🪩 mel king variant
🪩 anti-AI and pro-kindness
🪩 baaaaaad case of I need that old man to crack me syndrome
🪩 interests include: djo, saturday night live, sabrina carpenter, bob’s burgers, clairo, crocheting, smashing the patriarchy, trying to determine if you’re being sarcastic or not
fandoms include:
🪩 The Pitt (very into her rn)
🪩 Bridgerton
🪩 The Bear
🪩 Criminal Minds (though admittedly not as much as I used to be)
former username: basketonthedoorstepofthefbi
🪩 whatif-ialreadypitt (pitt-verse masterlist)
🪩 full masterlist
from me, you can expect:
🪩 fics!
🪩 fic recs!
🪩 fandom discourse! kindness only!
🪩 random discourse! I like to yap!
🪩 send me an ask and let's talk about something!
🪩 beautiful artwork by @strangergraphics and @andromeda-graphics🪩
Not taking requests at this time <3 but asks are open! Let’s chat!
Minors, please do not interact! I don’t post a lot of nsfw but I’m more comfortable with a blanket rule.
jack must have some sort of sensor, because whenever you’re out with friends, you can always count on a “Hi baby. Making good decisions?” text from him <3
★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ MDNI fem reader, p in v, praise kink / soft dom dynamics, size kink, pet names (baby, good girl, perfect girl, etc), dacryphilia
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
Jack keeps you wrapped in cotton, even while he’s buried to the hilt.
One broad palm stays splayed between your shoulder blades, a promise that he has you, always has you, while the other wanders, taming fly-aways behind your ear, thumb sweeping the tears that shimmer there before they can cool.
“Easy, angel,” he murmurs, voice steeped in amber nectar. “I know she’s full. Just breathe for me.”
You do your best, but every lungful drags you further down his length, your body desperate for the heavy fill it’s already trembling to accommodate. A needy whimper slips out, fists knotting the sheets, and he soothes you with a gentle kiss against your smile line.
“That’s it,” he praises, hips rocking in a rich, molasses-slow circle that lets you savor every thick inch. “Such a good girl, taking it all — see how beautifully you fit me?”
Tiny wildfires flower through you everywhere at once, heating your cheeks, spilling down your throat, settling low in your belly where desire winds itself tight and shining.
Embarrassment flickers its wings right alongside it, because he’s cooing at you the same way he coaxes patients through vaccinations: gentle, forbearing, inexorable.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, like there exists a universe where you would ask him to stop.
His hand glides the length of your back, fingers pausing in the dip where your spine meets sacrum.
Too much is exactly how you’d describe the feeling of his cock dragging across that spot that makes your vision strobe starbusting colors, but the tenderness in his voice knots something unsteady in your body.
You manage a breathy, “please, don’t stop.”
A contented rumble answers you, and he plants a feather-light kiss on your forehead, right where he’d lay cool fingers to check your temperature.
He resumes that same rhythm. Slow drive in, lingering grind, languid pull out that leaves you aching for the return. The headboard knocks a soft counterpoint, each tap punctuated by his gentle commentary.
“Doing so well,” he croons when your elbows buckle, gathering you up with one flush tug to his chest. “Hold on to me, there you go, honey.”
Jack angles your leg higher, opening you wider for him, and the change steals air from your lungs in one shattered sound.
“Shh,” he hushes, half-smile curving, proud and adoring all at once. “I know. Feels big, doesn’t it? Let me make it better.”
His fingers dip to your clit, and your gasp dissolves into his name. “Jack — s’good.”
The room narrows to the glide of his thumb and the steady ballast of his body.
He kisses the salt at your hairline, murmuring, “Same here, baby. My perfect girl. Let me handle the rest, yeah?”
MARIA NOTE if being babied this hard during sex is wrong, i refuse to be right <3
Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Summer Barbie!Reader
WC: 6.6k
Summary: Dr. Robby has to clock in on your first vacation together, thanks to an overeager jellyfish.
Contains: 18+ MDNI, smut, p in v sex, oral (m and f receiving), dirty talk, sex on a boat <3, domestic dr robby, reader gets stung by jellyfish :( probably medical inaccuracies, very vaguely proofread and a horrifically rushed ending, lmk if i missed any!
A/N: divider from @/pxrce-lain ! pt. 2 of my summer barbie!series <3 i hope you guys love it! this can also be read as a standalone <3
Meet the Reader! | Series Masterlist | Part One
An early morning sun shines on a sparkling sea, the salt air flooding your senses through the open window. Rubbing sleep out of your eye, you flail your hand around the mattress, not entirely surprised at the lack of Robby that greeted you.
It's the second morning of your first vacation together, and you've already come to notice some new things about your boyfriend. For one, he's a morning person, even when he doesn't have to work. That. you'll never understand.
You glance at the digital clock on the wall, 8:47. Groaning, you stuff Robby's long abandoned pillow over your face. Still too damn early. The darkness that the cologne drenched cushion almost allows you to fall back asleep. The real Robby isn't so kind.
He lifts the pillow gently from your face, and you crack open an eye to see him giving you a sweet smile. You can't help but return it, eyes falling shut once more.
A quiet 'mmph!' escapes your lips as he presses a sweet kiss to them, the point of his long nose lodged against your cheek. Your hand finds the nape of his neck, keeping him there for a moment longer.
He gives you one, two, three more kisses as his hands find the bare skin of your thighs peeking out from your nightgown. His long fingers fiddle with the flimsy fabric, lifting it higher and higher until he exposes your panties, your tummy.
Your belly is warm, butterflies occupying the space as you squeeze your legs together. His touch is soft, and, for the most part, pretty innocent. He rubs his hand on your tummy, giving the plush skin there a little squeeze before placing another kiss to your lips.
"C'mon, angel," he says, punctuating with another pinch, now to your inner thigh. "Up, let's go."
With two sharp claps of his hands, he pushes the curtains wide open. This elicits a long groan from you, desperately attempting to save your sleepy state with two hands over your eyes. The cawing seagulls and bright light still manage to will away any hope of returning back to your former state, and you accept defeat.
You sit up, finally getting to take in your boyfriend. He's dressed for the day already, which, in Cape Cod, has been a strict uniform of unbuttoned shirts and swim shorts.
His round glasses frame his pretty, big eyes, a cup of coffee hiding the small smirk you still see as he takes a sip. Your heart skips at the sight, the sweet domesticity that a life with Robby provides.
Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you pad over to him. You wrap your arms around his generous waist, head planted firmly in his chest. His free hand finds your hair, still a bit mussed from your sleep, running his soothing fingers down your head.
"Good morning, angel," he whispers into your hair, and you mumble a greeting of your own into his body. He laughs at this, at how grumpy and tired you most definitely sound. He loves to tease you when you're tired, and unfortunately a beachside vacation is no exception.
"Coffee's still on, baby, left it for you in case," he mutters, giving you one more squeeze before letting go, making his way over to the little kitchenette. "Want cream and sugar?"
You nod, sliding onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Chin in hand, you admire how he flits around the kitchen, how pretty he looks painted by the early morning sun as he pours sugar into your mug.
"You're pretty," you mutter, and his head shoots up.
His brow is cocked, a small smirk lifting his lips.
"Yeah?" He asks. It's sarcastic, and you hate it. "Not as pretty as you, love bug."
He presses a sweet kiss to your head as he hands you the mug, your legs wrapping around him to keep him in place.
"Don't do that," you point a strict finger in his direction, the rest of them clutching the warm, pink mug. His brow raises, and you continue.
"Don't deflect," you clarify. "You love to do that. Makes me sad," you jut out your bottom lip to make your point, but he just kisses your pout away.
"How do you know me so well, baby?" He coos, question still laced with his dry, sardonic humor.
"Because," your gaze follows him throughout the small cottage, "I actually listen to what you say and pay attention to what you do."
He stops at this, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. You study him, what this might mean. It doesn't take long for you to conclude his face as a desperate plea to keep tears at bay.
Your heart cracks, still not entirely used to how sensitive Robby really is. His facade is strong, something that had you fooled, albeit very briefly, at the very beginning of your relationship.
At the end of the day, though, there's a small boy in there that just wants to be loved. It breaks your heart that it took him so long to find it, but you're grateful it gets to be you.
"Hey," you prompt, and it seems to help. He shakes his head a little, and you know he's trying to actually shake his thoughts away. "I love you, you know that, right?"
His familiar self-deprecating smile stretches across his face, and he refuses to make eye-contact. Still, he nods.
"Good," you hop off the stool, closing in on him with an intense gaze. "You're pretty. Now what do you say?" You ask, hooking a finger under his chin and dragging his gaze to meet yours.
"Thank you," he mumbles, cheeks pink and lips trembling.
"Yay!" You squeal, planting a sweet, sloppy kiss on him. "You're welcome!"
He barks out a sardonic laugh at the change in tone, rolling his now teary eyes at your devotion.
"Y'gotta stop making me cry, sweetheart, it's bad for the brand," he croaks, and you can't help but laugh yourself.
"Who told you about a brand?" You ask, wrapping your arms around him once again.
You both get lost in each other for a moment, lips ghosting over each other, noses grazing. Against your lips, though, he speaks.
"Dana did," he mumbles, and you can't help but laugh. "Her and Trinity. They told me everybody has a brand, said mine was 'grumpy old man who somehow bagged a woman way too pretty for him'."
His words are blanketed in finger quotations, and you rear your head back.
"What?!" You scoff. "You made that last part up, no way they said that."
"Oh, I'm serious, baby. Ask them the next time you come visit me. They'll be happy to relegate the information," he croons, placing a sweet kiss to your lips.
Your mind goes a bit hazy at his lips on yours, allowing him to swallow your senses for a brief moment in time. When his words really process, though, you quirk a brow.
"Wait, so, if that's your brand," you start, brows furrowed, hands on his chest as you pull away, "why am I bad for it? Is that not, like, exactly what has transpired this morning?"
He rolls his eyes at this, unable to hold back his. now genuine, smile. It sparks your own, and soon you're just smiling into each other, like two fools.
"See this?" He flits a finger between you. "This is what I mean. 'm not grumpy at all anymore," he slinks his arms around you as he talks, your chest pressing into his. "Got me smiling too much, baby," he grumbles, his nose dragging up and down your neck.
You close your eyes, fingers finding his scalp and giving him a soft scratch. He shivers at this, and you smile.
"Oh, I'm sooo sorry baby," you drawl. "Guess I'll just go make another man smile then."
You make a show out of walking away from him, but his fingers grip your wrist in record speed. He pulls you into him once again, your back to his chest, planting a kiss to your temple.
"Don't you fucking dare," he growls in your ear, and you shiver as he gives you one last pinch to your backside. "Get dressed, we're going on the boat."
-
When you'd arrived in Cape Cod three days ago, the first thing Robby did was rent a boat for the two of you. He's eager to show off his newly acquired boating license, and you're never one to turn down drinking on a boat.
Your wedge sandals clunk on the wooden dock of the marina. Robby's close behind, carrying your bags for the day. He's bogged down by a cooler, and both of your beach bags. You'd insisted on taking at least one thing, but he refused, his strong arms slinging them onto the parked boat.
You jut a hip out, leaning all your weight on it as your jaw goes slack. It's blatant, the way you ogle the little show he's putting on for you. He can deny all he wants, can make his cheeks flush that pretty pink that makes you weak in the knees, but deep down, he knows exactly what he's doing.
The drive on the water is a perfect sequel- his strong arms and large hands steering, his effortless leadership butterfly inducing. About halfway to your "surprise destination"- his words- he turns his head to rest on his shoulder.
"I can feel your eyes burning a hole in the back of my head," he teases, and you scoff in faux-annoyance.
"Am not!" You chirp, standing from your spot to stand behind him, resting your hands on his shoulders.
He reaches back, offering a hand to you, keeping the other on the wheel. Your smile is large as you enclose both of your own around it, bringing it to your mouth for a sweet kiss.
"Are too!" He bites, returning the favor.
"It's not my fault I have a hot boyfriend," you murmur, pressing your cheek into his shoulder.
He tenses a little at this, and you squeeze his hand. This helps, but he continues the rest of the ride in silence.
He parks the boat in a secluded little cove, the perfect amount of sunlight peeking through. He's beautiful in this light, it breaks your heart he doesn't see it.
He moves from the driver's seat, going down the few steps to grab a bottle of wine in the little drink fridge. You're about two sips in when you start to feel it between your legs, a blooming heat that Robby is doing nothing to quell.
He's leaning on his two palms, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, tummy on full display. It's mouthwatering, damn near pornographic.
With another big gulp, you mount your steed, thighs encasing his own, hands resting on his shoulders.
He's a bit surprised by this, setting his own glass down and clutching your waist in his hands. His eyes are wide, but excited, genuine. A light laugh escapes him, too. Your heart flutters.
"Oh- hi honey!" He coos, a sweet smile on his face. "How's the weather up there?"
You laugh at the dad joke, sinking your weight fully onto him. This knocks the wind out of his proverbial comedic sails— a groan erupts from his chest at your full weight, his cock already hardening.
"Hi, handsome," you drawl, scratching at his scruff with your nails.
He tenses again, averting his gaze. You don't let him escape you, following his gaze with your face.
"Hey," you press a quick peck to his lips. "Start with thank you, how about that?" Another kiss.
He blushes. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips, pressing a short one to you now.
You kiss him deeper, then, and it takes him a moment to adjust. He does this, sometimes, like his body is still moving on touch starved autopilot, still not expecting your affection.
You've never once made him feel bad for this, pressing sweet kisses to his face as he warmed up, truly let himself go. It just makes you crazy that he's been made to be so guarded. You want to send the person responsible to that godforsaken ER of his.
Your hands slide down from his cheeks to his neck, his shoulders, finally pushing down the linen sleeves that have taunted you all morning. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, your hands continue their journey down, down, down, halting at the swell of his tummy.
It's a necessary pit stop, reveling in the little gasp your touch elicits, and the moan that follows. Your lips follow in suit of your hands, sinking down in front of him, ass perched up as you pepper kisses over the skin there.
"Fuck," he whispers, reaching to grab your ass.
He's still a bit too gentle with you, still too closed off. You have more work to do, most definitely.
"When are you gonna believe how pretty you are, hm?" You ask, fingers tracing the waistband of his swimsuit.
Your lips are still hard at work, now lazily slugging over his skin, sinking your teeth in every now and again.
"Never-ah!" He jumps at a particularly hard bite. "Never been called that before you," he punctuates his confession by sinking his hands into your hair, tugging on your scalp a little.
This is good, he's letting a bit more of his inhibitions go. You're still not done.
"That's such a shame, honey," your coo, your lips now following your hands as they tug down his shorts.
Your mouth rests on his pubic bone, nose buried in the little hairs decorating the skin. You press more kisses into him, desperate to get your lips on any piece of him you can.
"Can I show you how pretty I think you are?" You ask, and he nearly whines out a 'yes'.
You reward him by grazing his balls with your nails, juggling them when he gasps. You don't break eye contact as you open your mouth around his head, tongue splaying on the underside of his cock.
He gasps, and you let him go with a little pop! A hand wrapping around his length, you bring his tip to your open mouth, smacking it against your tongue.
He groans, and you sink your mouth down on him. It's only halfway, as you're still working on taking all of him in one go.
It gets the job done all the same, punching a low moan from his chest as you hollow your cheeks. His hands sink in your hair, helping you take a bit more of him.
"Thaat's it," he breathes, his chest heaving. "Ooohhh, fuck, that's it, baby."
His free hand finds your ass once again, laying a harder smack this time. It spurs you on, finally taking him to the hilt. Tears prick your eyes as you let him stay there, taking deep breaths through your nose.
"Oh my God," he whines, bucking his hips up and down, up and down. He finds a rhythm soon enough, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each thrust.
He collapses after a few, but you maintain the pace, using your hands as an aide. His head hangs in bliss, and you reach a hand up his chest. You grip his skin, play with the hair there.
Swirling your tongue, you bring him all the way out once more, a string of spit connecting you to him. Selfishly, you take a moment to stare at it.
His tip is a deep red, his generous length curving upward. It's dripping, little beads of pre-cum adding to the mess. You circle your thumb around the tip, and he jerks his hips.
"Baby, baby. stop!" He gasps, and shoves your hand away. "That was…so good," he says between deep breaths. "Too good, didn't wanna cum yet," he remarks, laying you on your back now.
He unties your bikini top, lips attaching to the plush skin in record time. His kisses are sloppy, lazy even, reminiscent of the love you'd given his tummy. Your heart swells thinking about it, pushing your chest further into his face.
"So pretty, honey," he murmurs into your chest. "Love this body," he kneads your skin in his hands, leaving little slaps every so often. They don't hurt, they're not mean. Just little reminders of his love, in his own, special, fucked-up-Robby-way.
You preen, leaning into them with an open heart- and open legs, but that's neither here nor there- before he moves lower down your body. His lips make a trail down your own tummy, leaving you with your own little marks by the time he's untying your bottoms.
He nearly cries at how wet you are, at how you flutter around nothing. He tells you so as he moves a finger up and down your folds.
"So pretty…" he coos, his fingertip catching on your clit. "Love how wet you are for me," he presses a kiss to your pussy at that. "Love how eager you are for it."
He sinks in the tip of his middle finger, making your hips jerk in his hold. His free hand pinches the skin there, another slap accompanying it. You whine, and he furrows his brow.
"Ooh, I'm sorry baby," he leans down, presses a kiss there. "I'm so mean, aren't I? Such a mean old man with his finger in your cunt."
You squeal at his words, carding your fingers through his hair. His cheek is resting on your tummy, gaze trained on how your pussy reacts to his fingers.
"Good girl," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your skin once he's knuckle-deep. "That's so good, so good for me, hm?"
You nod, and his mouth attaches to your clit.
"Michael!" You gasp, pulling on his hair.
He groans into your pussy at this, and you tug harder.
"I know, honey, so good, isn't it?" He asks, and you nod. "Tell me, honey," he pulls his finger out, only to thrust back in, ring finger now in tow. "Gotta hear words."
His free hand finds your mouth, thumb tugging at your lip. You wrap them around his digit, a gentle suck reminiscent of your earlier activities. He pulls his thumb out, pinching your cheeks in his big hand.
"It's so good," you splutter through pursed lips. "You're always so good, Mikey."
He dives back in at the nickname, tongue pressing flat against your clit as his fingers resume their work. You arch into him, wiggling your hips against his. He shushes you at that, pushing you down.
"Easy, easy, baby," he coos, placing sweet kisses to your clit, giving it a few kitten licks.
"Just so good, honey," you whine, and he groans into you. "Yes!" You squeal.
The vibrations tighten your stomach, a familiar bright heat growing with each thrust of his fingers. He wraps his lips around your clit, and sucks.
His fingers find your sweet spot, pressing into it again and again and again. The coil in your tummy twists even tighter, and you pat his head, his shoulders, desperate to tell him.
"I know, I know," he mumbles into you, pressing two sweet kisses before opening his mouth on you again. "Gonna cum for me?"
You nod, not caring if he can't see it.
"Gotta tell me, princess, you know how this works," he takes his fingers out, circling your opening to tease you.
"Mikeyyy!" You draw out, kicking your leg up and letting it fall on his back.
He slaps your thigh at this, and you can't help but kick again, another squeal leaking from your lips.
"Hey!" You whine, tears burning your eyes as he continues his merciless teasing.
"Are you gonna tell me what I wanna hear or are we gonna stop? Your choice, princess," he rests his chin on your mound, wide eyes looking up into you.
You whine, letting your head fall back in defeat.
"Please make me cum, Michael, I wanna cum on your fingers so, so badly," you wiggle your hips, his absence already unbearable. You're surprised you'd made it that long, actually. "Please, I'm so wet," you beg, your voice watery. "It's all for you, Mikey."
"Ooh, poor baby," he wraps his lips around your clit again, and you almost scream. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he inserts his fingers back where they belong, and tears stream down your face. "Didn't mean to make you beg so much, you know you always have me, you know that, right?"
"Of course," you mutter between deep breaths, knowing he'll stop if you don't use your words.
"Good girl," he murmurs against you. "Always got me, okay? Any time you want, you have my fingers, my tongue, my cock."
You're teetering the edge at his words, your entire body tensing up.
"Gonna give you that last one next, hm?" He asks, and you grow even tighter around him. "Ooh! You like that idea, huh?" He mocks, and you wail. "Like the idea of getting pounded by my cock after stretching you out on my fingers?"
This does it, the coil snapping, shockwaves rippling over you as his mouth refuses to let up. Trails of fire speed up and down your veins, warming you from the inside out.
You dissolve into the pleasure, putty in his hands as he helps you through it, the waves ebbing as you go.
"Good job, wooow, look at all that, good job," he whispers, pulling his fingers out, only to collect your release, and push it back inside you. His tongue nearly lolls out of his mouth as he watches it seep out of you again, bringing his fingers to his mouth.
"Great job, princess, feel good?" He asks, and you nod.
"Yes, Mikey," you whine, and he hums in approval. "Thank you."
He settles on top of you, and your arms wrap around his neck in greeting.
"Hi, honey," he smiles. "Never gotta thank me, okay?" You nod, and he lets you get away with it this time. "Always wanna make my girl feel good, yeah?" He lines himself up with your entrance as he speaks. "It's my job, 'm not being a proper boyfriend if I can't make you cum."
With that, he sinks his tip in. You both freeze, just for a moment, jaws slack, eyes wide and boring into each other's. You're tense, shivering a bit, even, as he continues to bully his thick length into you.
"God," he groans, eyes trained on where you meet. "Doesn't even matter how much I stretch you out, 's always hard to take me, isn't it?"
You nod, tears springing up once again as he sinks in even deeper.
"Yes! God you're so big, it's always so much," you whisper, planting your feet flat on the floor so he can spread your knees even wider.
"Yeah?" He whines, bottoming out inside you. "Always so big, hm? I'm sorry, honey, sorry that it makes you so dumb, that I can see it in your tummy right now, that it's gonna make you scream and shake and cum."
You're speechless, your body following suit, as if it could hear him. Your legs begin to tremble around him, a shit eating grin on his face when he feels it.
"Already so close? Fuck," he throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulls out, and thrusts in. "I absolutely love how desperate you are for me, y'know that?"
You nod, displaying your widest, prettiest eyes. He bites his lip, picking up his speed, only a little. The pace is torturous— long, slow drags of his hips against yours.
"I love you, Mikey," you whimper, bottom lip jutting out.
He rolls his eyes, biting back another wide grin.
"I love you, too, princess," he lifts your legs over his shoulder as he talks. "Even when you pout to get what you want."
It's only when you whine, paw at his chest that he fucks you in full, the way he knows you like it. Butterflies bloom in your tummy as he slides in and out, in and out, your orgasm sizzling deep within you.
There's a wet slide as he moves, and your cheeks heat up. Plopping your palms on your face, you receive a slap to the outer thigh.
"Look at me," he pleads— not strict, but desperate, almost wanton. You open your eyes to find his shiny, but bright all the same. "There she is," he coos. "Prettiest girl in the entire fucking world and I get to put my dick in her," he picks up his speed at his words, bliss taking over.
"Michael!" You squeal. "You're so filthy."
"You love it," he mutters, hips unstoppable as he continues to pound you.
You tighten around him, and this catches his attention. He stops, thrusting all the way in and staying there. The friction of the hair littering his pubic bone against your clit sends electricity flying through you, your release just out of reach.
"God, please!" You wail, grasping at his biceps.
"Not God, just Michael," he jokes, picking up his hips again.
"You're the worst," you roll your eyes, a big smile on your face.
He leans down, his thrusts are once more ruthless, maybe even more so than before, as he plants a sloppy kiss to your lips.
"Let go, baby," he encourages, sneaking a thumb to your clit. "You can do it, c'mon, I'd be so proud of you."
This does it, and you arch off the floor of the boat, into his chest as white noise takes over. Time stops, your head falling back as your orgasm rips through you.
It's electric, lightning bursting through you with each shockwave. The ripples soon slow, but the bliss you feel is still intense.
"God, it's still going, isn't it?" He huffs out a laugh.
You nod, completely lost in it and uncaring of how desperate you look. He kisses you at this, muttering how he's 'so fucking close, just keep being good for me.'
You nearly dissolve into the pleasure, Robby's thrusts growing sloppy, his own release not too far behind.
Coming down around him, your pussy flutters as he pistons inside of you, throbbing with the threat of his own release. Gripping his bicep, you reach your lips up to his ear to whisper sweet nothings.
"You got it, Mikey," you press a kiss to his lobe. "I love you so much, you always make me feel so good," a kiss to his neck. "Taking me on a fancy trip," another kiss, "driving me around on this boat," and another. "God, you looked so fucking hot behind the wheel of this thing, I almost couldn't wait till we got here."
That does it for him, a guttural groan escaping his chest as you feel him twitch, his hips stilling against yours as he spills himself inside you.
Scraping your nails up and down his biceps, you revel in his goosebumps as he shakes and shivers and moans.
"Good job," you whisper, and he nearly sobs. "I'm so proud of you, Mikey, love you so much."
Another cry wracks his body, and you rub your hands up and down his skin as he collapses into you. Dampness floods your neck, as well as little kisses he presses there.
"I hope these are happy tears," you say, pulling his face back so you can really see him.
He's teary, as expected, but he's also…lighter. He's smiling, a carefree one that takes over his whole face. It prompts your own, and you bring your mouth to him, kissing him slow and sweet.
"I love you," he mutters against you, sliding out slowly.
You whine at the loss, making grabby hands for him as he sits back on his haunches.
"Sorry, princess," he coos, extending a hand to you. "Gotta get you cleaned up, hm?"
You shake your head, not quite ready to leave this little reprieve you guys have created for yourself.
"Nuh-uh," he insists, giving you one last swat to the thigh. "C'mon, gotta go pee, honey."
He scoops you up, clutching your trembling form to his chest as he carries you down the little steps, into the teeny bathroom. He's not far as you clean yourself up, reveling in the proximity.
Your legs are soupy as you climb up the steps, Robby not far behind. His hands splay against your backside to help prop you up, or so he says.
To your delighted surprise, he's even packed a little lunch for you two— something light, to accommodate your desire to go swimming.
He forces you to wait 30 minutes after eating, rolling his eyes when you insist that theory has been debunked. You pretend to mind, pretend to be annoyed at the extra time you get with his hand on your belly, your back to his chest.
You don't get a lot of time like this when you're home, the school year and hospital typically in full swing. Leaning your head on his shoulder, you tell him this, how thankful you are to have this time with him.
"You're sweet, princess," he coos, rubbing his nose against yours, pressing a chaste kiss there, too. "We can do this more often, y'know."
You sit up a bit, turning toward him with big eyes.
"Mikey, you know I won't be able to afford that. I can't ask you to spend all this on me more than once, I already feel bad enough about this trip as is," you say, and he just waves a hand.
"Please," he insists. "I haven't had anyone to dote on, I don't think ever," he confesses. It roils through you, like it always does when he opens up more of himself, of his lonely past. "I want to, would you let me if I said I really want to?"
You secede, nodding your head and settling back into him.
"I guess so," you mutter, hands gripping his forearm that's wrapped around your body.
"Mainly, I just want to see you in a bikini more," he jokes, and you slap his bicep. "And fuck on a boat again. That cannot be the only time we do that."
Your laughter launches you from him, back arching off his chest. Flopping on him, you see his own smile in your periphery.
"No, I'd have to agree there," you muse, looking around at him. "That can't be the only time."
"It was too good…" he trails off, his fingers skimming the waistband of your swimsuit.
He doesn't get far, though, as your fingers wrap around his wrist, halting him in his tracks. You turn to him to see a little pout, and you kiss it off.
"Nice try, horn dog," you roll your eyes playfully, standing up to make sure he gets a good view of your ass in his face. "Come on!" You twist at the waist, looking down at him. "I still want to swim!"
Without waiting, you jump off the boat, swimming out of the cove and into the large body of water you've parked in. The cool water rushes through you like a drug, your veins coming back to life in the brutal summer heat.
He's not too far behind you, and you're eager to cling to him. Wrapping all your limbs around him, you're like a koala as he takes you two further out, the boat getting smaller in your line of vision.
He's hesitant to let you go, careful as he does so. With a soft push, you float backwards, kicking your feet and paddling your arms.
It's then that you feel it— a sharp, burning pain along the expanse of your shin. You squeal, unable to control the guttural noise ripping from your throat, the tears that spring to your eyes.
Robby moves immediately, his shift into 'doctor mode' practically visible at this point. He's got you in no time, shushing your cries and smoothing your hair over with his hand as he holds your face in his hands.
"What is it, sweet pea? What hurts?" His eyes are worried, scanning all over your body to find the cause of your tears.
"My leg," you croak, lips trembling with more tears.
He wraps his arms around you in record time, lifting your leg out of the water. Lo and behold, an iridescent blue is sticking to your skin— an unfortunately beautiful creature pumping its venom into you.
"Ohhh, angel, I got you, let me peel it off, okay? Might hurt," he coos, ensuring each tentacle and needle is as removed as possible. "There's still a bit more in the skin, baby, let's get back to the boat and I'll take care of it, okay?"
You nod, thanking whatever powers are above for giving you a doctor boyfriend.
"Good girl," he croons, and you just cry more.
A gentle hand lowers your leg into the water once more, another rush of pain sweeping through you.
"Oww," you whine, squeezing Robby's hand. "Michael, 't hurts."
He's nearly tearing up at your words, working overtime to get you back to the boat.
"I know, angel," he affirms, "but the saltwater is good for it. It'll kill the venom."
You trust him, you think you'd follow him to hell if he said it'd take the pain away.
"It hurts so bad, Mikey," you whine, nearly lifeless as he helps you onto the boat.
Once you're on flat feet, it's an immediate collapse. Robby's quick to protect your head, a gentle hand coming up behind your neck and lowering you the rest of the way down.
"You're okay, you're okay," he whispers, and you can't stop crying. "I'm gonna go get the first aid kit, I'll be right back, okay?"
You nod, biting your lip. Fear fills you as you watch him disappear, but you already feel clingy enough. You let him go.
Thankfully, you're just dramatic, and he returns in record speed with a white plastic box. Propping it open, he finds a pair of tweezers.
"I'm gonna pick out the rest of the needles, and then we're going straight back to the cottage, got it?" He instructs, and you nod, feeling like one of his interns.
It hits you, then, that he's essentially had to clock in on vacation. More tears spill, a shaky cry accompanying your woe.
"What is it, honey?" He murmurs, thoughtful, but concentrated. "Talk to me, does it hurt?"
"No," you blubber, hiding your face with your hands. "I'm making you work. I'm so sorry."
Your apology is punctuated with a few more cries, and he lifts the tweezers from your shaking frame.
"Hey, hey, hey, sweetie, deep breaths," he mimics what he'd like you to do, and you follow suit. "Can't help you if you're fussy," he resumes his work, but keeps talking to you. "I don't want you to worry about me, baby. I'd take care of you if it was the apocalypse and a zombie was actively eating me. This is nothing compared to that!"
You laugh at this, watery but light. It triggers his own smile, and a smooth, 'there's my girl.'
He speeds a bit on your way back, your leg propped in his lap so he can 'keep an eye on it'. Docking at the marina, he runs you to the cottage with an efficiency that only comes with 25 years in an emergency room.
You fluff his hair with your fingers as he carries you, prompting a little look from him.
"I love you," you sigh, resting your head on his shoulder.
"Feeling's mutual," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips and kicking the door open.
He sets you on the couch, leg extended while he puts a pot of water on the stove.
"Okay, now that we're back, we need to immerse it in boiling water, and hit it with some vinegar. I'm going to get a rag for the water, okay? Don't wanna burn you even more," he assures at your wide eyes.
You nod, still unsure, and he kneels down to your eye level.
"You're gonna be okay, do you hear me?" He asks, and you can only nod again. "You know that's not what I want," he growls, and you tear up again.
"I understand," you croak, and he tugs on your bottom lip with his thumb.
"Good girl," he praises, moving to the stove once more.
"Are you sure you're not upset? I totally ruined our day," you mutter, looking to your lap in shame.
"Baby, you didn't ruin anything, it was that damn jellyfish," he laughs, moving the now bubbling pot to a different burner.
Dunking a rag in it, he holds his free hand underneath as he brings it over to you.
"This is gonna be really hot, okay?" He looks up at you for confirmation, and offers you his hand. "Here, squeeze if it gets really bad."
You do, a sharp, prickly burn pumping up and down your limb at the touch. Sucking air in between your teeth, your head falls back onto the arm of the couch.
"Mikeyyy," you whine, and he kisses your injury-free leg.
"You got it, it's okay," he coos, dabbing the rag once, twice, before going to get more water.
"Gotta kill the venom, baby," he informs, resuming his previous work.
"But it hurts!" You kick your good foot, and he holds it down with his hand.
"Do you wanna try that again?" He asks, and you immediately shake your head no. "I know it hurts, princess, just gotta be a little patient, okay?"
Tears prick your eyes again as he continues to work, leaving the hot cloth around your skin while he wanders back into the kitchen.
He returns with vinegar and cotton pads, the application near immediate. It stings again, this time, surprisingly, is worse than before. You wince, doing your best not to kick and cry.
"Yeah, I know honey. It's killing that venom, baby, it's helping. I know, I know," his coos are endless, and the tears spill anyway.
"We smell like salad now," you whine, as he reaches into his emergency bag for hydrocortisone cream.
He laughs, gentle fingers applying the ointment to your still-burning skin.
"That's okay," he murmurs, still concentrated on you. "I'd rather smell like salad than let you get an infection, or worse."
You shudder at the thought, tears finally subsiding as he puts all his materials away. He plops down next to you, your bad leg up on his lap. He strokes the top of your foot, up to your ankle, stopping just below the injury.
"Are you okay, angel? That was scary, huh?" He asks, free hand smoothing over your cheek.
You nuzzle into him, eyes closing as he pinches your skin.
"Yeah, hurt really bad," you grip his forearm with both hands, giving him your prettiest eyes.
They work every time, and now is no different. He pouts, cooing as he pinches your cheek even harder, leaning over to press a kiss on the afflicted skin.
"You did so good, sweet pea, so brave," he praises, and you let it wash over you.
You feel the cortisol and adrenaline flush from your body, your heart rate returning to normal.
A moment's silence falls over you, like a blanket on a chilly night. Your eyes drift shut, already tuckered out from today's fiasco. How Robby does this everyday, you think, you have no idea.
Your thoughts are interrupted, though, by a low growl coming from deep in your belly. Robby laughs at this, his hand squeezing your tummy next.
"Hungry?" He asks, and you nod, eyes still closed. He reaches in his pocket, fishing out his phone. "We're getting pizza. Sound good?"
xlangdon!sister series masterlist | the pitt masterlist
wc: 3.2k
summary: with an assist from huckleberry, you and trinity decide what friendship does and doesn't look like
contains: smut adjacent, mdni, afab!reader, lots o yapping, abrupt ending sry i don't love writing smut that much
a/n: uh oh :) this is part 4 of my langdon!sister!reader series. it would behoove you to read the 3 previous parts before this, but tbh you could enjoy it as a standalone. thank u to everyone who loves this series, i see your messages and comments and i hold every single one close to my lil heart | beautiful divider from @andromeda-graphics
This friends thing with Trinity is easier than you thought it would be.
You were afraid it'd be too messy, that the Frank of it all would be too much for Trinity and she couldn't handle it.
Since that night in your apartment —when she apologized for lashing out— you've seen her twice. Once at coffee, around six in the morning, before her shift at the hospital. A second time after your shift at the bar, at a 24-hour diner with an adorable little buffer named Victoria Javadi.
There's an unspoken agreement that neither of you broach the subject of your brother, though you did allude to your Wednesday family therapy appointments at his facility with Abby and the kids when scheduling your next hang-out. All in all, Trinity doesn't ask, and you don't bring it up.
There are worse ways to handle uncomfortable subjects, right?
All this to say: at the diner the other night, Trinity told you that her roommate, Dennis, looks like a "sickly Victorian Muppet", a description which sent strawberry milkshake flying out of poor Victoria's nose.
When you rap your knuckles on the door to Trinity's apartment, you're expecting a Muppet to answer.
Dennis Whitaker —Huckleberry, as Trinity so lovingly refers to him— does not look half as goofy as Trinity described. Maybe his eye bags are a little more pronounced than others, and sure, he does kind of look as though he exists in a perpetual state of bracing for impact.
Upon first glance, though, he seems fairly normal.
He steps aside and allows you in. Almost as soon as you cross the threshold, the faint sound of running water hums from the other side of a wall.
"Santos should be out soon," Dennis bobs his head, stepping out of your way with an urgency you didn't realize you were asking for. "She says she's not taking an 'everything shower' —whatever that means— so you can make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks," you flash a bright, unassuming smile, then slide your bag off your shoulder. You perch on the edge of the sofa, a well-loved if not slightly misshapen lump of cushions on the far wall of the living room.
You take a long look around, drinking the place in. Open floor plan, like most of the newer apartments in the city, adorned with warm colors and mismatched tchotkes. Trinity explained how she offered Dennis her spare room on a whim, after finding out he didn't have a place to live. So you feel comfortable assuming the lion's share of the decorations are hers.
Dennis stands at the open fridge, then calls over his shoulder. "Can I get you a drink? We have water and…" he trails off, and you notice he cranes his neck to see deeper into the fluorescent shelves. "One singular beer."
"I'd love a water, actually," you say, crossing your ankles. "Don't want to risk it with that beer."
"Yeah, I honestly think it's been here since before I moved in," Dennis snorts, then pours you a glass from a Brita filter.
As he lowers himself into the tattered armchair angled towards the sofa, he extends the glass. You accept it with a bright, grateful hum, then take a sip.
Over the top of the glass, you spy Dennis fiddling with the arms of the chair, tapping his fingers on the worn upholstery. His eyes flick around the room, basically everywhere that isn't you.
"I'm not gonna turn you to stone, you know," you venture, setting the glass on small IKEA table beside the couch. "You can look at me and talk to me and everything."
"You sound like a Barbie doll commercial," Dennis laughs, then his eyes meet yours. "I'm sorry. Felt weird to try and make small talk with the elephant in the room."
Somewhere in the apartment, you hear the squeak of a faucet being turned off, but you barely notice it. You furrow your brows, an innocent smile still hanging on your lips as you try to decipher what Dennis might mean. "There's an elephant?"
He clams up then, freezing in place like a video call with a poor connection. "I, uh…" he titters, rubbing the back of his neck. "I-I shouldn't have said anything. Just… um… nevermind."
"No," you urge, not impatient but certainly firm. You hate being blindsided. "What elephant, Dennis?"
"I just mean with the whole…" he throws out a fruitless gesture. "Langdon thing."
You've never heard your surname spoken with such weight.
You picture your big brother the last time you saw him, nearly a week ago. He looked good. Really good. He bounced Penny on his knee in the Family Room and told you about how he's started writing in a gratitude journal. You still haven't told him about meeting Trinity, but you almost did. Which was more courageous than the week before.
"Oh, no, that's not an elephant," you assure Dennis, digging your fingernail into your thighs. Through the cotton of your ankle-length skirt, the pinching feeling keeps your tether from snapping.
You frown, then meet Dennis's eye. "Is it an elephant? Has Trinity said anything to you about it recently? Because I thought we… I thought we were on the same page about it."
"And what page is that?" Dennis asks, though not impatiently. You can tell that, despite their not having roomed together for too long, Dennis cares for Trinity. He wants to protect her.
And you? Well, you're the sister of a man who filled her with a raging, lingering self-doubt her first day at a new job. Dennis isn't giving you the third degree or anything, but his curiosity is valid.
As uncomfortable as it might make you.
"The page where we're not really talking about it," you deflate, rubbing the back of your neck with both hands.
"Talking about what?" Trinity strolls into the living room from down the hall. She brightens upon seeing you. "Hi."
"Hi," is your weak response. You can barely take a moment to appreciate the way her jeans hug her hips, her purple-and-white striped t-shirt so adorably 90s with the black plastic choker around her neck.
Dennis's face harbors a guilty grimace. "I-I was gonna head out to Amy's in a few, so I think mayble I'll just do that now," he springs up out of the armchair, then takes strides fast for the door.
As he gathers his keys and wallet, Trinity stomps over to him and corrals him between the entryway table and the door. They speak in hushed, sharp whispers, but you still pick up pieces of the conversation.
"What the hell did you say to her, Huckleberry? Why is she making the same face I did when you told me how yogurt is made?"
"I just… I might have…" Dennis shoves his wallet into his pocket hurriedly. You can see the whites of his eyes, even from across the room.
"What? What did you say?"
"Maybe it's better if you just ask her, Trin, I'm… I'm sorry, okay?" He fumbles behind him for the doorknob. You're fairly certain Trinity is threatening him with violence as he slides out of the apartment. Something about shoving an avocado where the sun doesn't shine.
It'd be hilarious if you weren't slowly filling with dread.
The door shuts behind him, inflating the awkward tension in the room like a stretched-out balloon.
Trinity's back flattens against the door, and she looks on at you with perhaps the most awkward, thin smile you've ever seen her make. "Hi," she says.
"You said that already," you swallow. Your lips twist in the side of your mouth. Bottling things up has never been your strong suit, so you dive right in. "Trin, do we need to talk about the whole thing with my brother again?"
Trinity shakes her head. "No," she says, more insistent than convincing. She crosses the room and plops down on the couch. "No, I'm fine, I swear. Huckleberry just asked me about it the other day and I sort of skirted around the subject so he probably thinks it's some unresolved thing that we're avoiding."
"But it's not something we're avoiding," you prompt.
"Right," Trinity's shoulders loosen and she leans back into the couch.
"Because we've already hashed it all out," you add. "So there's nothing left to talk about."
"Exactly," she agrees, still not getting it.
"Remind me when that was again?"
Crystalline eyes snap to yours. "What?"
You settle back into the sofa as well, lifting a leg and tucking it under your rear.
"When, exactly, did we resolve all of it?" You ask again. "Because if you're coming home and bitching to your roommate about me, then I wouldn't call that resolved."
"I'm not—" Trinity's face flares with a frustration you've only seen when she's at the hospital, but she seems to better herself before it can take over. "I wasn't bitching to Huckleberry about you," she explains, calmer now. "He asked me about it. And I said it was still kind of weird, being your friend, and knowing that your brother is… is…"
"What?" You attempt. "A drug addict?"
"A person," she sighs, bringing her legs up to the sofa cushion. She sits criss-cross applesauce, in a way that might reduce her to a petulant child if you aren't trying to figure out what she's saying. "A real person, with a life a-and a family," her voice climbs when she gestures to you. "A person who makes mistakes and has triumphs and laughs at jokes and cowers in fear just like the rest of us. It was easier pretending he was just some asshole who I might never see again."
Still, the question remains. "Why couldn't you just talk to me about it?"
"Because… we're trying this friends thing, and it felt unfair to put on you," Trinity slides the throw pillow from behind her back and places it in her lap, holding it close.
You're not sure what to say to that, so you stay quiet. Simultaneously, you feel glued to the sofa and miles up in space, looking down on this moment with the daunting realization that this isn't something you can fix. It's not in the scope of your control to move Trinity past the conflict with Frank.
After a beat, Trinity speaks.
"You should be a lawyer," she says in that recalcitrant, half-teasing tone that's desperate to claw out of the pit of a difficult conversation. "That was a real Elle Woods moment you just had there, dragging a confession out of me and everything."
"Thank you, I appreciate that," you point your nose in the air in a half-hearted joke before nudging her shin with your hand. "But seriously. I don't want to do the whole pretending-everything-is-okay, silent-festering-resentment thing with you. I told you I wanted to be your friend, and I meant that. I thought you did too."
"I do!" She hangs her head now, hands looping behind her neck. "I do. I did. I—"
"You did," you whisper, scooting away on reflex. "As in, you don't want to be my friend anymore?"
"No, no, that's not it," Trinity reaches for you. In a blind, knee-jerk panic, she catches your hand. "I want to be your friend," she says your name. The consonants are soft on her lips. When she looks up, her eyes lock onto yours. "I'd be an idiot to not want to be your friend, okay? I just…" she sighs.
You could throw her a lifeline. Try to finish the sentence. Give her a word bank to choose from.
But your hyperempathy doesn't stretch to your tongue in this instance. You need her to say it, need to know it comes from Trinity, not from some suggestion of how she might be feeling.
You follow her eyes down to your joined hands. Her thumb swipes over the back of your hand, like that was the sole purpose of its creation.
Her fingernails are painted a dark blue, almost black color. The crescent moon ring she wears every so often scratches against the smooth skin of your palm.
"I think this is something I need to work through on my own," Trinity concludes. Her words come out almost choked, like she regrets them the second they leave her mouth.
"What does that mean?" The wrinkle of your brow tightens your expression even more. Your skirt parachutes out as pull your own legs up onto the sofa. No longer a couch, it's a threadbare buoy in rough waters, carrying the both of you at the beck and call of the waves.
Jesus, you think. At least you're not being dramatic about it. "You don't want to hang out anymore?"
"No," Trinity squeezes your hand firmly until you look at her. "No. That's not what I meant. I just meant that this whole bullshit with your brother is mine to figure out," she explains. "And in the meantime, we don't have to avoid the subject completely, but how about I work on detaching you from him? Meaning, I won't bitch about the complexity of the situation to Huckleberry. Because, apparently, he can't keep anything to himself."
You squeeze Trinity's hand back. "You're more endeared by Dennis than you are annoyed," you tease, to which Trinity rolls her eyes. "No, seriously! Underneath all that angry, alt-girl bravado, you're a softy, Trinity Santos."
She shoves your arm away. "Whatever!"
Her hand presses your shoulder, and you lean in to the touch. Warmth on warmth, so dangerous and so tempting. Trinity's lips looks so fucking soft. Supple, bubblegum pink lines. You might have been tipsy the night you met her, but their flavor still dances in the back of your mind. Strawberry vodka and salt.
You remind yourself how treacherous it'd be if you gave in, the perfect yoke to yank you back into the moment.
All of sudden Trinity's looking back at you in the same way.
"I'm not a softy," she husks stubbornly.
"Whatever," you mirror her tone from earlier, then trace the lines of her face with your eyes.
You're friends. You both agreed to that. Both agreed to even try harder at it. It doesn't matter how synchronously safe and exposed those gorgeous gemstone eyes make you feel. It'd be a stupid, thoughtless regression to lean over and kiss her right now.
But then why is it the only thing you can think about?
You realize then that liminal space is an impossibility with Trinity. You're either nothing or something… and right now? Right now her apartment is empty. Right now her hand lingers on your shoulder still, fingers digging in to the plush skin of your back. Right now all the other stuff that you just talked about feels so embarrassingly insignificant.
This friends thing with Trinity becomes a whole lot harder the second you let instinct shove logic from the driver's seat.
When you bridge the miniscule gap between your body and hers, you realize there's no turning back.
It's not a soft, slow, new kiss. No, your lips crash into Trinity's like two cymbals, messy and loud and overt. You collapse atop her body, her legs stretching out beneath yours, her hands digging into your hips, encouraging you to spread your legs.
You can't straddle her in your long, cotton skirt, so you groan in frustration. Laughing into your open mouth, she tugs the elastic hem over the ledge of your hips, and your knees find either side of her waist.
There's only breath and heat as you kiss her, whining into her mouth, flicking your tongue out to lap up that softness you've craved for weeks now. Trinity's hands slide over your satin panties, kneading circles into your rear. She swallows your moans, her tongue lapping against yours.
This is sloppy and needy, nothing like the reverent, exploratory comfort from that first night. No, this is two magnets slamming together. After far too much time apart.
"Fuuuck," Trinity draws the word out, along with your name, stretching each syllable as you tug on the hem of her striped shirt. She raises her arms in humankind's quickest detour. You're hurried and indelicate as you yank it over her head and chuck it to the side. "This is crazy, right?"
"Mmmhm," you hum, kissing her cheeks and down that deliciously angled jaw. "Can't say that I care. Do you?"
"Not even a little bit," Trinity agrees, guiding one of your hands to her breasts, where a plain white t-shirt bra separates your palm from her skin.
You glance down at her breasts, then back up to her eyes. She nods.
"I want you to," she assures you, so you mimic the shape of the underwire, dipping below the fabric and cupping the bottom of her round, plush breast.
Her hips grind into yours in response. You slide your other hand under her back, undoing the clasp in a singular movement.
"Not your first bra removal, then, huh?" She teases, and you laugh as you look at her in an amused, yet sobered, manner.
"Take my own off every night, Trin," you giggle, rolling your eyes as her bra fells the same fate as her shirt.
You notice her nipples puckering at the sudden air exposure, but decide to be nice and refrain from teasing her about it. Your lips find her neck, kissing over her choker necklace and down the column of her throat. Your weight presses her further into the sofa, your right knee shoving between her jeans. You notice her hips arching, grinding into your knee, searching for friction.
"Fuck," Trinity gasps your name beneath you. "You're so good at this."
"Always the tone of surprise with you," your breathless cockiness surprises even yourself as you lick down her sternum, still massaging her breasts and rolling your hips into hers. You're two gears on a clock, fitting perfectly into each other's grooves.
"Can I…" Trinity paws blindly at the bottom hem of your shirt. You hum in confirmation, and she tugs it over your head.
Holding yourself up with your palms on either side of her head, your breasts spill out of your bra by the tricky work of gravity. Your bra falls to the wayside in an instant and Trinity tugs your face back down to hers. Your chest presses into hers, two spools of skin tangling together.
She kisses you for a long time, holding you to her by way of a palm cupped around the back of your head. You're buzzing on dopamine and adrenaline, chemicals coursing through you, spit mixing with hers. Twisted more and more into each other until you form an impossible knot.
You and Trinity. You can't bring yourself to think much about anything else, about the questions lingering in the air and the webs you've precariously weaved.
Eventually, you'll have to tell your brother about this. Eventually, you'll have to ask Trinity how she feels about the Frank of it all, about your connection to him, about how he's become a symbol of her self-doubt. It will all undoubtedly disentangle in a great, big, heaping mess. You hate a mess. It breaks you out in stress-hives and you struggle to fall asleep.
But once you wind up in Trinity's sheets, the space around you sweaty and blurry and liminal, you decide maybe messy isn't so bad.
okay but there is something disquieting about this urge to cast fan writers as altruists. they give us all this for free!! well, no.
they’re sharing
it’s a key difference in perception. fic isn’t given. it’s shared. it’s part of a fandom community— in which readers are also an integral part.
it’s probably inevitable mission creep from the increasingly transactional nature of the internet and fandom-as-consumerism, which was always gonna happen after corps worked out how much bank there is to make from those weirdo fan people
but like. fandom is sharing. i think we’ve lost that somewhere.
As the sun sets on our wild summer, it's time the girlies (all-inclusive) get together for JAMIE'S Y(2K) BASH
Pack your PJs, your favorite CDs, and your sleeping bags —not that there will be much sleeping!
WHAT: This is my event to celebrate 2k followers! Thank you all for the love and support, I'm so excited to keep sharing my brain with you freakazoids <3
Send me a request for the following characters:
THE PITT —
Jack Abbot, Frank Langdon, Dennis Whitaker, Trinity Santos
THE BEAR —
Michael Berzatto, Carmen Berzatto, Sydney Adamu, Richie Jeremovich
WHEN: Event runs August 15th - August 30th, so make sure you get your requests in before then
WHERE: Right here on @whatif-ialreadydid
Here's what you can request in my inbox:
💅 MAKEOVER MONTAGE send me your character of choice, and I'll make you a moodboard! Be sure to specify any sort of physical qualities (body type, skin/hair color) you want me to keep in mind
👙 SKINNY DIPPING send me your character of choice, any vibes you're feeling, and I'll write a baby blurb
📱 PRANK CALLS send me your character of choice, and I'll share some saucy sleepover texts
🍭 DANCE PARTY send me your character of choice, and any specific vibes you're feeling, and I'll make a playlist for them
Be sure to follow the tag #jamie'sY(2K)sleepover for any other details prior to the event (blurbs, moodboards, etc)
🩷 THANK YOU FOR 2K FOLLOWERS 🩵
Please note:
I will be answering requests at my own pace, so I might not get to all of them
Requests will be OPEN until August 15th, and I'll post all sleepover content until August 30th
As the sun sets on our wild summer, it's time the girlies (all-inclusive) get together for JAMIE'S Y(2K) BASH
Pack your PJs, your favorite CDs, and your sleeping bags —not that there will be much sleeping!
WHAT: This is my event to celebrate 2k followers! Thank you all for the love and support, I'm so excited to keep sharing my brain with you freakazoids <3
Send me a request for the following characters:
THE PITT —
Jack Abbot, Frank Langdon, Dennis Whitaker, Trinity Santos
THE BEAR —
Michael Berzatto, Carmen Berzatto, Sydney Adamu, Richie Jeremovich
WHEN: Event runs August 15th - August 30th, so make sure you get your requests in before then
WHERE: Right here on @whatif-ialreadydid
Here's what you can request in my inbox:
💅 MAKEOVER MONTAGE send me your character of choice, and I'll make you a moodboard! Be sure to specify any sort of physical qualities (body type, skin/hair color) you want me to keep in mind
👙 SKINNY DIPPING send me your character of choice, any vibes you're feeling, and I'll write a baby blurb
📱 PRANK CALLS send me your character of choice, and I'll share some saucy sleepover texts
🍭 DANCE PARTY send me your character of choice, and any specific vibes you're feeling, and I'll make a playlist for them
Be sure to follow the tag #jamie'sY(2K)sleepover for any other details prior to the event (blurbs, moodboards, etc)
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Please note:
I will be answering requests at my own pace, so I might not get to all of them
Requests will be OPEN until August 15th, and I'll post all sleepover content until August 30th
Tags: nurse!reader, injured baran, mentions of blood scalpels and cutting, stitches, medical inaccuracies, ogilvie mentions (unfortunately), protective!reader, bit of flirting, reader is whipped, no use of yn
Summary: Ogilvie has a field day with a scalpel. Baran reaps the consequences, and you—you find your hands damp with her blood.
Word count: 1.8k
You're used to strange sights in the ED. Foreign bodies of all kinds, sticking out from all sorts of places; oozing fluids; questionable objects sticking in; experiments and extreme stupidity and fits of rage and everything in between. After years of working in emergency medicine, hardly any of it phases you. You're, put simply, quite desensitized to all of it.
Still, the last thing you would've ever expected to see is the chief of PTMC—neat, controlled, perpetually unruffled Baran Al-Hashimi—hunched in front of the sink, lips pursed, holding a paper towel to her heavily bleeding forearm.
"Woah!" Your voice echoes against the bathroom tiles, as sharp as your surprise.
Baran startles. She blinks as you make your way over to her, willingly giving you her arm before you even realize you're taking it. You're no stranger to blood or gore, but you still wince at the soaked paper towel she's holding down, nearly translucent with red. "Jesus. What the hell?"
You realize in hindsight you were not the most articulate.
Baran's exhale is just the slightest bit shaky. She swallows, letting go of the tissue when you nudge her hand away. "Ogilvie was…a little bit too enthusiastic with the scalpel."
You still. "What?"
"It's nothing." She hurries to say. "An accident, he wasn't looking."
"Well, he fucking should be. Does he think that shit is made of plastic?" You say tightly, your voice slipping louder than it should. Too harsh, all at her, and she's hardly the source of your frustration.
Get it together.
You swallow against the flare of anger, fingers careful as you peel away the blood-soaked tissue from her arm. Your stomach drops at the depth of the cut.
"Jesus Christ."
"It's really fine." Baran says weakly. She goes silent at the look you give her, more of a glare than you can help.
"This needs stitches, Baran."
It's still weeping. The blood runs down her forearm, soaks the bunched sleeve of her jacket. Her pristine, spotless jacket, as clean as it would be if she plucked it straight from its 130 dollar rack. Her eyes flitter down to it. She doesn't push back; her lips thin, throat bobbing with a swallow you feel in your gut.
Fucking med students.
The cut is a few centimeters long, maybe an inch. Its edges are smooth, her skin flayed open like butter. "Was it contaminated?" You ask.
"No." She lets out a breath. "He hadn't started cutting yet."
Your jaw sets. You toss the bloodied tissue, rip out a fresh one, and hold it to the cut. The red bleeds through instantly, a violent, blossoming flower. You don't miss Baran's wince from the corner of your eye.
You force in a slow breath to calm the churning in your gut. When you speak, your voice is softer. "Come on. South 21 is empty."
Baran hesitates. She smooths down the short hairs at her temple—a tick, you've realized. "A patient could need it more than I do." She says sensibly.
A huffed breath escapes you, a humorless laugh collapsing halfway through. "Sorry, Doc, but you are a patient now." She frowns at you for that, nudges your hand away and takes over holding the paper towel. You gently grip her elbow. "Hey, c'mon. You know me. How long's it gonna take for me to fix you up?"
Her eyes weigh heavy on your face. They're flat under the fluorescent lights but nowhere near less alluring, a warm vortex of deep brown. "What about your patients?" She murmurs.
"All stable. 21 just got discharged." You say. Your eyes drop to her forearm, the blood now slow going beneath the tissue. Your fingers tighten around her elbow, skipping on the silky nylon of her jacket. You're about to say please when Baran inhales and nods, finally, muttering an okay that loosens the knot in your chest.
You know you shouldn't, but you still keep your hold on her elbow as you walk out of the bathroom. She's lost a fair bit of blood, you tell yourself. Just until you get to the gurney, which isn't far, just a few steps before you reach the curtain and pull it back, letting her in. She settles at the very edge of the bed and looks up at you with a small, faintly amused smile.
"I'm fine," she says softly.
You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, silently cursing. You've always been told you have a terrible poker face. Every annoyance, every worry—it all shows, whether you want it to or not.
You don't even want to imagine what your face looks like right now.
"I know you are." Your voice is falsely nonchalant. You shove your hands into your pockets. "I'll be right back. Stay put," you tell her. "I mean it."
Baran's lips twitch. "I'm not going anywhere."
Your throat is dry when you swallow. You nod once and turn on your heel, the heat of her gaze following you out.
Dana finds you as you're gathering your supplies. Sometimes you think she's got a tracker on you. On everyone, really.
"Hey," she says, fingers tapping against her tablet. "What's the news on your pneumonia patient?"
"Discharged with antibiotics." You reply. "But the room's occupied."
Dana frowns. "By who?"
"Al-Hashimi." You say. The rush of anger swells up again, a tight ball clogging your throat. "That Ogil-fucker took a stab at her with a scalpel."
"He what?"
"I don't know the details, but she needs stitches. It's small, maybe 4 or 5. Fucker's lucky he didn't nick an artery."
"Jesus." She mutters.
"Yeah." You double check your supplies, then look back at her. "If you find him, kill him for me."
Dana's mouth twitches. She leans back against the wall, a smugness overtaking her features. "Your girl wouldn't like that, now would she?" She chides, patting your shoulder. "Go."
"My wha—?" You splutter, nearly dropping the kits in your hands. "Dana. She's—she's not my—" Your girl.
Your mouth dries.
Dana grins at you. "Yeah, right. Go be a knight in shining armor."
"You're not drunk, are you?" You finally fumble out.
"Oh, you wish, honey. I see everything in this ED." She winks, and sends you reeling. "C'mon now, she's waitin'."
-
She's stripped off her jacket. It's folded somewhat haphazardly at the foot of the bed, one sleeve hanging off the edge. The effort sparks a ridiculous warmth in your chest.
The effort, you remind yourself. Not the long lengths of her skin suddenly on display.
You clear your throat, dispelling the roughness from your voice. "Has the bleeding stopped?" You ask as you arrange your supplies.
"Mhm." Baran hums. Her composure is both admirable and baffling. Not out of character for her, certainly, you just…Jesus, you can never imagine being like that. She's a saint.
You settle on the stool next to her. She shuffles closer to the edge of the gurney and sets her arm down for you, a perfectly model patient. She stays that way as you clean out the cut and sanitize the skin around it, not a hair moving out of place, not even when you flush the cut with saline. Admittedly, it looks a lot less dramatic without all the blood.
You still curse out Ogilvie in your head.
"So," you twist a little on your stool as you look up at her, waiting for the anesthetic to set in. "Ever been on the receiving end of this before?"
"Never."
"Well, shit."
Baran smiles reassuringly. "I trust I'm in good hands."
Heat flames under your skin. You try your best not to fiddle with your gloved hands, gnawing instead on the inside of your cheek to tamp down on a smile. "Appreciate that, Doc. Pray I don't scar you."
"I'm aware of your skills." She says, as ever damningly earnest. "Why do you downplay them?"
You flash her a smile. "It's a coping mechanism."
"Are you nervous?" She frowns.
"That's not the word for it." You murmur, dropping your eyes and gently feeling along the cut. "Feel that?"
"No."
You grab your needle holder and forceps, force in a deep breath, and pinch the edge of the cut. Baran doesn't flinch.
"For the record," her voice is quiet, "I trust you completely."
You trust yourself, too. It's just. It's her.
So maybe you don't, really.
"Thanks, Dr. Al." You say, just as soft. You get one stitch down in no time. It's ugly against her warm skin, a dark intrusion amongst sweet brown and the dots of freckles. God, she has so many of them. In the dip of her elbow, on the base of her thumb, the middle of her wrist, everywhere in between. You'd gotten a good look at the ones dusted on her chest, just above the V slit of her scrub top—too good a look, far too many good looks—but it just. It makes your heart irrationally soft to see all the rest. You finish up another stitch, still deep in thought when her voice pierces through.
"You know, I didn't realize I had to be a bleeding mess for you to call me by my name."
What? Is your first thought. Your second is, this needs stitches, Baran.
Of fucking course she caught that.
You pause as you look up at her, forcing ignorance. "I do call you by your name."
She gives you a little smile. You don't miss the tightness in it; it echoes in your chest, a squeezing fist around your heart.
Jesus, just stop being such a coward.
"So," you look back down—Baran, call her Baran again—"how the hell'd this happen?"
Baran.
"The patient had an abscess, it was a simple enough procedure for him to try. I just startled him. He hadn't even started cutting yet."
Yeah, you doubt it was this simple.
Your lips purse. "He needs to be more aware of his surroundings. He forgets he's not the only one in the room."
"Come on," Baran's endlessly gentle. "Don't you remember what it was like to be this eager?"
"No," you say flatly.
"I do." Her voice is soft. You still again, looking up to catch her eyes. Beautiful, you think, far from the first time. "I don't approve of his attitude, but I can understand his hunger. Too well, actually."
She looks back down, suddenly shrinking back like she's said too much. You hit this wall with her sometimes. You've never tried pushing past it.
You drop your eyes, too.
"I'd hardly think you were ever as callous as he is."
Baran inhales. "He could work on his bedside manner, yes."
"Not just bedside." You mutter. You have to force your hands still when you hear her laugh, a low, genuine thing.
You can still hear it in her voice when she says, a little teasing, "You're a strict judge, Y/N."
Well, when they hurt my girl.
You shove that thought down and clear your throat, tying off another stitch.
Damn you, Dana.
"I think you might be a far too lenient one, Dr. Al-Hashimi."
Ps. My taglist has been updated to include Baran <3
xlangdon!sister series masterlist | the pitt masterlist
wc: 3.2k
summary: with an assist from huckleberry, you and trinity decide what friendship does and doesn't look like
contains: smut adjacent, mdni, afab!reader, lots o yapping, abrupt ending sry i don't love writing smut that much
a/n: uh oh :) this is part 4 of my langdon!sister!reader series. it would behoove you to read the 3 previous parts before this, but tbh you could enjoy it as a standalone. thank u to everyone who loves this series, i see your messages and comments and i hold every single one close to my lil heart | beautiful divider from @andromeda-graphics
This friends thing with Trinity is easier than you thought it would be.
You were afraid it'd be too messy, that the Frank of it all would be too much for Trinity and she couldn't handle it.
Since that night in your apartment —when she apologized for lashing out— you've seen her twice. Once at coffee, around six in the morning, before her shift at the hospital. A second time after your shift at the bar, at a 24-hour diner with an adorable little buffer named Victoria Javadi.
There's an unspoken agreement that neither of you broach the subject of your brother, though you did allude to your Wednesday family therapy appointments at his facility with Abby and the kids when scheduling your next hang-out. All in all, Trinity doesn't ask, and you don't bring it up.
There are worse ways to handle uncomfortable subjects, right?
All this to say: at the diner the other night, Trinity told you that her roommate, Dennis, looks like a "sickly Victorian Muppet", a description which sent strawberry milkshake flying out of poor Victoria's nose.
When you rap your knuckles on the door to Trinity's apartment, you're expecting a Muppet to answer.
Dennis Whitaker —Huckleberry, as Trinity so lovingly refers to him— does not look half as goofy as Trinity described. Maybe his eye bags are a little more pronounced than others, and sure, he does kind of look as though he exists in a perpetual state of bracing for impact.
Upon first glance, though, he seems fairly normal.
He steps aside and allows you in. Almost as soon as you cross the threshold, the faint sound of running water hums from the other side of a wall.
"Santos should be out soon," Dennis bobs his head, stepping out of your way with an urgency you didn't realize you were asking for. "She says she's not taking an 'everything shower' —whatever that means— so you can make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks," you flash a bright, unassuming smile, then slide your bag off your shoulder. You perch on the edge of the sofa, a well-loved if not slightly misshapen lump of cushions on the far wall of the living room.
You take a long look around, drinking the place in. Open floor plan, like most of the newer apartments in the city, adorned with warm colors and mismatched tchotkes. Trinity explained how she offered Dennis her spare room on a whim, after finding out he didn't have a place to live. So you feel comfortable assuming the lion's share of the decorations are hers.
Dennis stands at the open fridge, then calls over his shoulder. "Can I get you a drink? We have water and…" he trails off, and you notice he cranes his neck to see deeper into the fluorescent shelves. "One singular beer."
"I'd love a water, actually," you say, crossing your ankles. "Don't want to risk it with that beer."
"Yeah, I honestly think it's been here since before I moved in," Dennis snorts, then pours you a glass from a Brita filter.
As he lowers himself into the tattered armchair angled towards the sofa, he extends the glass. You accept it with a bright, grateful hum, then take a sip.
Over the top of the glass, you spy Dennis fiddling with the arms of the chair, tapping his fingers on the worn upholstery. His eyes flick around the room, basically everywhere that isn't you.
"I'm not gonna turn you to stone, you know," you venture, setting the glass on small IKEA table beside the couch. "You can look at me and talk to me and everything."
"You sound like a Barbie doll commercial," Dennis laughs, then his eyes meet yours. "I'm sorry. Felt weird to try and make small talk with the elephant in the room."
Somewhere in the apartment, you hear the squeak of a faucet being turned off, but you barely notice it. You furrow your brows, an innocent smile still hanging on your lips as you try to decipher what Dennis might mean. "There's an elephant?"
He clams up then, freezing in place like a video call with a poor connection. "I, uh…" he titters, rubbing the back of his neck. "I-I shouldn't have said anything. Just… um… nevermind."
"No," you urge, not impatient but certainly firm. You hate being blindsided. "What elephant, Dennis?"
"I just mean with the whole…" he throws out a fruitless gesture. "Langdon thing."
You've never heard your surname spoken with such weight.
You picture your big brother the last time you saw him, nearly a week ago. He looked good. Really good. He bounced Penny on his knee in the Family Room and told you about how he's started writing in a gratitude journal. You still haven't told him about meeting Trinity, but you almost did. Which was more courageous than the week before.
"Oh, no, that's not an elephant," you assure Dennis, digging your fingernail into your thighs. Through the cotton of your ankle-length skirt, the pinching feeling keeps your tether from snapping.
You frown, then meet Dennis's eye. "Is it an elephant? Has Trinity said anything to you about it recently? Because I thought we… I thought we were on the same page about it."
"And what page is that?" Dennis asks, though not impatiently. You can tell that, despite their not having roomed together for too long, Dennis cares for Trinity. He wants to protect her.
And you? Well, you're the sister of a man who filled her with a raging, lingering self-doubt her first day at a new job. Dennis isn't giving you the third degree or anything, but his curiosity is valid.
As uncomfortable as it might make you.
"The page where we're not really talking about it," you deflate, rubbing the back of your neck with both hands.
"Talking about what?" Trinity strolls into the living room from down the hall. She brightens upon seeing you. "Hi."
"Hi," is your weak response. You can barely take a moment to appreciate the way her jeans hug her hips, her purple-and-white striped t-shirt so adorably 90s with the black plastic choker around her neck.
Dennis's face harbors a guilty grimace. "I-I was gonna head out to Amy's in a few, so I think mayble I'll just do that now," he springs up out of the armchair, then takes strides fast for the door.
As he gathers his keys and wallet, Trinity stomps over to him and corrals him between the entryway table and the door. They speak in hushed, sharp whispers, but you still pick up pieces of the conversation.
"What the hell did you say to her, Huckleberry? Why is she making the same face I did when you told me how yogurt is made?"
"I just… I might have…" Dennis shoves his wallet into his pocket hurriedly. You can see the whites of his eyes, even from across the room.
"What? What did you say?"
"Maybe it's better if you just ask her, Trin, I'm… I'm sorry, okay?" He fumbles behind him for the doorknob. You're fairly certain Trinity is threatening him with violence as he slides out of the apartment. Something about shoving an avocado where the sun doesn't shine.
It'd be hilarious if you weren't slowly filling with dread.
The door shuts behind him, inflating the awkward tension in the room like a stretched-out balloon.
Trinity's back flattens against the door, and she looks on at you with perhaps the most awkward, thin smile you've ever seen her make. "Hi," she says.
"You said that already," you swallow. Your lips twist in the side of your mouth. Bottling things up has never been your strong suit, so you dive right in. "Trin, do we need to talk about the whole thing with my brother again?"
Trinity shakes her head. "No," she says, more insistent than convincing. She crosses the room and plops down on the couch. "No, I'm fine, I swear. Huckleberry just asked me about it the other day and I sort of skirted around the subject so he probably thinks it's some unresolved thing that we're avoiding."
"But it's not something we're avoiding," you prompt.
"Right," Trinity's shoulders loosen and she leans back into the couch.
"Because we've already hashed it all out," you add. "So there's nothing left to talk about."
"Exactly," she agrees, still not getting it.
"Remind me when that was again?"
Crystalline eyes snap to yours. "What?"
You settle back into the sofa as well, lifting a leg and tucking it under your rear.
"When, exactly, did we resolve all of it?" You ask again. "Because if you're coming home and bitching to your roommate about me, then I wouldn't call that resolved."
"I'm not—" Trinity's face flares with a frustration you've only seen when she's at the hospital, but she seems to better herself before it can take over. "I wasn't bitching to Huckleberry about you," she explains, calmer now. "He asked me about it. And I said it was still kind of weird, being your friend, and knowing that your brother is… is…"
"What?" You attempt. "A drug addict?"
"A person," she sighs, bringing her legs up to the sofa cushion. She sits criss-cross applesauce, in a way that might reduce her to a petulant child if you aren't trying to figure out what she's saying. "A real person, with a life a-and a family," her voice climbs when she gestures to you. "A person who makes mistakes and has triumphs and laughs at jokes and cowers in fear just like the rest of us. It was easier pretending he was just some asshole who I might never see again."
Still, the question remains. "Why couldn't you just talk to me about it?"
"Because… we're trying this friends thing, and it felt unfair to put on you," Trinity slides the throw pillow from behind her back and places it in her lap, holding it close.
You're not sure what to say to that, so you stay quiet. Simultaneously, you feel glued to the sofa and miles up in space, looking down on this moment with the daunting realization that this isn't something you can fix. It's not in the scope of your control to move Trinity past the conflict with Frank.
After a beat, Trinity speaks.
"You should be a lawyer," she says in that recalcitrant, half-teasing tone that's desperate to claw out of the pit of a difficult conversation. "That was a real Elle Woods moment you just had there, dragging a confession out of me and everything."
"Thank you, I appreciate that," you point your nose in the air in a half-hearted joke before nudging her shin with your hand. "But seriously. I don't want to do the whole pretending-everything-is-okay, silent-festering-resentment thing with you. I told you I wanted to be your friend, and I meant that. I thought you did too."
"I do!" She hangs her head now, hands looping behind her neck. "I do. I did. I—"
"You did," you whisper, scooting away on reflex. "As in, you don't want to be my friend anymore?"
"No, no, that's not it," Trinity reaches for you. In a blind, knee-jerk panic, she catches your hand. "I want to be your friend," she says your name. The consonants are soft on her lips. When she looks up, her eyes lock onto yours. "I'd be an idiot to not want to be your friend, okay? I just…" she sighs.
You could throw her a lifeline. Try to finish the sentence. Give her a word bank to choose from.
But your hyperempathy doesn't stretch to your tongue in this instance. You need her to say it, need to know it comes from Trinity, not from some suggestion of how she might be feeling.
You follow her eyes down to your joined hands. Her thumb swipes over the back of your hand, like that was the sole purpose of its creation.
Her fingernails are painted a dark blue, almost black color. The crescent moon ring she wears every so often scratches against the smooth skin of your palm.
"I think this is something I need to work through on my own," Trinity concludes. Her words come out almost choked, like she regrets them the second they leave her mouth.
"What does that mean?" The wrinkle of your brow tightens your expression even more. Your skirt parachutes out as pull your own legs up onto the sofa. No longer a couch, it's a threadbare buoy in rough waters, carrying the both of you at the beck and call of the waves.
Jesus, you think. At least you're not being dramatic about it. "You don't want to hang out anymore?"
"No," Trinity squeezes your hand firmly until you look at her. "No. That's not what I meant. I just meant that this whole bullshit with your brother is mine to figure out," she explains. "And in the meantime, we don't have to avoid the subject completely, but how about I work on detaching you from him? Meaning, I won't bitch about the complexity of the situation to Huckleberry. Because, apparently, he can't keep anything to himself."
You squeeze Trinity's hand back. "You're more endeared by Dennis than you are annoyed," you tease, to which Trinity rolls her eyes. "No, seriously! Underneath all that angry, alt-girl bravado, you're a softy, Trinity Santos."
She shoves your arm away. "Whatever!"
Her hand presses your shoulder, and you lean in to the touch. Warmth on warmth, so dangerous and so tempting. Trinity's lips looks so fucking soft. Supple, bubblegum pink lines. You might have been tipsy the night you met her, but their flavor still dances in the back of your mind. Strawberry vodka and salt.
You remind yourself how treacherous it'd be if you gave in, the perfect yoke to yank you back into the moment.
All of sudden Trinity's looking back at you in the same way.
"I'm not a softy," she husks stubbornly.
"Whatever," you mirror her tone from earlier, then trace the lines of her face with your eyes.
You're friends. You both agreed to that. Both agreed to even try harder at it. It doesn't matter how synchronously safe and exposed those gorgeous gemstone eyes make you feel. It'd be a stupid, thoughtless regression to lean over and kiss her right now.
But then why is it the only thing you can think about?
You realize then that liminal space is an impossibility with Trinity. You're either nothing or something… and right now? Right now her apartment is empty. Right now her hand lingers on your shoulder still, fingers digging in to the plush skin of your back. Right now all the other stuff that you just talked about feels so embarrassingly insignificant.
This friends thing with Trinity becomes a whole lot harder the second you let instinct shove logic from the driver's seat.
When you bridge the miniscule gap between your body and hers, you realize there's no turning back.
It's not a soft, slow, new kiss. No, your lips crash into Trinity's like two cymbals, messy and loud and overt. You collapse atop her body, her legs stretching out beneath yours, her hands digging into your hips, encouraging you to spread your legs.
You can't straddle her in your long, cotton skirt, so you groan in frustration. Laughing into your open mouth, she tugs the elastic hem over the ledge of your hips, and your knees find either side of her waist.
There's only breath and heat as you kiss her, whining into her mouth, flicking your tongue out to lap up that softness you've craved for weeks now. Trinity's hands slide over your satin panties, kneading circles into your rear. She swallows your moans, her tongue lapping against yours.
This is sloppy and needy, nothing like the reverent, exploratory comfort from that first night. No, this is two magnets slamming together. After far too much time apart.
"Fuuuck," Trinity draws the word out, along with your name, stretching each syllable as you tug on the hem of her striped shirt. She raises her arms in humankind's quickest detour. You're hurried and indelicate as you yank it over her head and chuck it to the side. "This is crazy, right?"
"Mmmhm," you hum, kissing her cheeks and down that deliciously angled jaw. "Can't say that I care. Do you?"
"Not even a little bit," Trinity agrees, guiding one of your hands to her breasts, where a plain white t-shirt bra separates your palm from her skin.
You glance down at her breasts, then back up to her eyes. She nods.
"I want you to," she assures you, so you mimic the shape of the underwire, dipping below the fabric and cupping the bottom of her round, plush breast.
Her hips grind into yours in response. You slide your other hand under her back, undoing the clasp in a singular movement.
"Not your first bra removal, then, huh?" She teases, and you laugh as you look at her in an amused, yet sobered, manner.
"Take my own off every night, Trin," you giggle, rolling your eyes as her bra fells the same fate as her shirt.
You notice her nipples puckering at the sudden air exposure, but decide to be nice and refrain from teasing her about it. Your lips find her neck, kissing over her choker necklace and down the column of her throat. Your weight presses her further into the sofa, your right knee shoving between her jeans. You notice her hips arching, grinding into your knee, searching for friction.
"Fuck," Trinity gasps your name beneath you. "You're so good at this."
"Always the tone of surprise with you," your breathless cockiness surprises even yourself as you lick down her sternum, still massaging her breasts and rolling your hips into hers. You're two gears on a clock, fitting perfectly into each other's grooves.
"Can I…" Trinity paws blindly at the bottom hem of your shirt. You hum in confirmation, and she tugs it over your head.
Holding yourself up with your palms on either side of her head, your breasts spill out of your bra by the tricky work of gravity. Your bra falls to the wayside in an instant and Trinity tugs your face back down to hers. Your chest presses into hers, two spools of skin tangling together.
She kisses you for a long time, holding you to her by way of a palm cupped around the back of your head. You're buzzing on dopamine and adrenaline, chemicals coursing through you, spit mixing with hers. Twisted more and more into each other until you form an impossible knot.
You and Trinity. You can't bring yourself to think much about anything else, about the questions lingering in the air and the webs you've precariously weaved.
Eventually, you'll have to tell your brother about this. Eventually, you'll have to ask Trinity how she feels about the Frank of it all, about your connection to him, about how he's become a symbol of her self-doubt. It will all undoubtedly disentangle in a great, big, heaping mess. You hate a mess. It breaks you out in stress-hives and you struggle to fall asleep.
But once you wind up in Trinity's sheets, the space around you sweaty and blurry and liminal, you decide maybe messy isn't so bad.
Hi! Thank you so much for being here! If you’ve ever liked, reblogged, commented, or sent me a kind message, I appreciate you beyond words. This event is just a small way for me to give back to you, so feel totally free to send in as many requests as you want!! (But please only choose one category at a time and have a look at my request guidelines first). You're more than welcome to specify the scenario you want for a more accurate fic! I'll begin posting a week from now :)
Open from July 16th to July 31st.
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𓇢𓆸 Spiced chai — choose a character + a prompt from this list, this list, or this list—or send me a prompt of your own (fluff, hurt/comfort, angst)—and I'll write a small drabble, 1k words or less.
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summary: a missing earring sends you down a spiral
contains: implied age gap, usual ER things mentioned, reader is implied to have previously been in an abusive relationship, victim of domestic violence is a patient, sickening hurt/comfort bullshit
a/n: I broke the seal on the bottle of jack in my mind fridge, you're welcome world! no but fr i really tried to characterize abbot to the best of my ability <3 | beautiful divider from @strangergraphics
Underneath your bed is more of a wreck than you thought it'd be. Stray, unmatched socks live among scrunchies and dust bunnies. A rogue pillowcase. A glasses case tipped on its side. You even spy a book Samira lent you that you failed to return.
But no earring.
"Shit," you murmur as you rise from your pancaked position on the floor. Defeated, you make no move to stand right away, choosing instead to dig out your phone right there on the carpet.
Trinity answers after three rings. "A cold call is a crazy move," her voice tins over the line flatly.
"Hey, you're home, right?" You ask, rather than explaining yourself. Your free hand pinches the space between your brows.
"Yeah…?" Trinity draws the word out, intrigue ascending her inflection.
"I can’t find my earring,” you hear the tremble in your voice, then the crush of embarrassment constricting your chest.
This is so stupid.
"Okay?" Trinity responds, the word an obvious placeholder for what do you want me to do about it?
You rub at your chest. "Is there any chance it's in your couch, or under it or something? Remember the last time I was there, I fell asleep on the couch and Dennis had to wake me up? So I'm thinking it might have fallen off, gotten caught in a blanket or something and—"
"Woah, hey, chill out. You're starting to sound a little cuckoo," she says, and you can practically picture the suppressed laugh bubbling in your friend's throat. "Which earrings?"
"My pearls. The gold rim. They're studs, I wear them all the time. I'll send a picture," you move the phone off your face, where the one earring you do have sits, awaiting its twin. You snap a photo of your ear with the front-facing camera, then text it to Trinity.
"I'll look for it, hang on," Trinity sighs. Then, further from the phone, you hear, "Get up, Huckleberry."
"What? Why?" is Whitaker's high-pitched reply. If you weren't on the verge of tears, you'd laugh at how he nearly always sounds like a cartoon mouse caught off-guard.
"Because, genius, today's the day I finally castrate you," Trinity deadpans, followed by a solid thirty seconds of very sibling-esque bickering. Then Trinity explains to him that you're on the phone. "She lost an earring, thinks it might be in the couch. So get up."
"What's the big deal?" Dennis addresses you. "You can't wear different earrings? Are they a family heirloom or something?"
A long sigh ekes out of you, your exasperation coming to its peak after nearly thirty minutes of scrambling around the apartment for this earring. The big deal is that you can't even bear the thought of telling Jack you lost one of them. And he'll be here any time now to pick you up.
It's not Whitaker's fault, you remind yourself, though your impatience with your friend and fellow PTMC resident still lingers.
"They were a gift from Jack," you explain, toying the bottom of your t-shirt with your fingers. You still haven't even gotten dressed for your day out with your boyfriend.
There's some rustling on the other end of the phone, what you imagine is the sounds of Whitaker and Trinity digging under the couch and between the cushions.
"Ew, Huckleberry, stop shoving your protein bar wrappers in the couch," you hear Trinity groan in disgust. "There's at least five under here."
"Least I don't cook in my underwear," is Dennis's mumbled reply.
You grit your teeth, impatience jabbing at your chest. "No luck, I take it?" Your voice comes out sharper than you intend. They're doing you a favor, after all.
The anxiety that's been compressing in your chest for the last half-hour, like a tightly packed snowball, wants to scream yes, of course he will be.
"I-I don't know," you stammer, lifting your knees to your chest. You're caught in a limbo between the knowledge that you're overreacting and the boat-sinking dread that goes hand-in-hand with the look of disappointment on Abbot's face. "Thanks for looking," you sniff, then hang up.
You toss the phone as far away from you as possible, then wrap your arms around your legs and press your face to your knees.
When Abbot gave you the earrings just a few months ago, it'd been after a particularly difficult night shift. The usual scene: the aftermath of a drunk driver, a couple of college kids needing their stomachs pumped, a little boy who'd fallen off the top bunk and broken his arm.
Burnout threatened to crush you each time something went wrong. It hit its peak when a woman, not much younger than you, came in with a couple of bruised ribs after, allegedly, falling down the stairs in her apartment building. The fresh, purple and yellow bruising on the apple of her cheek along with her hovering boyfriend spelled it all out in bright, neon letters.
You tried to get the woman alone —claiming she needed a pelvic exam, that she needed to provide a urine sample— but she was insistent to the point of snapping at you. "I'm fine," she'd hissed sharply, though her shaky hands and equally shaky breaths said otherwise. "It's none of your business."
It always feels like someone slipping through the cracks in situations like this. You saw so much of yourself in this woman. The fear driving the obstinance, insisting to herself and to everyone around her that she's fine.
You pushed too hard. You know you did, in the moment and especially looking back. The pelvic exam plus the urine sample, plus the numerous requests that the boyfriend vacate the room made it increasingly clear what you were trying to do, so the second the pharmacy dispensed the woman's pain meds, they left.
You stood there, occupying precious walkway space by the ER Heroes wall, watching the boyfriend lead the woman out the door, walking much quicker than someone with bruised ribs should be.
"Fuck," you'd said, and stomped your foot. Then pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes.
Ellis had been the one to find you after staying glued to that spot for several minutes. She'd pulled you off to the side, gave you the same old speech everyone else gave you: that you can't save everyone. That sometimes people need to hit rock bottom before they can admit they need to be saved.
Her little chat blocked the flood for the time being, enough to get you through the shift. But by the time you and Jack handed off your patients to day shift, then climbed in his car to head to your apartment, you felt completely anesthitized to any attempts at reflection or decompression.
Jack had been the one open the door to your apartment, using the spare key you'd given him just a couple weeks prior. Your feet were glued to the hallway mat, shoulders threatening to cave in on themselves.
"C'mon, sunshine," Jack's gravelly voice cracked through the glass walls of numbness, and he tugged you inside by the wrist. The door clicked, locked behind you, also Jack's doing. Then he helped you set your backpack down, tugged your jacket sleeves off your arms, and guided you to the shower.
When you came back out, scrubbed clean and wrapped in your fuzzy yellow bathrobe, the pops and sizzles coming from the kitchen lured you back to Jack. He had a stir-fry going on the stove, a usual since night shift has both of you positively sick of breakfast foods. Having changed into his sweats, Jack spared a glance over his shoulder, then to the kitchen island. You trailed those hazel kaleidescopes, made greener in the warm light of the kitchen, to a small, velvet box on the countertop.
Just like Jack to speak without really speaking. To take care of you as easily as speaking a second language.
"What's in there?" You asked, your voice small yet heavy, a stone lodged in your throat.
"Typical custom with a gift dictates the recipient actually open said gift," Jack teased, dumping the contents of the wok into a serving bowl. Your stomach rumbled, so when Jack nodded to the high-backed barstool, you perched yourself up onto one. He leaned against the other side of the island, setting the bowl in the middle and handing you a fork.
The velvet box was certainly intriguing, but you were so hungry, and the colorful vegetables and savory steak steaming in your face took priority. You and Jack silently poked at the sir fry, and after a few bites, Jack's patience waned.
"You're really gonna make me beg, huh?" Jack looked up at you from the stir fry, a brow arched. A tight-mouthed wince flickered over him when he shifted his weight, and you realized then that he had yet to take off his prosthetic since he'd been home.
"Come sit by me, handsome," you urged, dipping your chin to the empty barstool. Jack's gait as he rounded the island was certainly slower than when you left the Pitt just an hour earlier. You were about to pester him about overexerting himself when he palmed the radioactive velvet box and slid it in pointedly front of you.
"What's it for?" you squeaked, reaching hesitantly for the box, creating a square with your fingers around it.
"You had a bad night," Jack shrugged, then turned his stool to face you. He nudged your shin with his foot. "Was gonna give 'em to you for your birthday, but now seems more appropriate."
Your expression dropped a little, lips tightening. "I don't need a pity present, Jack," you gave your head a little shake, then moved to slide the box back to him.
Jack halted your hand with his own. Warm and steady, like he always was, he raised his brow authoritatively. "It's not a pity present. You had a bad day, and if it wasn't gonna be this, I was gonna go out and get you something else. Saves me a trip out."
Nonchalance practically steamed off of him, disarming and inviting, like a sauna.
You still took pause, exasperation written all over your face.
"As your attending, I'm ordering you to open it," the corners of his lips quirked up in that mildly teasing way you love so much. "You deserve a treat, sunshine. Please open 'em, for me?"
Sharply, you inhaled, then pursed your lips in such a way as to feign annoyance. "Fine," you relented, reaching over to card your fingers through his silver curls. "But you're not allowed to play the attending card for at least a month."
Just as your hand started to recede, Jack caught your wrist and kissed the inside of it, habitually, without a second thought, before releasing it.
You tilted the box open to find them. The earrings —shiny pearls wrapped in a thin band of gold— glinted in the light of the kitchen. Your shoulders slumped against the back of the stool.
"You said you can only wear the stud kind at work, right?" Jack squeezed your knee, prompting your gaze to snap back up to his.
"Yeah," you felt tears well up in your eyes in that moment, lining your irises with silver to match Jack's hair. You hopped off the stool, then clung to Jack before the tears could fall.
"Now you'll have a piece of me with you through your shifts," Jack's strong hands rubbed your back, followed closely by the soft pressure of his lips against your temple.
You think back to that morning now, as you curl up into yourself on the bedroom carpet. The thoughts of that patient, the realization that you couldn't help her as much as you'd have liked, leave you hollowed out, digging your fingernails into your pajama pants. Even though you managed to save yourself from your own terrible situation, the notion that you couldn't save that woman still haunts you.
The earrings themselves hadn't pulled you out of yourself that day, but Jack knowing what would help without even having to ask? Finding solace in his company, protection, a safe place to be vulnerable? The earrings represent one of the first times you started to think this thing with him was real, and lasting.
And now you can't find one of them.
"Fuck," you close your eyes and sigh, loosening all the breath from your tightened lungs. You feel unmoored, floating through the enemy territory of your own thoughts, no tether to keep you aground.
Jack won't be angry, you have to remind yourself. When is he ever angry, or short, or terse, outside of the Pitt? He isn't like anybody else you've been with. He won't snap at you for something so small, and even if he is upset about it, he'll handle his reaction in that calm, steady way he always does.
You're used to a partner treating you exactly the way Jack does —reverent, worthy, lovable— but then comes the inevitable switch. The nasty, sharp words that slice through you. The gifts become band-aids for behavior, the touches become a leash instead of light. It's all you've ever known, so when Jack proves every one of those rules wrong, it's unnerving. Of course it is.
He takes every rule you've ever created and snaps it in half. He's shown you, time and time again, in a thousand different, silent ways, that you're worth more to him than that.
When you feel like a crumbling, abandoned building, Jack is a long-standing, well-balanced structure. When you brace for impact, Jack surprises you by landing the plane instead of crashing it. It isn't fair to him to think he might react poorly to a lost earring. It isn't fair to yourself to think you'd get yourself in that type of situation again.
Resolve fills you —a pitcher pouring water into a glass— and you hoist yourself up off the ground. You wash your face. Take the singular earring out and set it on the sink. Run a brush through your hair. Avoid your phone and any of its potential distractions, standing in the bathroom with your emotions and giving them space to exist.
How you feel is how you feel, Jack tells you all the time. Best thing you can do for yourself is feel it.
You apply your skincare, moisture mixing in with the tears of your glassy skin. Then you take your time with makeup, and by the time you're freshly blushed and bronzed for your day out with Abbot, you realize he still hasn't arrived.
Padding back into the bedroom, you find your phone where it landed on the floor by the nightstand. You unlock it to find a text from Jack time-stamped a half-hour ago.
Unexpected errand came up. Be a little late, but we're still getting you that banana bread latte thingy from Instagram. No longer than an hour, sunshine.
It's weird, but not that weird. An 'unexpected errand' is probably a check-in with a critical patient that was admitted, even on his day off. It's an attachment to his work that's both admirable and self-destructive, and you've tried to peel him away from it, but he just won't budge. Something you've been slowly working on in the form of a long-term con.
You make yourself comfortable on the sofa, after having dressed in a pair of high-waisted jeans, a soft, lemon-colored halter top and sneakers. Jack's eyes always brighten when he sees you in yellow.
The aftershocks of your anxiety still linger, but you've got a glass of water, open windows spraying the living room in daylight, and some dumb reality TV to keep you grounded for now.
It's another excrutiatingly long forty minutes before his key turns in the door, and you pause the TV just as he steps inside.
"I'm sorry I'm so late," Jack's cheeks are kissed with sun rays, popping against the heather gray of his t-shirt. The mere sound of his raspy voice immediately releases some of the tension in your shoulders.
You stand from the sofa, then shake your head dismissively. "That's alright. Is everything okay?"
When you meet him by the door, you spy the white gift bag in his hand. You freeze, furrowing your brows. "What's that?"
"Santos texted me," Jack says simply, as though that would explain the bag. He takes you in at that moment, then adds, "You look stunning, by the way."
"Oh?" You ask, swallowing hard, ignoring his compliment, though the words send a flutter through your tummy.
"Mmhm," Jack hums, then brushes past you to set the bag on the kitchen counter. "She said you were… 'crashing out'?"
Your cheeks go red, and you open your mouth to explain, but Jack goes on.
"I don’t know what that means, but in a medical capacity it certainly doesn’t sound good," he continues with a bemused snicker, busying himself with the contents of the bag rather than looking at you.
You have the grating feeling he's putting on some sort of show, so you heave a sigh and tuck your hair behind your ears. "I wasn't…" you trail off, then exhale in defeat. "I lost one of my earrings."
Even saying it aloud opens a dark pit of fear in the deepest part of your stomach. Your breath shudders through you, and an apology starts to overflow from you. Old habits die hard. "I-I'm so sorry, Jack. I wanted to wear them today… I mean, I wear them pretty much every day, but I have no idea where it ended up. I checked under the bed, the bathroom, the couch. Everywhere.”
Jack tugs a familiar, velvet box from the bag and presents it to you. "Would you please just open the box?" A fond sort of impatience lines his tone like a scratchy sweater.
When your hands still don't move for the box, Jack tilts the top open, revealing a pair of pearls inlaid in a ring of gold. "I decided you needed another pair," he says, lowering his chin to meet your eyeline. "If you find the missing one, then you'll have two sets."
"Jack," you narrow your eyes at him, shaking your head. "That's ridiculous. You didn't have to do that."
"No," Abbot replies, reaching across the distance between you to grasp the tips of your fingers. He dwarves your whole palm in his, drawing you to him. You let him, rather than digging your heels in like instinct demands. "What's ridiculous is that you thought I'd be upset with you about a dumb pair of earrings."
"They're not dumb," you pout, to which Jack brushes the pad of his thumb over your outstretched lip. "They're my favorite earrings," you pull back your arms, guilt resurfacing like a bad cough. His hand retreats, giving you your space. "You gave them to me, Jack. They're special to me."
"Okay, fine," he relents with a shrug. "It's not dumb. I can accept that. But if you can't find 'em, honey, you can't find 'em. Simple as that."
When you cross your arms over your chest, Jack goes on. "You know I don’t care about this kind of thing, right?" He asks, and the way those hazel eyes search yours indicate he really needs to know. "I’m not gonna… lose my shit on you or anything. ‘Crash out’, whatever the kids are saying now."
The angular, lupine features of his face light up when a smile twitches over your lips. "There's my girl," he murmurs, then extends a hand. "C'mere?"
You take his hand, and he tugs you into a hug. The warm, outdoorsy scent of him swirls around you, loosening the tightness in your chest and unraveling the tangled wires in your gut. "Did I use it right? 'Crash out'?" he asks, voice rumbling low into your hair.
"Won't take away your cool card just yet, old man," you mumble as his hand applies reassuring pressure to the space between your shoulder blades. The two of you stand there for a long while, breathing each other in, the mid-morning sun warming you through the window.
"But you get what I mean, don't you?" Jack circles back as you pull your head away from his shoulder. The sun, you notice, highlights his brown and gray curls, turning them bronze and silver. Your very own Greek statue. "All the stuff we see on a daily basis, a lost earring is the least of my worries."
"I know, Jack, I—"
"I'm not quite done, sunshine," Jack tuts. His eyes maintain a taut connection with yours. His hands slide up and down your arms in an active, intentional display of comfort.
"All I worry about is your safety, and your happiness. In some cases, your pleasure," he slips in a wink, then goes on. "I know, in the past, you've been made to feel fearful to bring something like this up with a partner. But that's not me, okay? That's not what this is. I don’t want you to be afraid to bring up this kind of thing with me."
You nod in agreement, and though in the logical part of your brain, you knew all of these things, Jack's merely saying them aloud lights up a part of you that you thought would always remain in shadows. Your throat tightens, eyes prickling with tears. "I'm sorry," you whisper, though you're not sure if you mean the tears or the earrings.
"You don't need to be," he whispers back, meeting you where you're at. He thumbs your cheek, swiping at a tear over the soft skin.
"I know you wouldn't do that to me," your chin wobbles, and though it might be overkill at this point, you feel it's important to acknowledge. For Jack's sake, and for yourself. You set your palm atop where his rests on your cheek. "I just… I don't know. I panicked. It wasn't fair to you to think you'd overreact to something as small as a missing earring."
"It's okay, angel," he says in a low, rocky mumble. "Your nervous system expects the worst, because the worst is what you learned to expect."
A creak of a laugh vibrates in your throat. "Y'know, I'm a doctor, too, right?"
The lines bracing the corner of Jack's eyes crinkle, the world's most beautiful candy wrapper. "You gonna stand there and pick on me all day?" He asks, reaching out to tickle your hip. You giggle involuntarily and jerk away. "Or are you gonna try these earrings on for me?"
You follow where his eyes flick to the box on the counter. Any comments about how he shouldn't have spent the money, about how the earring is probably in his car or in your locker, get shoved from your mind. He wanted to solve this problem for you in the most direct way he knew how.
You pin the earrings in, securing them with the backs as Jack watches as intently as an acolyte might watch a sermon. "How do they look?" Your mouth stretches into a smile, stepping back so Jack can take in the outfit as a whole.
"Perfect, sunshine," Jack's smile is slow and crooked and familiar. He hooks a thumb towards the door. "How 'bout that weird banana bread latte, then?"
You hum in delight, then grab your bag. Jack's hand warms the small of your back as the two of you make your way down the hall to the elevator. He rambles on about how there used to just be cream and sugar for coffee, but in truth, you're not entirely listening.
Instead, affection swells in your chest for this man —this caring man who sees you without really trying. Who needs someone to show him it's just as important he take care of himself as well as the people around him.
You think, not for the first time, that Jack Abbot needs someone to show him that love is a two-way street.
You think, for the first time, that you wouldn't mind much being that person for a really long time.
