate, he calls him to come back to work because there’s a new case.”
“God, talk about terrible luck in that area,” Penelope sighs.
“I mean, when we actually get to, between us ladies,” you look at all three of them, “it’s incredible. He’s incredible. Like mind-blowing-world-shattering type of incredible.”
All three of them gawk at you like you’re saying the most ridiculous thing in the world.
“And this is Spencer we’re talking about? Shy, reserved, full-of-too-much-information, stubborn, innocent little Spencer?” Penelope says, and you bite your lip to stifle a laugh.
“He’s anything but innocent, believe that,” you say, and you leave it at that.
They all gasp in surprise, and you laugh at their reactions. It’s incredibly rewarding knowing the side only you get to experience of him is a complete shock factor to everyone else.
“I’ll be damned. Go Spence,” JJ roots on.
“And go you for bagging him,” Penelope adds, with a no kidding from Emily.
The four of you immediately switch the conversation as you see the men walking back to the table with drinks in hand.
Spencer hands you yours with a sweet smile, and you thank him as he slides into the booth next to you. You cozy up to him and he puts a hand on your bare thigh, rubbing circles into your hot skin.
You clench your thighs together, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him. He hides his smirk behind the glass of his club soda as he takes a sip.
And then he casually moves his hand higher on your thigh. You take a sip of your own drink to calm your nerves, because his teasing isn’t helping anything.
All it makes you want to do is drag his ass into the bathroom and have him fuck you senseless. Your self restraint was hanging on by a thread, and you had to sit there and act nonchalant while his hand was burning a hole into your thigh.
You squirm a little, trying your hardest to follow the conversation that was happening.
“You okay?” Spencer asks, lips brushing your ear. You shiver at the proximity.
“Mhm,” you muster poorly. To everyone else at the table, the interaction you two are having looks innocent enough. But you know he’s taunting you. Teasing you. Snipping the thread piece by piece.
Another sip of your drink, and that warm feeling returns. Except it’s all over your body, and it burns for your husband.
His hand moves dangerously higher on your thigh, and you roll your lips into your mouth to stifle a moan. You try to move his hand down, but he grips on tightly and won’t budge.
You huff quietly in frustration, chugging the rest of your drink before you take your opportunity during a break in the conversation.
“Would you ladies like to dance with me?” You ask, because it’s the only logical thing you can think of right now that can get you away from your husband and his insanely tempting touch.
“Oh you know I’m always down for dancing,” Penelope says, Emily and JJ agreeing. You peer up at Spencer under your lashes before flashing him an innocent smile.
He wanted to tease you? Fine. Two can play at that game.
“Scooch over, handsome,” you say, and you catch his throat working as he swallows slowly. He moves out of the booth so the four of you can get out, and as soon as you hit the dance floor, you feel his eyes burning holes through you.
So you put on a show. You’re moving your hips sensually to the rhythm of the song playing, no doubt attracting other wandering eyes as well.
“I so know what you’re doing, and it’s totally working,” Emily says into your ear, looking over your shoulder at Spencer. “He’s coming over here now.”
You smirk at her and continue to dance, feeling his hands grip your hips seconds later. His cologne fills your senses and you sigh in content at the familiarity.
You continue to dance, grinding yourself into him purposefully.
He leans down so his lips brush your ear, and you gasp at the contact. “Let’s go. I’m taking you home.”
You turn around and fake pout at him. “But I’m having so much fun. You afraid your coworkers are going to deem you unprofessional if you dance with me?”
“I really don’t care what they think.”
“Your innocence card would be completely stripped,” you tease.
He raises an eyebrow. “I was innocent. And then I met my wife.”
You gasp and mock feigning offense. “Me? Take your innocence? Nonsense. You already knew what you were doing when we met.”
“You may have not taken my innocence, but you’ve built up my confidence.”
“Use that confidence to dance with me,” you try to negotiate.
“Not today, sweet girl. Say your goodbyes. We’re leaving.”
Your heart thunders against your ribcage at his words. They almost sound threatening, but they’re far from it. You know that tone. That stern, no-nonsense authority that has you wanting to fall to your knees.
You make your rounds to say goodbye, chalking up your early departure to having to get up early tomorrow for a family function.
The car ride home is deadly silent. The tension is so thick and palpable, you can practically cut it with a knife. You’re throbbing by the time he parks in the driveway, and when he opens your door for you, you nearly trip over your own two feet as you rush to get into the house.
Because as soon as that door closes, he’s all over you. He pushes you up against the door, grabbing your cheeks as he kisses you so desperately and passionately that it makes your knees physically weak.
“I’m turning this fucking thing off until we’re done. No more interruptions. I need you so fucking bad, angel.” He makes a show of turning off his phone, tossing it onto the entryway table before resuming kissing you.
You whimper into the kiss, gripping his shirt like your life depends on it. You both stumble back to the bedroom, lips only parting for brief intervals. You’re both bumping walls, feeling your way around before you finally make it to the bedroom.
He wastes no time taking off your dress, groaning when he sees you in your matching panties and bra.
“So gorgeous. All mine,” he nearly growls, pushing you gently down onto the bed. “I need to taste you.”
“Spence, please,” you cry.
He gets down on his knees before you without hesitation. He starts with frantic kisses on your thighs, but slows himself down when he gets to the apex. He looks up at you, kissing your clothed cunt.
Then a lick. Another kiss. And then he rips your panties off of you, tongue delving into your pussy.
“Spencer!” You gasp, hands flying to his hair. He hums against you, arms sliding up your body until his hands are resting on your hips.
His tongue works wildly against your core, the sounds reverberating off the walls of your bedroom nothing short of obscene.
Kiss. Lick. Suck.
Alllll the way down. Then back up.
Your hips start to writhe in tandem with his tongue, and you’re so pent up that it doesn’t take you long to come.
But he doesn’t stop there. Of course he doesn’t.
“You were being such a tease earlier,” he murmurs dangerously low, hand sliding down to your pussy. He spreads your arousal, coating his fingers. Your hips absentmindedly chase his fingers, and he pulls back to look up at you.
“You started it,” you weakly retort.
He chuckles, pushing his ring and middle finger into you. You gasp at the welcome intrusion, squirming against his hand. His free hand smacks your hip lightly—a silent warning to stop moving.
“True, but you should’ve seen the way other men were gawking at you. Gawking at what’s mine.”
He starts to thrust his fingers, curling them in a ‘come here’ motion. It makes you twitch, and the corner of his mouth lifts up in amusement.
“And I didn’t notice a single one. None of them hold a candle to you, Spence.”
“My beautiful wife. You don’t know what you do to me.”
“I felt it earlier,” you snicker, and his fingers move faster. Then comes his mouth. The combination has your toes curling and you can’t help but bite down on the back of your hand as a white hot feeling rips through your body once more, stronger this time.
You cry out his name as you come again, legs shaking and body trembling like a leaf.
“And you’ll get to feel it again.”
You moan at his words as he leans up to take off your bra, discarding it to the side. He works off his shirt, pants and boxers so he’s left completely bare for you.
You can’t help but admire him like this, but he doesn’t give you much time to look as he flips your body over, putting you on all fours.
He uses his hand to gently press between your shoulder blades, prompting you to position yourself face down ass up.
“You want me?” He asks, coating his cock with your arousal.
It rips a whine straight from your throat.
“So bad. Please.”
“Mm. My baby’s so polite, too.”
He teases the head into your entrance, and you clench around him. He hisses at the contact, pulling back before giving your ass a smack.
You moan at the stinging feeling.
“What my baby wants, she gets,” he says, finally pushing into you. You cry out his name, gripping the sheets beneath you.
He thrusts in and out of you slowly at first. Deliberately. Like he’s savoring the feeling of your warmth wrapped around him every time. Like he’ll come too fast if he stays buried in you for too long all at once.
“You’re so fucking perfect. So beautiful in every way possible,” he whispers.
He thrusts harder this time, faster.
“Can’t believe you’re all mine, angel.”
“I’m all yours, Spence.”
Your words are muffled by the sheets, but by the way his fingers flex and grip your hips tighter, he heard you loud and clear.
Then he sets a brutal pace. One that knocks the air out of your lungs and has you seeing stars. Toes curling, eyes rolling to the back of your head, legs shaking.
Your body feels like complete jello and the only thing keeping your mind semi-clear is the sound of skin slapping skin.
That, and the whimpering sounds he makes. The way he moans your name with so much desire, so much passion. It’s enough to get you soaring over the edge once again, but you hold on for a little longer.
You want to savor this moment for as long as you possibly can, because getting put into the goddamn mattress by your husband has unfortunately become a rare occurrence.
He tilts his hips at a different angle, and that has you screaming his name into the sheets.
“Fuck! Please don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop,” you plead.
One of his hands curls around your front, finding your overly sensitive clit, fingertips working at it in calculated circles.
With the heady feeling of how heavy he is in you, the push and pull, the scent of him, the feeling of him all around you, fingers on your clit—you don’t last another second.
Without warning, your third orgasm rips through you viscerally, and your body collapses into the mattress. Spencer keeps at it, not giving up until it’s only moments later he finds his release.
He moans your name as he comes in you, breathless and in a daze.
He gently turns you over and scoops you into his arms, kissing your forehead as your body comes down from the tremors.
“You okay?” He’s breathless and sweaty and smells like sex and god, you can’t believe he’s yours.
“More than okay.”
He hums and kisses your forehead once more before getting out of bed to wet a washcloth and bring it back to clean you up. He climbs back into bed, tucking you into his side before tossing the sheets over your bodies.
Exhaustion settles into your bones as you rest your head on his chest, his steady heartbeat soothing you.
Feeling satiated and well-fucked (rightfully so), you kiss his chest over his beating heart before giggling softly.
“What is it, my love?”
You look up at him with a knowing smirk.
“You should really turn your phone off more often.”
DOING THIS TO DENNIS WHILE HE EATS YOU OUT AND EVERY TIME HE BREAKS AWAY YOU TELL HIM TO RESITE A BIBLE VERSE ABOUT LUST—*gets fucking blown up to smithereens* 
AND HIS WORDS ARE ALL MUFFLED AND HES TRYING SO HARD TO KEEP HIS EYES ON YOU AND CONTINUE SPEAKING BUT HE KEEPS GETTING DISTRACTED AND HIS LIPS ARE STICKY AND WET AND HES MUMBLING OUT APOLOGIES BC HE CANT DECIDE IF HE WANTS TO EAT YOU OUT MORE OR LISTEN TO YOUR INSTRUCTIONS
synopsis: in which Spencer’s daughter is teaching her stuffed animal class and he is taking it very, very seriously
genre: fluffy
wc: 930ish
notes/tags: professor! spence, yes spencer named his childhood teddy bear after carl sagan, inspired by “reid, is your name samuel?”, space facts should be correct because i got them from NASA🤓☝️badger is named after badger from the wind in the willows his daughter isn’t just unimaginative
masterlist // if you enjoy pls reblog it helps promote the fic so much !!
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Spencer shifted where he sat cross-legged on the carpet, wedged between a small pink teddy bear and a large stuffed elephant. He clicked his glittery blue pen a couple more times, scribbling on his Disney princess-patterned paper again and watching as no ink came out. Sighing, he raised his hand in the air.
“Excuse me, Miss Reid?” He called out. Across the room small brown eyes much like his looked up from where they were helping Pebble the Penguin with his quiz. “May I have another pen, please?”
“Yes you may.” The little girl nodded seriously, rooting around her small pink desk before giving up, with all of her pens currently being sprawled across the floor in front of various stuffed animals. Instead, she opted for sneakily taking Pebble’s pen from beside his worksheet.
“Thank you very much.” Spencer said, taking his new sparkly purple pen from her warm hands before she promptly shoved them back into her pockets.
He watched her as she strolled across the room, reciting mostly-accurate bits and pieces from the astronomy book he’d caught her studying with a flashlight long past her bedtime the night before. Her little voice filled the room, her cadence rising and falling in a way all so familiar to him- a way that stood out to him even more so ever since he realised she was mimicking him. She paced up and down the room, the way he did in his classes, the way she’d seen him do a hundred times up and down the kitchen as he practiced his material. Spencer bit back a smile- having already been told off once for not taking her class seriously enough- before dropping his gaze back to his lap.
His daughter’s scratchy handwriting stared back up at him in glittery pink rows of questions. The exact same questions had also been painstakingly copied out on each piece of paper sitting before the entire circle of stuffed animals she was standing within, a faint smell of strawberry wafting up from each sheet. His eyes focused on a small smudge on the corner of his paper, a tiny little thumb print the evidence of her efforts. It’s rather silly the things that make tears prick your eyes when you’re a father.
“Carl.” She called, spinning to face a rather worn out looking teddy bear with a NASA logo on its chest. The same teddy bear had been Spencer’s earliest student as a child. “How many moons does Mars have?” He thought it was a little odd to ask additional questions during what was supposed to be a quiz, but he daren’t question her teaching methods. He understood better than anyone the itch to keep on teaching. Carl answered, albeit in a voice very similar to his teacher’s but in a slightly lower-pitch, earning a gold star sticker to his paper. Spencer’s cardigans were littered in the same stickers. He was, after all, her star pupil and he made sure everybody at the BAU knew it when he wore them like badges of honour with a proud smile to match.
“Badger.” She said, turning to the rather appropriate named stuffed badger at her side. “How many moons does Mercury have?”
Spencer’s spine straightened instinctually, ears perking up like a puppy hearing the world ‘treat’ as his hand shot straight up in the air. “That’s a trick question- Mercury doesn’t have any moons. It’s far too close to the sun to hold onto its own moon and even if it did it would likely eventually get pulled into the sun anyway.” He beamed up at her, holding himself back from prepping his sweater in preparation for its next gold star.
Instead, the little teacher furrowed her little brows at him, hands on her hips as she sighed. “Daddy!” She chided in her sternest voice. “I asked Badger, not you!”
Spencer’s mouth silently opened and closed like a fish, a slight flush tingling in his cheeks as his posture shrunk. “I’m so sorry, Miss Reid.” He offered her a sheepish smile before gesturing to the class for her to continue. “It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you.” She nodded, twirling on her heel to where Toto the dog was apparently waiting with his paw raised, not that Spencer could tell. He tilted his head back down to his paper, admiring where he could see that she’d stumbled over the spelling of Uranus a couple of times before getting it right. His was clearly the first quiz she’d written. A fruity smell wafted from the pen as he speedily answered the rest of the questions- play pretend class or not he was not about to lose his star pupil streak.
“Daddy?” He heard her call after a while. His neck snapped up to find her standing right in front of him, her sheet of gold stars in hand. “Which planet in our solar system has the shortest days?”
“Jupiter!” He answered immediately, and if he was in a seat he would be practically jumping out of it. “Jupiter’s days only last approximately 10 hours. Comparatively, Venus has the longest days- one day on Venus is equal to 243 days on Earth. That’s even longer than its years.”
“Perfect answer!” She was smiling at him now, her joy infectious to her father as a grin broke out on his own face.
“Well I have the best teacher ever.” Spencer answered simply, shrugging like it was the most true thing in the world. In the universe, even.
She reached out, pressing another sticker to his chest so that it sparkled over his heart. “And I have the best student ever.”
I do think that whenever Ilya calls Shane and Shane doesn't pick up, Ilya leaves a voicemail. And the voicemail can be anything from, "Come find me," because they got separated at the mall, to "Hello hello, I miss you, oke bye" because Shane has been out of the house all day. There's also, "Coffee shop says they don't sell your tea anymore. Tell me what you want instead. I leave in three minutes. Bye-bye." and "I will not be home when you get here. Running away to join circus. Maybe will be back with Thai food. Mwah mwah."
This is also how Shane ends up getting into his car, seeing that Ilya left a voicemail, and unthinkingly playing it through the speakers of the car only for the deep voice of Shane's Russian-accented husband to boom, "Answer your fucking phone. Slut." with both the windows and moon roof open.
what are some pet names you think dennis would use? („ᵕᴗᵕ„) i love your writing!!!
hi hi!!! thank you for loving it!! sooo i think he’d use the classics. hes your everyday joe yk? he’s such a lovey dovey guy, especially when he’s head over heels for you. i think he’s more for the smaller gestures buuut he’ll always adapt to your love language!! but lemme stay on track…
soo for pet names!!
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ - “honey” i think this is his most used name. i think he’s probably heard his father call his mother this a lot so it’s ingrained in him that his lover is sweet as honey!
“hey honey, what are you up to?” voice soft and impossibly gentle. domesticity flowing naturally when he speaks. he’s slipping his hands around your waist. chin resting atop your shoulder while you’re busying yourself with something in the kitchen.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ - “baby” a classic, he lets it slip without even noticing that he’s doing it really. happens during those heated moments, when you’re kissing and he’s breathing it out between pecks.
parting from your lips to mumble out a “mm— baby..let me breathe a second.” that comes out as more of a sigh than a sentence. any hint of combativeness melting down when he smiles against your mouth.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ - “hon” self explanatory its just a quicker way for him to say honey. hes all gapped smiles and midwestern charm. its his everyday choice.
“hon could you pass me my toothbrush please?” when he sleepily meanders into the bathroom in the early hours of the morning. eyes still half shut and a grimace forming on his face at the bright lights of the space.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ - “sweetheart” I think he uses this one when he’s trying to win you over or knows he did something wrong. holds your face and whispers it, apologizing for upsetting you.
“m’sorry sweetheart, look at me please? let me see you, I wanna apologize.” a pretty frown on his lips when he ducks his head to catch your tearful gaze.
DOING THIS TO DENNIS WHILE HE EATS YOU OUT AND EVERY TIME HE BREAKS AWAY YOU TELL HIM TO RESITE A BIBLE VERSE ABOUT LUST—*gets fucking blown up to smithereens* 
AND HIS WORDS ARE ALL MUFFLED AND HES TRYING SO HARD TO KEEP HIS EYES ON YOU AND CONTINUE SPEAKING BUT HE KEEPS GETTING DISTRACTED AND HIS LIPS ARE STICKY AND WET AND HES MUMBLING OUT APOLOGIES BC HE CANT DECIDE IF HE WANTS TO EAT YOU OUT MORE OR LISTEN TO YOUR INSTRUCTIONS
Spencer is in constant awe of your beauty. Tonight, with you dancing in the middle of the bar, he is not the only one. But between the pulsing music and the neon lights, it's clear that you only have eyes for him, and you make sure he knows it.
BUD Chronicles | gif by @reidgif
Contents: 4.7k words, SMUT & FLUFF 18+, MDNI, fem!reader, established relationship, early seasons Spencer, alcohol mentions, Spencer is down bad for reader (no like it's actually sickening how much he loves you), misogynistic language (not from Spencer), protective Spencer, PDA, r wears a skirt, whiny Spencer, car sex, fingering, size kink, protected p in v, Spencer comes too soon poor guy.
A/n: return of BUD dedicated to @whisperedmeg belated happy birthday megara you are so creative and endlessly thoughtful and intentional in everything you do my love for you transcends oceans and timezones i am so so so grateful and happy to share this corner of the internet with you!!!!!
mostly proofread but it is 2am where i live, i'm sorry if i missed anything
Spencer avoids alcohol, as he always does. Nobody questions it anymore. Nobody pretends to pressure him, nobody teases. As is the norm of these nights out, Rossi generously offers to pay, and Morgan always makes sure Spencer has a glass of cider or iced tea so he doesn't go thirsty.
Said glass currently sits on the table, haloed by rings of condensation, completely untouched. He hasn't had anything to drink. Can't quite bring himself to do something as simple as bringing an object to his mouth, too distracted by you.
On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the opposite—he loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.
Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.
Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.
Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.
And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.
He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.
Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you like—swinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.
He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.
So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.
Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.
So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.
In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existed—Penelope probably would make one if prompted—simply because it's true.
And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.
He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore it—proudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.
But sometimes, they make it too obvious.
The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.
And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.
Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.
But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.
He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voice—snapping and testy—and the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.
"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"
The man sputters.
Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.
"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."
Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.
The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."
"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."
"Oh please, you're not even—"
"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."
"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.
The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.
He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.
"Hey."
"Hi, handsome."
All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding it—lightheaded and trippy and effervescent—all from the sight of your smile.
He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"
"I'm perfect. You came just in time."
"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."
"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."
There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.
At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.
He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.
"That was really hot, by the way."
He chuckles. "What was?"
"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."
"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."
"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."
"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as it–"
Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."
"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"
"You know how."
"Explain it to me, genius."
He huffs. "I hate you."
You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"
"Nothing."
"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"
Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."
"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."
"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."
You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"
"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.
"I've already forgiven you."
"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.
He won't ever get enough of this—the weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing him—neither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.
He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.
There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.
The bartender looks unamused.
Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.
Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.
He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.
"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"
Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.
His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.
The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.
You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."
Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.
It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptance—encouragement, even—of his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.
It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.
Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.
He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.
He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.
"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"
Oh. Right.
He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.
His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.
"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.
Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.
Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.
At least there's no one around.
He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.
He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.
You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong there—and you do.
He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.
You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.
"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.
A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.
Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."
He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortable–"
"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more… assertive."
"It-it's hot?"
"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.
He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.
"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to… just be… like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just… exist."
He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.
Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.
"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.
"It's true. It's true, you just… You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.
"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."
He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.
You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.
When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.
The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feeling—your body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.
Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.
Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.
Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.
So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from this—the exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.
But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.
He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you want—need—more.
"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."
You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painful—and it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.
Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.
"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.
"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.
"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."
"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.
"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.
"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."
He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.
You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.
You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.
He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.
After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.
You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.
He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.
"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always so–oh!"
Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.
"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, this—mhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.
Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.
He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.
Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.
For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.
And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.
"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."
He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.
"God, Spence, yes, just like that."
"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"
He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.
Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.
Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.
There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.
The car's rocking is obscene.
And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.
"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"
You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.
"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."
Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."
He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."
He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.
Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.
thank you to that one anon and @oorchidea for peer pressuring me into finishing this lol I missed this pairing a lot. Please reblog if you enjoyed!!! We fought to get that button back, we should utilize it.
summary: as a surgical resident, you don't have much time for flings. however, an opportunity presents itself for a hookup and who are you to turn that down?
title from: "midnight love" by girl in red
word count: 5.3k
content warnings: smut MDNI!!! protected PinV (I KNOW I KNOW), pretend in this world the pitt has two on-call trauma surgeons or perhaps even Garcia is off for the week, inaccurate medical practice and procedures, reader briefly flirts with Ellis, one night stand but Whitaker doesn't know it's a one night stand
side note: once again I dont know if I like this but whatever. thank you Olive and Mari for beta-ing, I love you both dearly thank you thank you
Being in the surgical field leaves you with very limited time to yourself. And despite what television likes to suggest, even less time for romantic relationships. The pitt is notorious for taking up your free time.
The pitt is also chalk full of enough attractive doctors and nurses for you to choose from. If you were so inclined. But choosing from the staff of the ER feels like admiting to defeat, a humiliation ritual of the worst kind.
And unfortunately, one of their doctors has caught your eye. He's not particularly remarkable, not very tall and like he's one loud cough from making a break for it. But there's something about the sorrowful eyes that Whitaker has that tugs at your chest.
They land on you now, as you enter the trauma room, grabbing a pair of gloves on your way over to the patient.
"Looks like someone's having a bad day," you say idly, taking catalogue of the patients condition.
"Auto versus pedestrian, darted out between cars. Grade two compound radial fracture and ribs five through seven are broken." Samira supplies, while you nod. She continues to give you the run down of his state, filling you in on how they've already treated him.
"Another unfortunate win for automobiles. Go ahead and send him up, Emery'll be waiting," you sigh. You step back as the nurses pull up the guards, watching as they file out with Samira beside them. Dennis tugs off his gloves quickly, tossing them in the trash as he goes over to the monitor in the room. There's a soft beep as the system reads his ID card.
"So, what's the deal with you and Santos?" You ask as you pull off your gloves, not bothering to beat around the bush.
"What?" Whitaker chokes out, looking over at you and then back to the screen in front of him.
"You and Santos. You walk in together, you clock out together, and the rumor mill says you've moved in together. What's going on there?" You don't really have the time to spell things out for him, but you also need answers.
"Yeah, uh... A few months ago I moved in with her. But that's about it, nothing really going on." The clatter of the keyboard filling the trauma room. You nod, tossing your gloves into bin as you head for the back of the room.
"Keep it that way. I don't homewreck." It comes out like an order as you push past the doors. Dennis doesn't have long to process the words before you're headed for the elevator.
The compound fracture surgery takes longer than you would have liked. That paired with surgery on the patients fractured ribs has you staying well past seven.
You only go down to the emergency department because you know Samira likes hearing about the patients that go up to your OR. She never had the time to take the trip up but she was persistent about asking whenever you were brought back down for a consult.
Sometimes, when an operation takes longer than scheduled, you're not able to catch Samira before she clocks out of the ER. The path from the elevator to the hub is familiar, passing borders and nurses as you go. Your gaze lands on Lena where she attends the hub, talking to one of the other night nurses.
When Lena spots you, her brow furrows before waving you over.
"Mohan left yet?" You ask as you lean against the counter.
"Yeah, she left a little bit ago. Something wrong?" Lena tells you while handing off a tablet to her nurse.
"No," you sigh. "Just came down to tell her about one of her cases. I'll catch her another time, though."
"If I run into her before you do, I'll let her know." Lena smiles before her attention is taken by Dr. Ellis as she steps up beside you.
"Aren't you supposed to be a few floors up?" She asks, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"Oh, Parker, you know I can't pass up an opportunity to see you," you shift, body facing Ellis as you grin. "When are you going to let me take you out for a drink?"
"In your dreams, sweetheart. Are you done stealing my charge nurse?" There's a familiar warmth of fondness for the doctor, making you wish you saw her more often than you do.
"I'll give her up for breakfast in bed," the joke is suggestive and it makes Ellis roll her eyes, smile still in place. Her gaze lands on someone just past your shoulder and it makes her smile widen.
"I think someone else wants your attention tonight," Parker nods toward the person behind you. The motion makes you turn, gaze landing on Whitaker on the other side of the hub, whose gaze quickly moves to the computer in front of him.
You sigh softly, turning back to Ellis and Lena. "She's all yours, but one day we're going to have to get that drink."
"Sure," Ellis laughs as you step away from the counter. As you make your way over to Whitaker, you put your hands in the pockets of your scrubs.
There's a little tension in Whitaker's posture as you lean against the desk next to him. His fingers slow down as you watch him, taking in state of him since you had left the pitt hours ago.
"Still charting?" You peak at the screen, not bothering to read any of what he's put in.
"Uh, yeah." Is all he says, continuing to type. You let your gaze wander the ED, spotting Santos in front of the behavioral rooms at one of the computers. Her face is concentrated as she types away, mouth twisting while she does. You'd seen Garcia talking to her a few times, so you try and keep your mind from wandering.
You hear the mouse click faintly, and the keys stop beside you. When you turn back to Whitaker, he's already looking at you.
"Finished?" You ask, as if you were actually waiting on him. Like he was the thing keeping you there.
"Yeah, I just put in the final notes." He motions towards the monitor. You watch as he leans back a little, some of the tension having left his body. You hum, turning back to look at the ER around you.
"Why uh... Why did you want to know if Santos and I were together?" Whitaker asks softly. You can hear the chair shift as he straightens up, making you turn back to him. His expression changes when you look at him, a small smirk tugging at your lips.
"I told you, I don't homewreck," you tell him with a small shrug. You get up from the desk, taking your hands out of your pockets as you stretch. You don't miss the way his eyes dart to the hem of your top before going back up to your face.
"Are you doing anything tonight?" You ask, placing a hand on the surface next to you.
"I have to wait for Trinity to finish up her charting. I'll probably kill time in the cafeteria." He says, head tilted back to look up at you. It makes something in your brain itch. You choose to ignore it.
"I'll take you home." You say easily, watching his eyes widen.
"Oh, no. You don't have to," he starts but stops when you give him a look.
"Yeah, and how long does she usually take, hm?" Watching his gaze dart over to Santos.
"Uh.. A few hours.." He admits, looking back at you.
"That's what I thought." You say, standing up straight. "Go tell her we're going, I'll meet you at scrubs exchange."
Your words leave no room for argument as you turn around, navigating your way from the hub back to the elevator. The trip up and back after collecting your things is close to five minutes, bidding your goodnights to the OR staff as you go.
Whitaker's waiting for you by the scrubs exchange when you get back down to the pitt with his bag and a thin hoodie. He tucks his phone in his pocket when he spots you walking up to him, giving you a tight-lipped smile. You don't say anything, turning toward the pitt as you lead the way to reception. You don't bother looking behind you to see if Whitaker is following, if he has any sense he'll be close on your tail.
You give Ellis a little wave when you walk by, not missing the quirk of her eyebrow when she spots the resident trailing you. Chairs is a nightmare to get through, slipping past security and pending patients before you step out of the hospital.
You glance back briefly, ensuring you didn't lose Whitaker to the waiting room. He's breathless behind you, a slight flush working it's way over his features when he catches your eye.
"Keep up, Oklahoma." You tell him as you lead the way to the parking lot.
"Nebraska." He corrects you softly, staying a step behind you. You sigh, the obvious reference going over his head.
The trek to your car takes you a little longer than usual, basking in the night air. The temperature in March is perfect after a long shift under the bright fluorescence of the hospital. However you can't prolong it longer when you step up to the side of your car, unlocking it as Whitaker goes around to the other side.
As soon as you're in the car and have it started, you roll down the windows a little. Just enough that a nice breeze will come in when you drive. Whitaker clips in the seatbelt while you do, bag tucked between his legs with his hands resting on his thighs.
"Address," is all you say as you hand Whitaker your phone. While he's typing it in, you adjust the heating and turn on your headlights.
Whitaker hands you back your phone when he's done, and you don't miss the way he tries to make himself smaller in your passenger seat. He keeps his hands tucked in his lap, looking out the window quietly.
You sigh as you reverse, finally deciding to throw him a bone. "I asked about you and Dr. Santos because I don't flirt with people in relationships."
"I- What?" Whitaker's head snaps in your direction as you leave the parking garage. Any faster and you think he might have given himself whiplash.
"I don't homewreck. I'll be an HR nightmare, but I don't fuck up other people's relationships." When you glance over at him, you'd have thought you'd grown two heads with how he looks at you. "I'm an asshole, not a monster."
"You... like me?" He sounds skeptical, like he's waiting for the punchline.
"What's not to like? You're competent. Cute. Kind of dorky." You shrug, like it's no big deal. "The new haircut is a big plus."
"Trinity said I should grow it out.. Her friends think it makes me look less Amish." He tells you. One of his hands tugs at one of his curls, almost absentmindedly.
"You're not seeing any of them, are you?" You ask, ensuring all your bases are covered.
"No uh... They're all very um.. Queer..." The way he says the word makes you laugh.
"The Amish were closer to Omaha, anyways. There was a small community in Grand Island, but that was too far from home." Whitaker rambles on, like he has to clear it up for you.
"I have to be honest, I don't know where any of those places are." You tell him, glancing over while you wait for the light to turn green.
"Oh. That's okay. I was just... Talking." The words come out stilted, like he's become accustomed to being misunderstood.
"No girlfriend back in Oklahoma?" You ask, turning back to the road before someone decides they want to honk for not moving the millisecond the lights been green.
"Nebraska." He corrects again, making you fight a small grin. "And no. No one anywhere."
You nod, stewing over the words.
"I didn't think you liked me." He admits quietly, looking out the windshield.
"I've been told I have an... Abstract way of expressing my feelings." You say, choosing the nicest way of putting it. "Robby's been giving me funny looks every time I rib you."
"It's more like bullying," you think you can hear a hint of tease in his voice when Whitaker says that.
"Bullying can be a love language." You shrug, changing lanes quickly.
"Blinker." He says absently, glancing at your hands on the wheel.
"No one uses a blinker here."
"Yeah, I noticed." Whitaker mutters, but doesn't try to educate you on the importance of blinkers.
The rest of the drive to Whitaker's place is quiet, the hum of the radio the only sound playing whatever playlist you had on earlier. Finding parking is easy, pulling into the lot behind the building. Whitaker doesn't make a move to get out once you've parked, and you can almost see the gears turning.
"Spit it out, Oklahoma."
He's quiet for a few moments longer, maybe weighing his words before he says them.
"Do you want to come up?" He asks. You blink, slightly stunned by the offer. You were planning for it to take you longer to be invited into his place, at least one or two more drives home.
"If you insist," you cut the ignition, tucking your keys in your pocket while Whitaker collects his bag. He leads you to the door, punching in a quick code before he holds it open for you to go in.
"Why do you keep calling me Oklahoma? I thought you forgot the state but-" He cuts himself off as he leads you up the staircase.
"It's a musical. My high school did a production one year."
"What's it about?" He asks, stepping off on the third landing.
"I don't remember," you lie, following him down the hallway until he stops at a door. "They had tacky western costumes. Lots of skirts."
The click of the lock makes you pause, watching as Whitaker steps into the space. He peaks around the door like he's expecting to see something behind it, before turning back and motioning you in.
"Trinity's cat is an escape artist. She likes to hide behind the front door before bolting." He explains when you give him a look. You nod in understanding, but really you've never had a pet so you don't understand.
The apartment is cozy, a warm light filling the space from a lamp in the corner. Probably for the cat. You'd hate to see the electricity bill in this place. Whitaker toes his shoes off before he leads you further into the apartment and down the hall.
You don't know if you're more shocked that Whitaker's led you to his bedroom, or that you're actually in his apartment. You watch him tidy up, not that there's much, but you can only imagine how badly he's over-analyzing that state of his room with you in the doorway.
"Cozy," you say idly, looking around the room. He turns to you quickly, face a little pink like he's embarrassed by his own living condition. "Doesn't feel like an IKEA show room."
"I don't know what that is." Whitaker straightens up, tucking his hands in his scrubs pockets.
"Nebraska doesn't have IKEA?" You step into the room, crossing your arms as you look around some more.
"Not that I know of." He says, shifting on his feet as he watches you take in the space.
"You should have Santos take you some time." You turn back to Whitaker. "You'd hate it."
Your words make him laugh, his shoulders raising a little as he keeps his hands tucked away. The movement makes you cock your head to the side, taking a few slow steps into the room. Invading his space. Whitaker's eyes seem a fraction wider as you approach him, and you can almost see the way he takes note of the distance between you now.
"Maybe you guys can get something to spruce the place up. You look like you're good at building furniture." It's a not so subtle compliment to his arms, which makes his blush just another shade darker.
"Uh maybe.. Trinity doesn't like to use instructions so it makes it a bit difficult to build anything." Whitaker talks to distract himself from the way you're closing the distance, taking a few more small steps towards him. Like he's a stray you're trying not to scare off by approaching too quickly.
"Need any company while you wait for Dr. Santos?" You ask softly. You know that if you breathe deep enough, your arms will brush against his chest. It feels a bit cruel to tease him with your proximity but it feels better to watch him squirm because of it.
"I don't want to make you stay. You probably wanna get home instead-"
"I've got nowhere to be." You shrug. "But I won't stay if you don't want me to."
"I do." He blurts out, eyes widening at his own words. "I want you to stay."
"Okay," you give him a small smile. "I'll stay."
There's a brief moment of silence where you can almost see Whitaker thinking. You don't poke or prod, trusting he'll say it if he really wants to.
"Can I um... Do you trust me? To do something?" He asks softly, eyes searching your own when he asks.
"Yes.." You give him a questioning look, brow furrowing slightly as you watch each other. Whitaker's hands on your hips are warm as they pull you closer, thumbs rubbing idly over the waistband of your scrubs. There's a brief moment where his finger catches against the skin of your stomach, making his grip tighten just a fraction. You can almost feel the nerves thrumming in his fingertips as he leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a tentative kiss.
You let Whitaker kiss you, not that you don't want him to. You just don't make a habit of kissing one night stands. It makes things more complicated than you want.
But his hands are shaking where they're wrapped in your scrubs top and you want him to enjoy this as much as you plan to.
So, you let him kiss you.
His hands aren't demanding, resting at your waist while he accepts what you give. It's cute, the obvious nerves of not wanting to take too much in fear of losing what little ground he's taken. So you reward him, lifting the hem of his t-shirt up until you've got it all the way off. You follow suit, tugging off your scrub top from the back of the neckline. Whitaker watches with rapt attention, taking in all the skin your tank top exposes, which is more than he gets to see in the hospital.
Your hands are anything but reserved when you reach for his pants, untying the string with a simple jerk before you start pushing them off. Whitaker follows your lead, tugging on your own scrub pants and pushing them down your legs. You push his hips back, both of you stepping out of your pants as you walk him back to the bed.
The tent in his boxers is obvious as he shifts back on the bed, sitting back against his pillows as you crawl on top of him. The press of his arousal against you is surprising in a way that has you craving more, giving an experimental rock of your hips against him. The moan that leaves his lips is immediate, making him blush a pretty shade of pink in the warm light of his room. You give him a small grin, starting a steady rhythm with your hips.
It's almost a little pathetic the way Whitaker chases your mouth, lashes low when he glances down at your lips. The scene reminds you of something from a movie, the look of pure desperation on his face makes something twitch in your stomach and grab at his hair. The way you tug his head back isn't exactly kind but you get the hint he doesn't mind when his dick twitches against you.
It makes an amused huff leave your mouth, grinning down at him. You grind your hips down hard, keeping a firm grasp on his curls with one hand while the other moves to the side of his neck, pressing your fingers to change the angle. You loosen your grip on his hair, leaning forward enough that you can feel the way he pants against your lips.
You hold his face gently, in sharp contrast with the way you grind against him. It's endearing how he tries to chase after your mouth, making little sounds of frustration between soft groans when you tug on his hair to keep him in place.
"I have uh- I have something-" Whitaker gasps, trailing off with a soft groan.
"It's pretty obvious you have /something/." You tease, grinning softly when he rolls his eyes. "What have you got, Oklahoma?"
"Need you t'get up real fast," he sighs, like removing you from his lap is something excruciating. But you're easy enough to comply, slipping off his lap, and resting on your knees as you watch him shift closer to the bedside table. Whitaker fumbles with the drawer handle somehow, managing to get it open on the second try and exposing the box of condoms in it. He looks embarrassed as you watch him, glancing from his face to the box in the drawer.
"Trinity got them. As a joke. Said she didn't want mini Whitaker's in the apartment." He explains, struggling slightly to open the box. "I haven't used them. Obviously."
The breath that leaves Dennis when the seal finally breaks sounds like it's being ripped from his lungs. He doesn't struggle as much to get the rest of the cardboard apart, grabbing the first condom he can get his fingers on. You don't say anything when you notice the slight shake of his hands as he separates it from the rest of the string, focusing more on the flex of his arm when he rips it apart. There's a careful precision there that you know would distract you if he ever worked in your OR.
You tuck that thought away, deeming it unhelpful, and instead turn your attention to the task at hand. The drawer clicks when he pushes it closed, metal railing and wood on wood bringing you back to the moment.
Whitaker makes a noise when you snatch the condom from his hand, putting the package between your lips so you can tug at the waist of his boxers instead. Ever the gentleman, he helps you slip off his underwear and watches as you toss them over the side of the bed.
To reward him for his assist, you make a show of removing your own underwear, sitting up on your knees as you drag the fabric down with your thumbs. You settle back on the mattress, shifting your legs from under you to slide them off the rest of the way, the fabric joining Whitaker's boxers on the floor.
Dennis watches with fidgeting hands, like he's looking for a reason to touch you again. His Adam's apple bobs when you throw a leg back over his lap, swallowing as you hold the condom between your fingers again.
You make quick and efficient work of the wrapper, tearing it open with a careful precision. A soft sound escapes Whitaker's mouth when you wrap a hand around his aching cock, whining when you swipe your thumb over the head to smear precum over his shaft. You give him a few more slow strokes before pulling the condom from the wrapper and placing it over the head, slowly rolling it down his cock while you watch him try to keep his hips in place. With the condom on, you feel more confident in straddling him again, taking him in your hand again to line up with your entrance.
A choked noise leaves his lips as you lower yourself onto him. A sigh leaves your mouth at the stretch, rolling your hips slowly.
You watch as Whitaker's eyes flick to the ceiling, blinking a few times as he pants. It makes you grin as you rock forward, pulling a soft moan from his lips.
"What, never got your dick wet before? Trying not to blow your load too early?" Your words are condescending, watching a blush work it's way up Dennis's neck.
"N-no-" He inhales as you lift your hips, leaving just the tip inside of you.
"You've never fucked before?" You ask, holding yourself up as you wait for a response.
"I have- Oh god-" You let your hips fall when he starts talking, cutting him off with the motion.
"Not quite, but depends on who you ask," a smirk tugs at your lips as you grind your hips against him. Whitaker curses under his breath, hands gripping your knees to ground himself.
His hands climb higher as you continue to rock, hips lifting as you get bolder. The palm of his hands are warm where they settle, gripping and tugging softly to help your movements. You don't try to stifle your moans as Whitaker rolls your hips every time you lower yourself.
"Jesus Christ, Oklahoma," you pant out, placing your hands on his stomach to give yourself better stability when the familiar burn starts in your thighs. There's more on your tongue but there's a distant click that stops you. The noise makes you pause when you hear it, straining to listen past Whitaker's heavy breathing.
"Wh-"
"Shhh-" you cut Whitaker off, picking up on the soft footsteps down the hallway. There's a mumble you can't quite decipher as Trinity moves around the apartment, steps coming closer to the bedroom.
There's something exhilarating about the way your heart hammers in your chest at the possibility of being caught. Your head turns to watch the door, face hot like you've already been found. Whitaker shifts underneath you, biting back a groan when he justles you on top of him.
Trinity walks by the door a few times before you hear the sound of another door shutting. Your heartbeat settles a little, turning back to the man underneath you. The poor things eyes are wider than you've ever seen, mouth parted as he tries to steady his own breathing.
"Did that seriously turn you on?" He whispers harshly, brow scrunching slightly.
"No-" you start but he's already giving you a look.
"Didn't feel like it." You're embarrassed to be called out like this. How are you supposed to deny you were possibly turned on by the fact you could get caught by his roommate, a fellow PTMC doctor, when he can feel the way your walls tightened around his cock.
"Shut up," is all you say as you move your hand, bringing it up to his face.
His eyes widen when your hand covers his mouth, fingers twitching at your hips. It doesn't entirely suppress the sounds slipping past his lips but it muffles them enough you don't think you'll be caught.
"Can't have Santos knowing, right?" You say, not expecting an answer as you grind your hips against him. You can feel a groan against your hand, Dennis's eyes flicking down to where he disappears inside of you.
When he doesn't make a move to stop you, your pace picks up again, rocking your hips against his once more. Feeling the soft moans he lets out against your hand, little puffs of air hot and wet against your skin. You bring your free hand to one of his, guiding it from your hip to your clit. The gentle brush of his calloused thumb against the bud makes you gasp, biting your tongue the second the sound leaves your lips.
You bite your lip hard when he gets the hint, picking a pace of his own that makes your thighs clench around his hips. Watching you fall apart slowly under his touch must have unlocked something bold in Whitaker, because he starts to thrust up to match your rhythm. Your hand falls to his wrist, holding it tight at the subtle shift in his composure. It's something you usually only see down in the ER, the air of coincidence he gets when he knows he's doing something right.
It's not long before there's a low pressure in your stomach and your hips stutter slightly before starting a quick pace again. Whitaker notices the not-so-subtle shift, applying more pressure to your clit and rubbing tighter circles. Despite your best efforts, a choked groan slips past your lips, making your hand over Dennis's mouth tighten.
"Fuck, Whitaker-" You whisper, gazing down at him. His face is rosy under your hand, shorter puffs of air hitting your palm. You watch as his gaze trails down to your hand before jumping back up to yours. There's something sparkly in his eyes and you have a moment to register it before he bites your palm.
The action is the final push you need, slapping your free hand over your own mouth as your orgasm hits you. Whitaker groans underneath you, cock twitching as your walls spasm around him. You slump as your hips continue to twitch, the only sound in the room is the heavy breathing of you and Dennis behind your hands.
You remove your hands as you both catch your breath, placing them on Whitaker's chest instead to steady yourself. "You're not too bad at that."
Whitaker swears softly when you roll your hips one more time before lifting yourself off of him and laying down on the bed beside him. It's quiet while you lay there, only the sound of the bed shifting as Whitaker removes the condom and tosses it in the wastebasket on the other side of the room. A sort of clarity hits you while you listen to him breathe, pushing yourself up quickly when Dennis sits back down on the bed.
"Where're you going?"
"Just the bathroom," you say softly, grabbing your underwear from the floor. Whitaker mumbles something that sounds like an 'okay,' before you slip out of his bedroom and into the bathroom across the hall.
The small room is tidy, the bright light doing nothing to hide the fucked out state you're in. You usually took pride in looking put together, even in the most stressful circumstances. Dennis has undone all of that in one night.
You ignore the accusation coming from your reflection, using the toilet and cleaning yourself up without looking in the mirror again. Condoms are a god sent for leaving you with a limited mess. You take the washcloth you used back to Whitaker's room so you can toss it with his own dirty laundry.
Whitaker's asleep when you return to the room, a pair of boxers low on his hips and the only thing he deems usable to cover himself. Couldn't even be bothered to turn off the lights. You sigh, tossing the rag in his hamper and grabbing your scrub bottoms from the floor. You pull them on as silently as you can before grabbing your shirt and shoes, not bothering to put either on as you reach for the doorknob and exit Whitaker's room.
Your heart is pounding in your ears as you close the bedroom door. The click of the latch feels impossibly loud in the quiet apartment and it makes your skin crawl. Walking from Whitaker's bedroom to the front door feels like it's farther than when you came in, padding as softly as you can.
You don't think you breathe until you're outside of the apartment, exhaling loudly. No one in the hall will know or care who you are. Or why you're sneaking out of the apartment. You don't put your shoes on until you're in the stairwell, sitting on the steps and listening to the ambient noise of the city just outside. You thank the deep pockets of your scrubs for keeping your keys contained, taking them out as you exit the building.
