something something emt neighbor gaz, who you meet after twisting your ankle on the stairs. he takes a look at you and helps you back to your place, appointing himself as your guardian angel as he takes your key and starts running errands that you never asked him to do: fetching groceries, your mail, helping you dress and bathe and tucking you into bed at night.
even after your ankle is healed, he still keeps coming over to check on you- telling you he's worried might be due to an inner ear imbalance or something, casually touching and posing you as he checks you out. he tells you that even the healthiest of people's health can turn on a dime, that you seem like a sweet girl, that he'd hate for anything to happen to you, he feels responsible for making sure you're alright-
before you know it, he's playing with your tits and telling you he's searching for cancer, shoving his fingers in your mouth to check for swollen saliva glands, fingering your cunt in search of 'anomalies'. soon he's got you practically trained, waiting naked on the couch for him to waltz in (with the copy of your apartment key that you don't recall giving him permission to have) to inspect your body and give you a clean bill of health
and when he sighs wearily, explaining that it's been a long day, subtly hinting that he's doing a lot of work for free for you, that some reciprocation in your relationship might be nice, you feel pangs of deep-seated guilt tug at your heartstrings. you do owe him, you suppose. he's done so much for you, maybe there's something you can do for him, to make his life a little easier?
[at the merest hint of reciprocation, kyle's got you on your knees, one hand on the back of your head, the other holding his throbbing cock up to your lips, smearing precum on your lips with every twitch. it's just a bodily function, he reminds you, a release that simply feels better in a soft, warm, sucking mouth. it doesn't have to be a big deal, right? you're two adults, he's already seen you at your most vulnerable, and now you're just helping him at his most vulnerable. still, best not to be doing this with anyone else from now on, yeah? cuts down the risk of sti's and the like. yeah, better you just stay as his personal, private stress relief, and in return he'll keep on inspecting your pussy as often as you need, babes. now stick your tongue out- yeah. that's a good girl.
I... I think I'm having a fic idea. It's been so long that I'm not sure. It could also be indigestion. What do I do with this?? mail it somewhere, you're supposed to mail it somewhere right? it's been years... do you boil it first??
|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, praise, just silly girly things ||
a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you
wc: 1.7k
"please—"
it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.
robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.
"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.
you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.
"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.
both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.
you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.
"wanna see you kisssss—"
jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.
"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.
"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.
robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"
jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.
"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."
you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.
you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.
"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"
"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."
you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.
"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.
nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.
robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.
"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"
"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.
"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.
"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.
it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.
"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.
"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.
"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."
"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."
his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.
"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."
you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.
"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"
"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.
"fuck it—" robby growled.
he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.
they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.
robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.
"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."
"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."
robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"
but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.
a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.
"oh my god," you whispered.
when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.
"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.
"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"
"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."
robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.
it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.
then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.
you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.
the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.
"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."
jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.
"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."
"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.
you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.
"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"
"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"
"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.
jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.
your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.
as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.
but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.
wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped
Hnnnggghhh im thinking about Jack talking you through it when Robby's balls deep in your pussy
Cw: older!Jack & older!Robby, younger!reader (20s to 30s), kissing, fluff, praise, subspace kinda mentioned, r kinda gets there but Jack pulls her back, no use of y/n!, petnames, creampieee, Jack talks R through it because hes Dada man, sir and daddy kinks so sorry also not, check ins, the L word..., lowkey these characters all have history but I dont feel like expanding
⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.
Between the girth of Robby's cock splitting you open, two large hands wrapped around the plush of your spread thighs, and Jack's gruff voice, soft and gentle, whispered against your temple, you feel like you're about to float away.
"Y'r doin' so good," Jack's lips press against your skin, one of his hands holds the inside of your knee, spreading you open.
Robby groans from above you, circling the pad of his thumb over your clit in tandem with each stroke of his cock.
You can feel the veiny girth of him pressing against your velvet walls — heavy and warm, stretching you deliciously wide. You've cum three times already and you're not quite sure you can handle another orgasm right now.
"Robby–" you gasp, eyes blown wide and lips parted, you can hardly breathe, "Robby, Robby, Robby, oh my god—" your voice trails into a wet choke as you try to soothe yourself through the wave of your next orgasm.
Robby nods from above you, smiling smugly at you when Jack presses a kiss to the side of your head and gathers your hair in a fist, pulling it off the nape of your neck.
Cool air hits your spine, sending shivers down your arms and thighs. There's too much happening and at the same time, it feels as though nothing much at all is. There's too much to focus on and you just cant quite seem to get a grip on where you are. You've been quite literally fucked dumb.
With lidded eyes, you fall lax in Jack's hold, spine colliding rather uncoordinated against Jack's knees, earning a hiss from both men.
Robby tries to grab you halfway down. Dropping his hold on your thigh to slip behind your head.
"Easy, kid... Christ."
Jack manages to manuever you to settle between where he rests on his haunches, your back pressed into his chest. A freckled hand cups your jaw, holding you upright, the other laces with your hand on atop the comforter.
Your'e so fucking out of it. All you can really focus on – or see, for that matter – is Robby pumping into you. You struggle to grasp onto to cloudy images of Robby's cock, the weight of his hand on your hip, Jack behind you. You feel like you're underwater.
Jack holds the back of your head, "look at that," he practically goads at the way your cunt swallows the length of Robby's cock, "prettiest thing I've ever seen."
Robby hums something in agreement that you don't quite catch.
You mumble something that sounds like a word but you're not quite sure. You're not even sure what you need, or if you said anything at all.
But in the midst of your foggy headspace, Jack notices.
Because of course Jack does. He's your lighthouse when your rafts lost at sea — when you find yourself farther from shore than you thought you were.
Its a gentle squeeze at the base of your neck, thumb and forefinger pressing against your pulse point just enough to kinda wake you up in the heavy fog of your head.
You jolt a little, slipping further into Jack's chest, tucking yourself into him in an attempt to hide yourself away for a moment.
Robby slows, gradually pumping into you but giving you a moment of reprieve while you tremble in Jack's lap.
"Jackie," you sniffle.
Jack pulls back some to look at you. "Y'okay, sweetheart?"
You fluster, whimpering under his gaze and shutting your eyes and tucking yourself further into his chest.
His brows furrow at that and he urges you upwards, detangling you from the warmth of him, "No hiding right now, c'mon."
Robby smoothes his palms up and down the length of your thighs, pressing whiskered kisses to the skin of your hips.
Jack cups your jaw in one hand, the other holding the back of your head. You both watch eachother for a moment.
"Y'okay?"
You nod, you can tell he seems unconvinced.
"Use your words."
Jack's voice deepens in that oh-so gooey heavy way that makes your head feels like its been covered in honey.
You nod again, wrapping a small hand around Jack's wrist, thumbing the vein right beneath his palm, dragging his hand up to slip his thumb past your lips, "m'okay, daddy," you mumble around his digit.
That word shifts the tone of the room and suddenly Jack is everywhere he wasn't and Robby's cock pulses within you.
"Yeah?" He slips the hand from your head down between your legs to spread your folds open where Robby's girth stretches you wide, thumb circling over your swollen clit, "just needed daddy here, huh."
He watches the way tears well at your lashline as you nod, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, looking up at him under your wet lashes, "mhm," your voice is strained and wrought.
Jack presses kisses to your cheek up your temple, whispering "daddy's here," he soothes you when you whimper, brain melting away at the warm place that Jack's presence moves you towards, "s'okay, baby, you're okay," words muffle when he turns your jaw, pulling you into a kiss.
Robby pumps into you and you moan into Jack's mouth, holding his wrist where he cups the underside your jaw.
"She okay?" Robby cocks his head, thick brows raising, towards Jack. You can feel him nod against you and you try to hold onto some part of Robby but just end up looking up at him under heavy lashes, lips parted.
Robby seems to understand, "just needed daddy t'calm y'down a bit, huh, honey."
You nod tearfully, "yes sir."
Robby chuckles a little at that, "yes sir," he muses and leans forward with a groan, grabbing ahold of your cheeks, smushing them together so that your lips pucker, catching your swollen lips in a kiss.
His nose bumps against your own and your tongue swipes over the roof of his mouth earning a deep-rooted groan from the older man.
Robby pulls away from you but keeps his hand on your cheeks as he pumps into you. "Give daddy a kiss," he urges you towards Jack.
Jack hums once you've turned back to him, silver eyes watch the way his thumb runs over the plush of your bottom lip, whispering "hey, baby."
"Hi," you whisper back, breath catching in your throat when Robby angles his hips just enough so that the swollen head of his cock bruises against the spongey part of your heat.
You try to look at them both, eyes shifting from either man as you struggle to warn them, the wound string in the heat of you wrought tight, bordering on snapping.
A whimper falls past your lips, settling in your throat when Robby circles your clit and spreads your sopping folds open where his girth parts you.
"Think m'gonna cum again," you sob, eyes settling on Jack when he shushes you softly.
"I know. Just keep breathin' fr'me, sweetheart."
The tears fall faster than you can stop them, brows furrowing and lashes tickling your flushed cheeks when your scrunch your eyes closed, the heavy pleasure sinking you underneath it all.
It feels almost like you're drowning. Your ears ring and there's an uncertain fuzziness that settles in the core of you. Wading out on a raft.
"Thank you sir, thank you, thank you," you ramble through heavy tears and choked sobs that dont seem to stop.
Jack holds you to his chest, his chin atop your head as he strokes a hand down down the middle of your breasts, massaging your sternum softly.
Robby hisses from above you when your walls clamp down around him. He circles your clit as he gently rocks you through it, balls pressed up against your folds when he spills into you, "fucking good girl."
You're shivering in the warmth of Jack's arms, trembling as you grasp on to him.
"That was a big one, huh," Jack hums when he feels you begin to relax, legs no longer tense and your grip on him turns soft.
You nod against him, eyes heavy. You swallow dryly, coughing a little when the back of your throat
"Was a lot," you mumble through a wet giggle.
Jack hums and strokes a hand over your warm cheek, pulling back strands of hair that stick to your clammy temple, "and y'did so good," he coos, pressing a kiss to your temple.
Peering over at Robby, he smiles down at you, slowly and gently pulling out of you. He takes a moment to spread the swollen lips of your pussy open, watching the way his cum dribbles out of your swollen cunt.
"Good girl," he whispers softly, looking back up at you before leaning over you and pressing a kiss to your lips, "so pretty fr'us, honey."
Still breathing heavily, you let yourself settle in their hold of you, sandwiched between the two of them.
"I love you, Robby... love you, Jackie," you nuzzle either of them with each confession, running your hands over any inch of skin you can reach.
Robby kisses your nose, "I know."
Jack whispers it back into your hair and presses a kiss there.
synopsisyou were Robby's star pupil, his favourite person, but when he catches you and Jack in the middle of performing a high risk procedure you definitely shouldn't be doing he can't handle the jealousy. so really, is it your fault if your pushed into Jack Abbots bed, but can't stop thinking about Robby?
warningsjealous&possesive Robby x reader, Jack Abbot x reader, kinda Rabbot, Jack kinda wants Robby in this, language. smut MDNI. fingering, oral (f receiving) breast play, dirty talk, praise, Robby calls while Jack eats you out. handjob
authornotei'm so close to writing Rabbott fics, I need them both!
pitt masterlist. last robby fic! last jack fic!
“What the hell are you doing?”
If you weren't as skilled a resident as you were, as stony as you'd been made, the raise of voice and slam of a door would have stolen you from your attentive work. But it didn't. You didn't flinch. As your hands were all but inside a patient it was a good thing, too.
Jack tutted from over you, the heat of his breath hot on the back of your neck. “Robby...”
“I said- what are you doing?” he barked again, standing in the middle of the trauma room.
Nurses turned to look at him and then back to you and Jack, un-sure of which immovable force was greater.
You only focused on the woman in front of you. Bruises up her arms, blood on her cut-away clothes, tubes coming out of her and into her, monitors beeping with life signs fleeting.
“It's a hypotensive pelvic bleed,” you said through your face screwed in concentration.
“A REBOA? Are you serious, right now?”
“I'm here, supervising, brother,” said Jack, still caved over you like he could protect you from Robby's wrath.
“You're not her attending,” Robby argued.
“No but I'm an attending.”
You could hear Robby's sharp inhale of breath, picture the clock of his head in annoyance and the tight pinch of his eyes. You knew every small give away of his that he didn't know he had. The tightness of his muscles when angers, the way he clutches at his chest for his star of David when silently scared.
The tension in the room chocked you.
Jack was still at your side, a comfort, a gentle wave against the sharp rocks. “Keep going.”
Robby said your name, an edge to it you'd never heard before.
Looking past Jack you found Robbie. He stood blocking the door, gowned up already, arms over his chest. His brows were pulled in, eyes dark as they levelled on you. He was danger dressed as a man.
But in front of you there was Jack, nodding encouragingly.
“Keep going.”
Your hands moved to carry on in spite of Robby's sigh.
“Okay... good...” said Jack as you pushed in the needle. “Femoral artery, couple inches. All right, let's guide wire and introduce the sheath.”
You pushed and did what Jack said, careful under his guidance.
Robby watched all the while, walking slowly around. He knew how well you preened under praise and careful instruction, like a cat purring at an owners touch. Robby knew because it was always him, ever since you began as a med student to intern to resident he'd been there to build you up, crafting you into a perfect doctor.
His perfect doctor.
Apparently he didn't like to share.
“How much saline have you pushed?” asked Robby.
“Five CC'S,” said Jack, without entertaining his attitude.
“Your carotid is weak,” said Robby. “Is it even there?”
“Yes,” you said.
Jack caught your gaze behind your goggles, pleading silently. You hadn't worked with him as much as you had Robby, or Langdon or almost anyone in the day shift but he seemed to catch on to your needs at once. “You know what to do.”
With his words you proceeded.
“Push another three CC'S of saline in the balloon,” you ordered.
“Injecting.”
There was a moment of silence as the saline was passed through tubes into the woman.
“How we looking?” asked Robby.
“Radial is up, pressure's up too- BP hundred-and-ten,” said Donnie.
For the first time since Jack dragged you into the trauma to teach you a REBOA, you looked at the patients face. At the blankness of it, the blood splattered at her cheek. There was colour returning to her.
“Check the wound,” said Jack.
You did so, the wound at her pelvis are that had been gushing on arrival had stopped bleeding.
“Looks okay,” you said.
Jack's gloved hand squeezed your gowned shoulder, blood of the woman passing between the two of you. However, it was the physical contact that broke you from your trance, pulling you up taller. “Good job, you saved her life, another couple minutes she wouldn't have made it.”
“She's still not out the woods yet,” said Robby.
You looked back at him with enough time to catch an un-characteristic roll of his eyes.
“Surgery can take her now,” said Jesse from the phone.
“Oh, finally they're ready for us?” teased Jack as he moved around the gurney. “Now that they've missed all the fun.” He passed you a wink that sent butterflies in your stomach rolling around.
The team pulled off gowns and gloves, pulling the gurney out the room.
“Wait-” said Robby, arm out stopping you as you went to follow.
The doors shut behind the gurney before Jack could understand you were behind, trapped in a room with a bear of a man who was failing at concealing his anger.
You waited for him to begin. Whether it were to be a lecture or an approval that you saved a woman's life, you wanted it over and done. The adrenaline was coursing through your body in crashing waves of red. You'd crash if you didn't calm. “There was no time for anything else-”
“- save it-”
“- there was no time for me to come and get you-”
“- stop!”
You stepped back, hands balled at your sides.
It wasn't un-common for any member of staff at PTMC to have Robby Robinavitch yell and demand the stars and moons from a person. It was scary to have him yelling at you, his deemed shadow and golden girl.
Since day one everyone knew you held a special place in Robby's heart.
“I saved a patient's life,” you defended. Was that not the most important thing to be doing? Could you not be attending to at least two other patients while he stood- imposing- in front of you.
“Doing an extremely risky procedure that is only reserved for the senior residents which you are not,” he scoffed out.
“Doctor Abbot was at my side the whole time, he talked me through every step.”
Robby shook his head, chuckling and looking around the room as if to be anywhere but with you. “Abbot-”
“- he believed me capable,” you said. “Don't you think I'm capable?”
His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he turned away from you, stretching his hand to the back of his head and flattening the hair there. When he turned back to you he took a step closer, watching the toes of his shoes meet yours.
“Do you know why I'm angry?”
No, you really didn't.
You took in a deep breath, meeting his eyes that lowered to yours. “Because I performed a high risk procedure.”
“A high risk procedure without me,” he corrected. “You're on day, not night. I'm your attending, not Jack. You get me when you're doing something like that, you understand?”
There was little room for argument. Your body trembled, the mixture of blood on your gloves and the beating of your heart heard in your ears. The lights of trauma two were suddenly too bright; walls too sterile. You nodded.
Robby tsked. “Do you understand?”
Every word was punctured with anger.
You rose to all your height. “Yes, I understand.”
He didn't dismiss you, only jutted his head back as he dragged a hand over his beard.
Without a word, you dismissed yourself.
“I just don't get why he was so.... angry,” you admit quietly.
The lights of the bar were dimmed in a golden light, casting sun set gazes around the bar Jack had told you was a good place to get a drink. He'd led you to a small table by a window with the blinds pulled down, his hand- the one that had saved so many lives- splayed out on the small of your back.
Somewhere along the night Jack's chair had scraped around closer to you. So close with every inhale you could catch the musk on him and his arm was comfortably slung around the back of your chair.
There were two empty whiskey glasses of Jack's and you were still cradling your first, down to the dregs.
“It's Robby,” said Jack with a shrug of his shoulders, but it didn't stop the crease in his brows.
“But he's never been like that with me.”
Was it the fact you'd seemingly lost your favouritism bothering you? More than you cared to admit. More so the fact you didn't understand why he'd yelled.
Why the flare of anger had burned brighter with you saving a life than anyone else?
Why your body had trembled at the rise of his voice.
Jack's body tilted toward yours, head bowed low as he looked up at you through his lashes. “Oh, come on....”
You slurped the last from your straw and looked at him. “What?”
“You don't have to play dumb with me.”
Your own body gravitated towards him. “Play dumb? I'm not playing dumb, what are you talking about?”
Jack chuckled, shaking his head to himself. He sipped the last of his drink. “Robby's...” he trailed off.
“Robby's...”
Jack levelled his gaze to yours. “He likes you.”
The words sat frozen in your brain. You knew Robby must have had some soft spot for you, you knew he liked you. But the way Jack said it, a teasing lift to his voice and the serious gaze of his eyes suggested it was more than the competence of your skills as a doctor that had Robby's affection.
“He doesn't,” you chuckled.
“He does,” said Jack, nodding along with your words.
“How would you know?”
Jack's cheeks dusted a faint pink, the rain on the window behind you dropping like mini thunderstorms. “Believe me, I know.”
You waited for more clarification.
“You have no idea the kind of effect you have on old men like us.”
Like us. Jack didn't just speak for Robby but himself. The pink in his cheeks, the hand on your back earlier. The heat from him was all different now. A wanting.
“Old men?” you smirked.
Jack's eyes darted between your eyes and lips. “Yeah, old men.”
“You're not that old, are you?”
Jack tilts his head side to side.
You peer closer at him as if trying to find the lines of age in his face. “Younger than Robby though, right?”
Jack nods. “Younger than Robby, if that makes any difference.”
“Any difference to what?” you asked, stirring the straw against the ice in one hand, the other holding your chin.
“To you.”
Under the table Jack's fingers traced over your knee, gently, as if he was trying to go un-noticed. You felt it anyhow. Felt as his fingers gripped your knee when you pushed your leg against his.
He watched you, analysing.
“Well,” you began, pushing your leg to kick over the other under the table and moving his hand further up your leg, till his all too eager fingers were splayed over your thigh. “What kind of effect is that?”
Jack was always a serious man at work. Competent and well kept. You didn't expect him to be so well versed in 'playing games'. “I dunno if I can tell you.”
“No?”
Jack shook his head, eyes lingering over his lips and his head tilted to the side, watching you. “I could show you?”
There was lip gloss stain over the straw in your glass, you saw it catch Jack's eyes as he pushed away your empty glasses to provide more space on the table.
“See any time you look at us, it's like-like a tingling sensation,” he said. “Like when you know someone's got their eyes on you.”
His hand that had been riding higher at your thigh darted away, leaving a sudden tremble of everything cold through your body. Instead, he rested his elbow at the table and beckoned your hand to his. He didn't hold it, instead, spread your fingers out and put palm to palm in a tender touch.
“And then when you touch us, it gets worse,” he uttered, eyes stuck on where your palms met. Jack's hand moved around yours, playing with your fingers.
“Worse?” you ask.
“A good worse. Good shivers,” said Jack, pulling at a finger.
“I touch you enough for you to gather all that?”
Jack's dark gaze found yours again. He bit down on his bottom lip. “Not nearly enough as I'd like.”
The door of the bar opened and a gush of wind cooled the heat on your skin. But Jack's eyes were like a furnace that you were sitting too close to, burning yourself and delighting in it. When the door shut again with an un-oiled squeak, Jack reached over.
He plucked the necklace charm from against your chest, the brush of his knuckles against your chest. “Pretty necklace.”
“Thank you,” you said, voice shaky un-characteristically.
“You get it yourself?”
“No, it was a present.”
It was almost as if he didn't have to ask who had gifted it to you. Whose hands had brushed back your hair in the middle of a shift and clasped it around the back of your neck.
Or maybe he just didn't want to know.
Jack's apartment was everything that made him.
As you passed the kitchen and he peeled off his jacket, keeping his lips close enough to breathe you in, you could smell the coffee from the morning plastered to the walls.
When he pressed you up to the sofa to shove his hands down your pants and slide a finger into your wet pussy your fingers scratched at some blanket he had thrown over the back of it.
You caught a glimpse of pictures around the place, a frame of meddles too but his place came to you in flashes and glimpses through pleasure.
“I'm gonna show you,” he uttered against your mouth as another finger slipped into you, worked inside of you. They curled up, your body moving into him at the feeling. “Just how I want to touch you.”
The car ride over had been torture enough. He could hardly get himself inside the car, stealing himself away from you. But your lips had been at his neck at every stop sign and red light. Your hand had ghosted over his crotch and the hardening length of him. As occupied as you'd been in each other in the front seats of his car you'd been beeped at twice.
“Jack,” your voice whispered, lips dragging against his as he slowly worked his fingers in and out of you, pulling at the seams of your panties.
“I'm gonna show you just how Robby wants to touch you.”
You wish the name didn't have the effect it did. That the fury you felt at him for how he yelled didn't turn to a throb in your core when Jack said his name.
“You're touching me, Jack,” you said, breathless.
“Yeah... yeah,” he said. “You like that I'm touching you?”
You nodded as his fingers retracted, finding your clit and wetting the bud of nerves, circling it.
“Say it,” said Jack. “Say it.”
“Yes, I like it.”
Jack grinned into the curve of your neck as his fingers plunged back in, working you open and spreading your wetness of the black of your panties. “God, you're making such a mess for me baby, aren't you?”
He worked you open a little longer, mumbling encouragement with every moan and throw back of your head. 'So pretty, arg, you're so pretty baby.'
By the time your stomach was coiling tight like a snake ready to pounce Jack removed his hand from your pants and kissed you again. It was a hard kiss, his clean hand grasping your cheek and keeping you still as he forcefully worked his lips against yours, like it had only just clocked in his head it was you he had on his lips, it was you he was turning to putty in his hand. Like he wanted to forge you into his lips
“Not done yet,” said Jack, hands sliding down to your hips as he guides his nose up and down your neck, breathing you in. “I wanna make you moan on my tongue, like Robby wishes he could, yeah?”
Your body betrayed you, shivering again in anticipation.
Jack's hands stirred you by the hips, urging you to his room. He pushed the door open over your head, licking into your mouth.
“Please... don't mention Robby right now,” you said as Jack fell slowly to his knees in front of you.
His brows rose. He kept his eyes on you as he pulled down your pants, helping you step out of them. “No? You don't want me to mention Robby?” he asked.
You shook your head, looking away from him. You knew you'd soaked yourself through by the small touches and passionate kisses from Jack. But you didn't need to see the realisation hit when he realised Robby's name had as much effect on you as Jack's own touches.
“Eyes on me, keep your eyes on me,” said Jack.
With a tight squeeze, you looked at him, seeing the attending of the night shift get closer to your heat.
“See, I think, you like when I say his name, huh?” his nose nudged your clothed clit. “Robby.”
Jack licked a stripe up your pussy, gathering your want through the cloth.
You were left, mouth agape, to catch your breath. Your hands didn't know where to go till Jack peeled off his shirt and guided your hands to his shoulders, your nails digging into the freckled skin there.
Jack wet his tongue with his spit before he rubbed it along your panties again, kissing you there. “I think you're so wet for me, but you're wet for Robby too, huh?”
“Jus-just you, Jack,” you gasped.
He swept a finger into your panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin.
Your body jolted in its wake.
“Not just me, don't lie,” he said, darkly.
In the morning would you realise what you'd done? Jack wasn't your attending but an attending none the less and Robby's friend- brother- at that. Although you and Robby were nothing more than colleagues, it didn't feel right to have Jack licking up your want with his name on his tongue.
“Liars don't get to come, you know,” he said. “So, you get this wet when you think about me?”
“Y-Yes.”
You could feel Jack's smile against your thigh as he pressed a kiss there.
Jack hooked two fingers around the bands of your panties and slowly dragged them down. “Do you get this wet when you think about our Doctor Robby?”
“Yes. Yes I do,” you gasped, your body curling up in the relief of letting go.
Yes, you liked Robby's extra attention. You couldn't even be left angry at his chastising you when it sent a wave of need through you, settling in your core. When you'd been at the bar with Jack, touching him in ways you'd thought about touching your own attending, almost wishing he would storm through the door and see the two of you.
“Good girl.”
Quickly Jack tilted his head back and found purchase in your pussy.
His tongue laid flat against your core.
It didn't stay in one place long. It explored all around you, tasting you for the first time and mapping out delicate spots. He slipped between your folds like he was always supposed to be there, moaning into you.
Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Mmh, Jack!”
He licked you up, spreading the mess of your want around and cleaning it up. “Taking my tongue so well,” he said against you. He dragged his lips down your thigh, wet tongue dragging up and down.
Your legs trembled as Jack spread the lips of your pussy and buried himself in there again. He pressed his thumb onto your clit, your body lurching at the pressure.
“Oh fuck, J-Jack!”
“Pull my hair, pull my hair,” he said into you.
Your did so. Your hand fell into the short strands of his salt and pepper hair, twirling into the strands and tugging just enough to rip a groan from him.
Jack buried himself into your further, his nose nudging into you deeper and deeper till he was almost trying to be inside of you.
Every time your eyes fluttered shut Jack pulled back, easing up on his work of your pussy and easing the orgasm that was slowly building up.
“No, no- eyes on me, keep your eyes on me, baby,” he said.
You looked down to him. “Jack, I want- I want to come.”
“I know, I know you do baby,” he said, flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit again. “You will, I promise, I promise.”
He eased himself up from his knees and helped off your shirt and peeled off your bra before he latched himself onto your breast.
Your back arched into him. His hands felt larger than ever as they curled around your waist and held you in. He groped at your breast, watching it jiggle as he moved before swirling his tongue around your nipple.
“Jack-”
“God, I wish Robby were here,” said Jack as he switched his attention to your other.
“Wh-what?” you didn't know if you'd heard him right.
Jack looked at your breasts instead of you, dedicating time to licking up each of them. “Wish Robby could see how good a girl you're being,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn't talking to you. “How responsive you are. Would you like that? Would you like Robby to watch?”
You imagined it, closing your eyes.
Jack let you.
You pictured Robby sat on the bed, watching. Would he watch with his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose? Would he keep his hands to himself or want to touch and play? You imagined how big he was, if he'd get hard watching.
If he'd touch. If he'd stand behind you while Jack kissed along your breasts. Would Robby dedicate enough time to the back of you?
“You want Robby?” asked Jack.
Anyone else eating you out or with hands on your chest wouldn't want another mans name on your lips.
Jack seemed to thrive on it.
“Yes,” you gasped.
Jack reached back up to you. “Yeah.... yeah...” his nose ghosted yours as he inched closer to kiss you.
In the slim lighting of his bed room you could see the shine of his lips from your arousal, the burn of red at his cheeks. There was a clink as he un-did his belt, throwing it behind him as he slowly pulled down his trousers.
First you saw the prosthetic of his leg before you trailed up, past the scars, to the heavy set of his cock. It flushed red at the tip, a leak of pre-cum running down. It stood tall onto the thin, greying hair down his sternum.
“Jack-” you reached for him, wrapping your hand around him.
“Ah- ahh fuck, baby,” he moaned as you slowly pumped him. “You feel so good. God, Robby doesn't know what he's missing.”
You tangled your tongue with his as you pumped, growing confident in every pump, in every leak of his cock, in ever groan of him into your mouth.
Would Robby guide you to holding Jack's man hood in your hand? Would his own hand wrap around your wrist and guide you up and down, muttering how good you were doing.
It was like you could hear him in your head.
'What a good girl doing what you're told, so responsive,' you imagined the heavy set of his tongue dragging over your pulse as you wrapped your arm around Jack's shoulders, smothering him in closer.
“I wish-” you said against his lips, making a mess out of you mouth as you squeezed his cock. “I wish Robby were here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, me too baby,” said Jack, slowly wrapping his fingers around your wrist and peeling back your hand. He pulled two of your fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of himself off and into the warmth of his mouth. “Next time.”
Jack eased you back on his bed, crawling over you.
You shuffled up, sitting up on his headboard. “Do you- do you want me to?”
Jack's brows pulled together as he brushed back your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “To what, baby?”
“To ride you? Would it be easier on your leg?”
Jack smiled, love sick. “That's very kind of you sweetheart. Next time, I'll let you ride me like I'm a damn horse,” he whispered as he slowly lowered you down. “Right now I want you to finish on my tongue. Then I'm gonna really fuck you like I've wanted to for so long.”
You watched with a bite to your lip as Jack rolled a condom over his cock before hovering over you.
He stirred the base of his cock against your pussy, rubbing the arousal of you over your slit.
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, yes.”
Would Robby hold you against him, keep your legs spread for Jack? Or would Jack insist on Robby going first.
“Beg for it, baby.”
Before your words could leave your mouth the familiar buzz of your phone echoed between you.
Maybe anyone else would have ignored it, sent it to voicemail or let it ring. Except Jack- he moved down his bed, reaching for your pants and fishing out your phone. He smirked down at the contact before holding the phone out to you.
“Answer it.”
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, looking at him. “Wh-what?”
“Answer him,” he said, grabbing your hand and putting the phone it in.
Robby.
You looked to Jack, having no time to ask if he was serious before he was descending on the bed again. His eyes were pointed, gaze locked on you.
You answered, holding the phone to your ear. “H-hey, Robby.”
“Hey. Is everything okay?”
Did he know you'd left the bar with Jack? Did he hear his name called from both your lips?
“Yeah, everything's okay.”
Jack smirked at you.
“I've been calling you all night, you didn't answer,” you could hear the slight accusation in his voice, the small anger you hadn't bowed and answered the phone when he called. He wasn't good at hiding it though maybe he thought he was.
“Sorry I-”
Jack slid two fingers inside of you at once and pumped them without warning.
You caught your breath in your throat. “- I was busy.”
“Busy?”
“Yeah,” you gasped.
Robby stirred down the line. “You okay?”
Jack was looming close enough to you, nodding for you to pull the phone back enough for him to hear.
“Yeah, it's just, cold in my apartment,” you lied.
Jack's brows rose, he mouthed the word, cold?
“Still haven't sorted that heating, huh?” Robby chuckled down the line. “You need someone to come sort that out for you.”
Jack withdrew his hand, dragging those two fingers from inside of you around you, before lowering himself back down. He spread you open, lying his tongue back in.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Want me to come take a look at it?” asked Robby.
“Not- not right now,” you pushed your phone back as Robby scoffed lightly. You sort Jack's attention, begging for the end of the torture he was inciting. His eyes were a haze of lust as he only watched you, shaking his head slowly to feel all around you.
His hand pushed your knee up to your chest, welcoming him in deeper.
“Are you still mad at me for earlier?”
“Y-yes!”
“You are?”
You'd forgot Robby down the line, forgot his question, could only feel the depth of Jack's tongue in you. You bit down on the bottom of your lip. “Yes! Yes! Yes, I am!”
“Okay- well, i'm sorry,” he said down the line. “You just have no idea what seeing you with Jack does to me.”
Jack moaned into you, sending vibrations through your body. His nose nudged against your clit, circling his tongue in you. Your mouth opened, a moan ripping through you that Jack managed to stifle quickly by slamming his hand over your mouth.
“- It's just, I think of you as one of mine,” Robby continued down the line, un-aware's to Jack tapping your phone on speaker and placing it next to you.
Jack dropped his mouth next to your ear, nipping at the lobe. “As mine,” he uttered.
“- seeing you with Jack, I can't stand it, you know I can't-”
Jack went back down to his work, two fingers working inside of you as he sucked in your clit. Your walls are like silk that his fingers thread through with ease, your mind blank with pleasure.
Your moans continued to be muffled by his mouth, he dared not move it.
“- you know I... you know I favour you over anybody else in that ER-”
Your hand reached out for your phone, sure you would come soon and needed to end the phone call.
Jack reached out for you. “Be nice, be nice.”
You picked up the phone and put it to your ear, Jack sucking diligently at your bundle of nerves. “Robby, I-”
“What is it? You sound like you're burning up? You need me?”
Yes, you needed him.
Jack curled his fingers up and you came with a loud gasp, ending the call abruptly as your world shattered in stars of want. Your back arched into Jack's mouth as he laid there open mouthed, taking what you could give him like a man dying of thirst.
Only when your breathing calmed and you could open your eyes to make sense of the world- and Jack's room- did Jack slowly move out his fingers, gently crawling up you body with kisses like butterflies.
You laughed when Jack reached your neck. “Oh god.”
“What?” he said, laughing along with you.
“I hung up on Robby.”
Jack fished for your phone, holding it between the two of you as he rubbed the head of his cock against the slick of your folds. “Then I guess we better call him back.”
summary: you have a sex dream about your attending that leaves you hot, flustered, late for work, and completely off your game. then things go from bad to worse when gossip spreads and the entire emergency department finds out—including dr. robby.
notes: i honestly haven't been this excited or motivated to write in forever, and i just really hope it doesn't suck. this one feels a little different, kind of like... it just flowed? my writing feels less mechanical, i think? i don't know, i feel like i've been stuck in a rut and even though this isn't perfect, it feels like i finally enjoy writing again. i put so much love into this and tried so hard to get the characters right, i just really hope you guys enjoy! please, please let me know what you think!
warnings: more sitcom than drama (just let them have a good day, i beg you), swearing, italics, reader can drive, medical descriptions, blood, medical procedure descriptions (it's not super graphic though), most definitely incorrect medical information (my friend is a doctor, i am not), implied age gap but never specified, very likely incorrect tagalog (i'm sorry in advance), reader doesn't know tagalog, implied smut but nothing explicit, reader gets injured (and stitches), and making out (on shift, lol, nothing graphic but still, mdni please).
word count: 12763
You wake all at once.
Not slowly, not gently, but with one sharp inhale like you’ve surfaced from deep water.
For a second you don’t know where you are. Your room is too warm, the air too heavy, every inch of your skin flushed and slick with sweat. Heat clings to you, your heart pounding wildly in your ears, sheets twisted tight around your legs, and for one disorienting moment you swear you can still feel him—warm hands, breath close, the dizzying pull of something forbidden and overwhelming.
The echo of his voice follows you up from sleep, low and wrecked and impossibly real.
Dr. Robby.
Your stomach flips.
“Fuck,” you mumble into your pillow, already mortified, already knowing your brain has crossed a line it absolutely shouldn’t have this time.
Because it didn’t feel like a dream. It still doesn’t. Fragments flash behind your eyelids—the way he touched you, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, the teasing burn of stubble where he shouldn’t have been close enough to touch.
You roll onto your back and drag both hands over your face, groaning quietly as awareness settles in piece by piece. Your pulse refuses to slow, every nerve still humming like your body missed the memo that none of it actually happened.
You stare at the ceiling.
“…You have got to be kidding me.”
This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.
It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.
A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.
This is a problem.
A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.
And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.
You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.
“Fuck!”
You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.
“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.
A second you don’t have.
With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.
You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.
So vivid.
Stop thinking about his hands.
Stop thinking about his voice.
Stop—
You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.
It doesn’t help.
By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.
“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”
You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.
“You’re late,” Dana says.
You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”
“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”
You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.
“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”
You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.
“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.
Only to turn right into something solid.
Warm. Tall. Unmoving.
“Shit, I—”
You look up.
And your entire nervous system shuts down.
Dr. Robby.
“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”
His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.
His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”
“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”
You are not fine.
Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.
His head tilts slightly.
“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.
“I know.”
Neither of you move for a moment.
You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.
“I—I’m gonna—”
You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.
“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”
You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”
She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”
You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.
She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.
“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”
God. You could have chosen better words.
“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”
She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.
He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.
“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.
“Stop what?”
You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.
“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”
He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”
You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.
“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.
“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”
You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”
Abbot snorts. “Dana?”
You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”
Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”
“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”
Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”
Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.
You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.
You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.
“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”
You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”
She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.
On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.
When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.
After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.
Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.
“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”
The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”
You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”
As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.
You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.
Fuck.
Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.
God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.
“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.
When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.
“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.
Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”
Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”
They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.
“Malinaw,” Princess says.
You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.
You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.
“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”
Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.
He points at you as he walks. “With me.”
“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.
“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”
“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”
Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.
His arm brushes yours.
Your stomach flips.
Focus.
“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.
You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.
“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”
“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”
You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.
“Trachea midline.”
Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”
“BP holding?” Robby asks.
The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.
“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”
Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”
“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.
“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.
“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”
Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”
“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.
You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.
“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”
You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.
You swallow. “Okay.”
Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”
You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.
The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.
“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.
Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.
You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.
“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”
You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.
“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.
Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.
“Good,” Robby murmurs.
Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.
“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.
Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.
You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.
Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”
His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.
“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.
“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.
You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.
Until it stops.
Too much resistance.
“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”
He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.
You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.
He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.
His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.
Fuck. Now is not the time.
You tighten your grip on the tube and push.
Then—
A rush of air.
“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”
Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.
“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.
“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”
You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.
“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.
Abbot nods.
From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.
“Nice work, Doctor.”
You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.
As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.
You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.
“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.
“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”
“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”
Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”
You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.
“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”
You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.
“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”
You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”
“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”
As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.
And Santos notices—because of course she does.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”
“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”
You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.
Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.
“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She stares at you for a second.
“A sex dream?”
You nod miserably.
Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.
Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.
“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”
“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.
She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”
“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”
“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”
Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”
She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”
“Because he’s my boss!”
“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”
You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.
“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”
She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”
You nod. “Good.”
Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.
“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.
You sigh. “What?”
She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”
Your pulse jumps.
“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.
“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.
You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.
“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”
The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”
You glance up, and he nods.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”
“Will do.”
You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.
The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.
About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.
Except the way it made your spine arch.
Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—
“Doctor.”
You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.
“Sorry—what?”
Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”
You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”
He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”
Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”
“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.
You stare at him. “And?”
He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”
You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.
“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”
Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.
Fuck.
You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?
So much for being a vault.
“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.
You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.
“Lucky us,” you mutter.
She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.
“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”
You shrug. “Just a little off today.”
She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.
She hums quietly.
“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”
You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”
She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”
You nod. “North Four, on it.”
You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.
“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.
“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.
“Oh.”
“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”
“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”
You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.
“Everything’s fine!”
You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.
On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.
So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.
Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.
You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.
You’re just… nervous.
Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.
You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—
“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”
You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.
Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.
The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.
And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.
“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.
She winces. “Not so good.”
“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”
She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”
You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”
She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.
“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”
“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”
You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.
“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”
She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”
“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”
“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”
“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”
She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”
You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.
“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”
You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.
“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”
Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”
Ms. Park sighs.
“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”
She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.
Not that you can blame her.
Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.
But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.
He’s looking at you.
You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”
Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.
You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.
“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.
Heat floods your face.
“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”
He glances at you over the top of his glasses.
“You had it handled.”
You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”
Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.
“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”
“I supervise,” Robby mutters.
Dana hums.
“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”
Hovering?
You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.
Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?
He hovers around every resident and med student.
It’s not like he was—
You shake your head.
No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.
You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.
Nowhere else to go.
“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.
You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”
You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.
“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”
You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”
Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”
She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.
“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”
She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”
You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”
“Caring?” she offers.
You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”
She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.
“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.
She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.
“Good girl,” she murmurs.
Your entire spine locks.
“What was that?”
McKay straightens, already grinning.
“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”
“But—you just—”
She laughs under her breath, already backing away.
“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”
Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.
You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.
“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.
“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.
Your eyes snap up. “You.”
Her brows lift. “Me?”
“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”
She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.
“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”
“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”
You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.
She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”
“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.
You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”
Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”
Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.
You glare at Santos. “Neither.”
“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”
Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.
“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”
“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”
You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.
“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.
Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”
Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.
“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”
Hovering?
Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”
“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”
Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.
Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.
Your pulse stutters.
“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.
“I threw it,” you blurt.
He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.
“I know.”
You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.
“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”
You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.
Right.
Charting.
You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.
With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.
After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.
The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.
“Back to charting?” Princess asks.
You nod. “The never-ending task.”
She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.
“You seem off today,” she says.
“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”
“And red,” she adds before turning away.
You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.
With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.
Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.
Abbot.
You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.
Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.
Your stomach drops.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.
Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.
“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”
You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”
Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”
Then she shakes her head and walks away.
You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.
And today is not a day you want to stay back.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.
The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—
“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”
Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.
“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”
Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.
“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”
“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”
You tilt your head. “Oh.”
“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”
Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”
Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.
Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.
Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.
There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.
“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.
Your stomach does a strange little flip.
It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.
He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.
Still, your eyes follow it.
They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.
“Deep breath for me.”
Your pulse stutters.
Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.
The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.
His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.
Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.
“Look at me.”
Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.
Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.
Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.
It wasn’t subtle.
Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.
His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.
You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
The word brushed over your lips.
You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.
God.
The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.
Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.
His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.
And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.
Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.
“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”
You blink at her. “Already?”
She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”
You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.
“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.
You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”
She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”
You glare at her. “I’m charting.”
“You’re drooling.”
You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.
Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”
“Santos,” you warn.
She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”
“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”
Your stomach drops.
You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.
“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”
She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”
“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.
“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.
Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”
Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”
“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”
Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”
You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”
“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”
Santos smirks. “Yep.”
“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”
Perlah snorts.
Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.
“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”
Silence.
Perlah is staring at you.
Princess is staring at you.
Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.
And Santos—
Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.
“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”
No one answers.
Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.
Whitaker clears his throat.
Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.
“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.
And there he is.
Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.
Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.
He clears his throat.
Once.
“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”
That’s all it takes.
Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.
Whitaker rushes off toward triage.
Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.
And then it’s just you.
And him.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.
And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.
But that would be ridiculous, right?
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.
How to function.
You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.
God.
This has to be some kind of HR violation.
Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.
Or worse—night shift.
You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.
Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.
Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.
Not when you’ve let it affect your work.
Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.
You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.
All you can do now is your job.
All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.
You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.
The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.
Whispered about, probably.
But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?
By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.
None of it requires you to look up very much.
Which is ideal.
You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.
And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.
Not that you’re avoiding him.
Obviously.
You’re just… busy.
You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.
Like nothing happened.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.
“Hey, you busy?”
You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”
“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”
“Of course. What size?”
“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”
You nod. “On it.”
“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.
You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.
You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.
You’re just being helpful.
But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.
You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.
“Oh—shit.”
It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.
Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.
“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.
McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”
She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.
“Scalpel slipped.”
McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”
Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.
“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”
“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”
Your stomach drops.
“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”
Fuck.
You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.
He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hold your arm out obediently.
His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.
“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”
Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.
“Come with me.”
The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.
“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”
Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.
“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.
Robby nods once. “Thanks.”
Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.
You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.
“Lay back,” he says.
Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.
He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.
His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.
You try not to think too hard about his fingers.
“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.
You nod. “Sharp blade.”
Like he didn’t already know that.
He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.
“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.
You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.
He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.
The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.
“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”
“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”
“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”
You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.
He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.
Completely calm.
Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.
The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.
“Breathe,” he says automatically.
God.
If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.
You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.
“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”
His hands pause for the briefest moment.
Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.
“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”
You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”
“Mhm.”
The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.
Your stomach tightens.
“Busy department.”
He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.
“Not exactly what I meant.”
You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.
“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”
He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.
You feel like you’re about to throw up.
“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”
Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.
“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”
You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.
“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”
His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.
“Fired?”
You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”
He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.
“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”
Your face burns.
He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.
“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”
You stare at him.
“Concerned?”
“Mhm.”
He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.
“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”
Your stomach drops.
“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.
Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.
Hovering?
Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.
Why was he even there to begin with?
Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.
I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.
I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.
And suddenly the entire day looks… different.
Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.
Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.
Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.
“Keep that dry for the next—”
And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.
Then you kiss him.
It’s not graceful.
It’s barely even planned.
Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.
For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.
“Oh—fuck. I—”
You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.
“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”
The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.
He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.
Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.
Your pulse is hammering.
“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.
His hand lifts.
The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.
Your breath catches.
He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.
Then he leans in.
The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.
For a second it’s almost restrained.
Then it isn’t.
His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.
The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.
He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.
Not stopping.
If anything, the opposite.
His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.
Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.
But definitely knows how to do.
And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.
You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—
The curtain whips open.
“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”
Abbot stops dead.
For half a second no one moves.
You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.
Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.
His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.
“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”
Robby straightens immediately.
Not panicked. Not flustered.
Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.
“Jack,” he says evenly.
Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.
“Michael.”
The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.
Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.
“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”
The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.
“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.
Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.
Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.
“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”
Your stomach drops.
“What?”
His brows lift.
“Your text.”
Your eyes widen.
Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.
“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”
“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.
Abbot’s mouth twitches.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”
You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.
“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”
Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.
Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Your girl, huh?”
Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.
“Shut up.”
You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.
The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.
“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”
“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”
“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”
You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”
“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”
You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”
She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.
“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.
You frown. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”
She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.
“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”
Your entire face goes hot.
You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.
Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.
This is so so so good! omg. I don't even go here but I love how you write dialogue and the building tension is just PERFECT. I hope you keep writing and feeling better!
Ok ok so that ask you had about Robby being so sexist towards what he lets reader do vs frank, and both of them being like, “hold it!” when they see what reader is gonna wear out. Ok what if frank does as you said with the whole “do you think Robby will let you out wearing that” but reader scoffs at him cuz she plans on making a quick get away before Robby sees. But he sees anyways and reader has big argument with him. She insists she can wear her very short skirt. So he grabs her then he pulls her over his lap, lifts the skirt, pulls off her panties and spanks her so red, all over her ass and thighs. Then lets her back up “you can wear it, go ahead” but when she rights her clothes, she realizes that everyone can see her very spanked thighs so she chooses to change into a longer skirt on her own 😂
18+ mndi SHUT UPPPPPPPPP THIS IS SO GOOD… “You wanna wear it? Yeah? Alright. C’mere.”
after he’s done he stands you back up and straightens out your skirt n’ admires his work. smirks at the little tears pooled in your waterline, spins you around to see the red welts and beginnings of bruises on your thighs… pushes between your shoulder blades to bend you over a little so the skirt rides up to show off the equally afflicted crease of your asscheeks…
“There we go, honey, that’s much better.”
when you turn back around your cheeks are all red and you’re scowling at him as you swipe your eyes with the back of your hand. “You’re mean.”
n he just pats your hip and grins, clicks his tongue. “Mean? I’m letting you wear the little outfit that you picked, sweetheart. I should be hearing a thank you.”
No thoughts, just fem!reader who isn't used to men being gentlemen to her and task force who doesn't let her do ANYTHING.
"I'm hungry," you said in a flat tone. It was just a passing comment. Nothing serious.
"Hungry? What do you want to eat, dove?" Soap took out his phone, waiting patiently for you to say what you wanted.
"Oh. Em, I was joking..." you whispered. Maybe you weren't, but you were too shy to admit it.
"Come on, bird, tell us what you want," Price looked at you with a little smile on his face.
"Sushi..." You turned your head, trying to avoid their eyes.
"Sushi it is." Soap started to search his phone for the nearest sushi restaurant.
"Fuck, my room door is stuck and won't close. I need to fix it. Where's the toolbox?" you said, entering the common room and waiting for an answer.
"Are you fixing it by yourself?" Gaz asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
"Hell no." He stood up from the couch, grabbed the toolbox from one of the cabinets, and walked out of the room.
Thankfully, your door ended up looking like nothing had ever happened. Thanks, Gaz.
This was your third lap running around the base.
"Soldier, stop right there," you heard Ghost shout at you, and you obeyed instantly. "Your laces are untied."
"Oh, yeah, I will—" You were cut off abruptly in the middle of your sentence, watching in shock as Ghost knelt down in front of you, tying your shoelaces.
"There you go. Watch out next time," he said, looking at you flatly before standing back up.
A meeting at 7:00 AM? Boring. But you had no choice. You were just about to put your hand on the doorknob when another hand stopped you. Price opened the door.
"Ladies first." He stepped aside to let you go first.
Or, you’ve never had an orgasm by another man before in your life, but every girl your next door neighbor, Simon Riley, drags home definitely has. You know that, because your bed shares a wall with his and you hear everything through eight inches of shitty drywall.
or in which Simon Riley is a petty fucking asshole, even if he’s right- especially because he’s right.
7.8k
You were halfway to burning your tongue on the first sip of coffee when someone tried to knock your door off its hinges.
You flinched, sloshed hot liquid onto your hand, hissed, and glared at the clock on the stove. 09:12.
“Christ,” you muttered, wiping your fingers on a dish towel as the knocking came again, harder. “I’m coming, calm down- ”
You yanked the door open.
Your next door neighbor, Simon Riley, filled the frame in a hoodie, grey sweats, eyes dark, flat, and murderous in a way you’d never seen in the hallway before.
You blinked. “Uh… good morning?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze scraped over you: oversized T shirt, no bra, bare legs. His jaw flexed once.
“Keep it down,” he said.
You stared. “What?”
His voice was rough with sleep and something like fury. “Last night. Or this mornin’, technically.” He jerked his chin toward the wall your bed sat against. “Had your TV on full blast and a herd of elephants runnin’ laps in there.”
Understanding hit you like a bucket of ice water and embarrassment. Your stomach dropped. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” He folded his arms. “Last time I checked, elephants don’t fake giggles and moan like they’re readin’ from a script.”
Your face went molten. “We were not that loud.”
His brow lifted. “I know your headboard’s rhythm now.” He ticks it off on one hand. “Bang, bang, bang, wobble, silence. Rinse, repeat.”
You wished for death. Or at least for the floor to open and swallow you.
“Okay, we get it,” you snapped, mortification curdling into defensiveness. “You heard some things. Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep.”
“I’m home on leave,” he said flatly. “First proper bed I’ve had in months. First chance to sleep without artillery or some fucker snorin’ in the next bunk. Instead, I get to listen to you and your lad cosplayin’ bad porn through the wall until three in the mornin’.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. You had nothing, because he wasn’t wrong. Your fuck buddy had been… enthusiastic. Not especially talented. And you’d… helped.
Your cheeks flared hotter. “Fine. I’ll keep it down next time.”
He huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “There shouldn’t be a ‘next time’ with him if you’ve got to fake it that hard, love.”
Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stared you down, unblinking. “You were louder when he kissed your neck than you were when he ‘finished’. D’you really think I’m that daft?”
You wanted to crawl into the drywall and never emerge. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“Good.” He leaned in a fraction, enough that you caught soap and cigarette smoke. “Because I didn’t come here to have a chat. I came to tell you to knock it the fuck off.”
Something in you bristled. “Oh, did you? My apologies, Private HOA. I didn’t realize you were on the noise complaint committee.”
He stared for a beat. Then, very slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched under the fabric in a way that made you think he was baring his teeth.
“I don’t give a toss what you get up to,” he said. “Just don’t keep me up with a performance.” His gaze flicked to your mouth and back, blatant. “If I’m losin’ sleep over you, I’d rather it be worth my while.”
The words hit like a slap and a spark at the same time.
Your brain stalled. “I- excuse me?”
He shrugged, infuriatingly casual. “Unless you’re offering to actually make it worth stayin’ awake.” His eyes held yours, steady. “You knock on my door instead, we can arrange somethin’ a bit more… honest.”
Your heart did something ugly and bright against your ribs.
“You are not serious,” you managed.
“Dead.” His gaze swept you once more, almost clinical. “But if you’re not, I’d appreciate a quiet night. I don’t get many.”
The worst part was that underneath the smugness, he did look exhausted. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there last week. His shoulders hung heavy in a way you recognized from the lobby when he got back from wherever the military kept him.
You hated that you felt a flicker of guilt underneath the mortification.
“Wow,” you said instead, grasping for anything sharp. “You’re a real charmer, you know that?”
“Never claimed to be,” he said. “Just honest.”
“Great. Well, honestly? Go fuck yourself, Riley.”
His eyes glinted. “Offer’s on the table, love. Door’s right there.”
Every neuron in your body lit up with humiliation and annoyance.
You slammed the door in his face.
You heard him huff, low, on the other side. Then his footsteps retreated down the hall.
You pressed your back to the wood, heart racing, skin buzzing like he’d said all of that directly into your bloodstream.
“Asshole,” you muttered.
Later, when you texted your fuck buddy that you thought you should take a break, you definitely, absolutely, did not think about Simon Riley’s flat, unimpressed stare while you typed.
You didn’t see him for three days.
The first felt like a hangover of the argument; replaying it while you brushed your teeth, while you scrubbed your dishes, while you sat on the couch and pretended not to listen for his boots in the hall.
The second, you heard his door once in the afternoon and the murmur of a phone call. His laugh short and rough through the plaster. You told yourself it didn’t make your chest tighten.
By the third, you’d managed to talk yourself into being over it. The weather app said rain all weekend. You bought snacks. You queued up a comfort show. You put on a face mask and tried not to care that his door stayed shut and the apartment stayed quiet.
Until 01:37.
You woke up to the sound of it: the low, rhythmic thump of a headboard against a wall that matched yours.
For a moment you lay there, disoriented, thinking your brain had dragged up an old memory. Then you heard it: a high, breathy moan that definitely wasn’t yours.
You were suddenly, vividly awake.
You stared at the ceiling. The sound came again, muffled but clear, the exact timbre of a woman who was not reading from a script.
Your stomach did this weird flip, hollow and sharp.
Oh.
Your heart started racing for a different reason.
She sounded… different. Not just louder. There was a messy edge to it- little broken noises, a laugh cut off midway by a gasp, the pitch catching when something hit just right. No deliberate build up, no “oh my God, yes, just like that” delivered in perfect porn inflection.
It sounded… real.
You pressed your lips together and stared at the cracks in your ceiling like they were personally responsible.
Of course he brought someone home. You’d told him to go fuck himself. Apparently he’d outsourced.
Another drawn out moan slid through the wall, followed by the creak of springs and a low, rough sound that was definitely his. The tiny hairs on your arms stood up.
Heat crawled down your neck.
You flipped onto your side, facing away from the wall, as if that would help. It didn’t. You could hear her breathing pick up, the rhythm of the bed stuttering, a muffled curse, a plea.
You’d never sounded like that.
Not once.
God, you’d thought you did. You’d been loud. You’d made noise. But lying there, listening to the difference, you realized how careful yours had been. How… shaped. Performed. You’d hit beats you thought you were supposed to. Rising volume. Little shivered “ohh”s when he fumbled close. That big dramatic final gasp.
This was nothing like that. This sounded uncontrolled. Like something happening to her, not something being presented.
Your throat went tight.
What did that even feel like? To be that gone? To not be in your head counting how many minutes it had been, wondering if he was close yet, thinking about what your face looked like? To not secretly decide three quarters of the way through that you’d just… help things along to wrap the whole thing up?
Another muffled cry. A dull thump. You swallowed hard.
You hated how jealousy slid in, sharp and green. Stupid. Petty. You barely knew him. You’d told him off. You had no claim.
But the sound of it- of her- prickled under your skin.
You imagined her: pretty, probably. Confident. One of those women who just knew how to move. Maybe someone he’d known for ages. Maybe picked up at a bar. Maybe it didn’t matter because whoever she was, she was getting something you’d never had: the real version of you that he’d so casually implied you were wasting.
“Knock it off with the performance.”
You shoved your face into your pillow, torn between humiliation and… something else. Curiosity. Ache.
The bedframe thudded again, faster. Her voice pitched high, then broke off entirely into a choked sound that made your body clench in sympathetic echo.
Your fake orgasms had never sounded like that, either.
You squeezed your thighs together under the sheets, furious with yourself. You were not going to lie here getting turned on by your neighbor and his… whatever-she-was… on the other side of the wall. You were not that girl.
A lower noise slipped out of him: half groan, half swear, and your resolve did a messy nosedive.
You stared at the dark and let the questions spiral anyway.
What had he done to her to make her sound like that?
Was that how he’d sounded in your ear if you’d said yes instead of slamming the door?
Would you have made those sounds too, if someone actually knew what they were doing with you? If you didn’t feel like you had to make it easier, smoother, quieter, quicker?
The bed in his room creaked through a final flurry of motion. There was a long, quiet pause. You listened like an absolute creep.
Her laugh came first, breathless and warm. His voice rumbled something low in response that you couldn’t make out; then the whispered rustle of sheets, bodies shifting, settling.
Your chest ached.
You lay there staring at the wall between you, suddenly, acutely aware of your own heartbeat and the empty space in your bed.
After a long time, when the apartment was finally quiet again, you threw an arm over your face and groaned into your own elbow.
“Asshole,” you whispered.
You weren’t entirely sure whether you meant him or yourself.
Sleep didn’t come easy after that. Every time you drifted toward it, you heard again the difference between your practiced noise and that girl’s unselfconscious, messy sounds, and now, layered over it, his blunt voice in your doorway:
If I’m losin’ sleep over you, I’d rather it be worth my while.
You hated how much you wanted to know what it would be like, just once, to be worth it.
You told yourself it was a one time thing.
People hook up. Neighbors have sex. The world keeps spinning. You were a grown adult and not the feral protagonist of some messy soap opera.
You even managed to sleep the next night.
It was the one after that that killed you.
You woke up to the low rumble of laughter through the wall. His voice. Then a lighter, higher one flirty and giggly, the kind of laugh people made when they touched someone’s arm in a bar and tilted their head just so.
You froze, mid-roll, staring at the glowing red digits of your clock.
00:49.
“Nope,” you whispered to no one. “Nope, no, absolutely not- ”
Your brain, traitor that it was, supplied a clear picture: Simon in the doorway of some crowded place, that bored half lidded stare softening just enough for some pretty stranger. Her hand curling in his hoodie. That rough, low chuckle he hadn’t given you, because he’d been too busy lecturing you in your doorway.
A muffled thunk against the shared wall made your stomach swoop.
You sat up short, heartbeat rocketing.
This girl sounded different than the last one. Less breathy, more sharp edged. Her laugh cut off mid giggle into a startled squeak, then a broken “oh, God-” that you felt embarrassingly low in your spine.
Heat flared under your skin. Annoyance came right on its heels.
He was doing this on purpose. He had to be. Some kind of cosmic karmic payback: you fake it and keep me up? Fine. I’ll show you what not faking sounds like.
The mattress on his side creaked. The headboard tapped the wall. Soft at first. Then a little harder.
You stared at the wall, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Another moan slipped through, higher now, thready. You recognized the sound of a woman trying to keep it down and failing.
Bile and jealousy churned together in your throat.
Is that what I’d sound like?
You hated that the question clawed its way in at all. Hated that under the irritation, the humiliation, there was this raw little knot of curiosity twisting tighter with each ragged sound that wasn’t yours.
You flopped back onto your pillow and yanked it over your head.
It didn’t help. You could still hear them. Her. Him. The low, wordless sound he made when he liked something, muffled by drywall but still there. Thick. Warm. Real.
Your pulse beat a frantic rhythm in your ears.
“That’s it,” you muttered, throwing the pillow aside and sitting up again, hair wild, heart ridiculous. “I am not doing this. I am not losing more sleep because my neighbor has a thriving sex life and apparently a point to prove.”
Another breathless cry, followed by a thud of headboard.
You glared at the wall like it had personally insulted you.
“Shut up,” you gritted.
They did not, in fact, shut up.
Something in you snapped.
You threw off the covers, stomped over to the wall in your ridiculous fuzzy socks, reared back, and kicked it. Hard.
The drywall shuddered. Pain shot up your toes. “Ow- fuck,” you hissed, grabbing your foot and hopping in place, immediately regretting every life choice that led you here.
For a second, everything on the other side went quiet.
Then, through the silence, you heard him laugh.
Not a full belly laugh. Just this low, dark little huff of amusement that you felt squarely between your ribs.
The headboard started up again. Slower. Deliberate.
You squeezed your eyes shut, mortification crawling all the way to the roots of your hair.
“Oh my God,” you groaned into your hands. “I am the world’s biggest idiot.”
You limped back to bed, cheeks burning, and pulled the covers over your head like they could block out reality. They couldn’t. You lay there listening, every thump of wood, every caught breath from the girl on the other side scraping your already raw nerves.
You tried to be angry.
You were angry. Mostly at him. Some at them. A lot at yourself.
Underneath all of it, though, there was that same stupid ache:
You had never sounded like that. Not once. Not for anyone.
By the time it finally went quiet, you were wide awake and vibrating on something that was half adrenaline, half mortification, and half… something you did not have the emotional energy to name.
You slept badly.
You ran into him in the elevator the next morning, because of course you did. The universe was a comedian.
You almost made it out of the building unscathed. You’d timed it: 08:02, just late enough all the other tenants had cleared out for work but early enough the lunchtime crowd wouldn’t be a problem. You texted your group chat about needing caffeine and emotional support. You made it three steps into the lobby.
Then the elevator dinged and he stepped out.
Grey T shirt, black joggers, a duffel slung over his shoulder. Mask in place. Hair damp from a shower. He walked like his body hurt in familiar places but had gotten used to it.
You stopped dead when you saw him.
You considered spinning on your heel and pretending you’d forgotten something upstairs. Your pride, maybe.
Instead, you tightened your grip on your keys, lifted your chin, and walked toward the door like you didn’t remember every sound from several hours ago.
“Mornin',” he said.
You hated that your body reacted physically to his voice; this stupid little clench low in your stomach like a Pavlovian response.
“Is it,” you said, a bit sharper than intended.
His eyes crinkled faintly at the corners. “Sleep well?”
He knew. Obviously he knew. Of course he knew. You’d literally tried to kick a hole through his bedroom wall like you were in some low budget music video.
“Like a baby,” you said sweetly. “Woke up every hour and cried.”
His shoulders shook once. That might have been a laugh. “Sounded like it.”
You flushed. “Maybe if certain people respected quiet hours- ”
“Ah.” He tipped his head, expression politely blank. “Now y'care about quiet hours.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Not what she said,” he replied, mild as tea.
Your jaw dropped. “Did you just- ”
“I’m on leave,” he went on, chatting right over you. “Thought I’d enjoy some… recreational time.” His gaze flicked over your face, lingering just a heartbeat too long on your mouth. “Didn’t think my neighbor would object t' me takin’ my own advice.”
“Your advice?” you demanded. “You barged into my apartment and lectured me. There’s a difference.”
“Didn’t barge.” He shrugged, unbothered. “Knocked.”
“You woke me up.”
“You woke me up,” he countered. “Several times now, if we’re keepin’ score.”
You made a strangled noise. “Oh my God, are you punishing me?”
“Punishin’ you?” He huffed. “No, love. If I was punishin’ you, you’d know.” His eyes gleamed. “This is just me mindin’ my business.”
“Your business is eight inches of plaster away from mine,” you snapped before your brain could stop your mouth, and then immediately realized what you’d said.
His gaze dropped. Paused. Came back up much, much slower.
“Is that a complaint,” he asked softly, “or a question?”
You wanted to die.
You crossed your arms over your chest like shield. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re jumpy.” He shifted his weight, duffel creaking. “You kicked the wall.”
You looked away, ears burning. “You were being loud.”
“That was the point.” His voice stayed annoyingly calm. “Thought we’d established I preferred honest noise.”
Anger flared, sharp enough to cover the humiliation. “Right, because that’s your whole thing, isn’t it? Simon Riley, Patron Saint of Authentic Female Pleasure. You want a medal?”
Something like surprise flickered across his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned, a flash of teeth beneath the mask, quick and real.
“Nah,” he said. “Just like to hear when I’m doin’ a good job.”
The implication hit you square in the chest.
You scoffed, because the alternative was making an embarrassing choking sound. “Must be nice.”
“What?”
“To be so sure you are.”
His gaze sharpened. For a heartbeat, the air between you felt… different. Heavy.
“Practice,” he said finally.
“Practice,” you repeated, incredulous. “What are you, a… a hobbyist?”
His mouth curved. “Enthusiast.”
You could not believe you were having this conversation before coffee.
“Wow,” you said. “The humility is staggering.”
He studied you for a second, head tilted, like he was slotting puzzle pieces together.
“You’re still thinkin’ about it,” he said quietly.
You went still. “About what?”
His eyes did that slow, assessing sweep again, this time not of your body, but your face. The tight set of your mouth. The faint shadows under your eyes.
“‘What it’d be like to actually have one,’” he quoted, and the bottom dropped out of your stomach because you hadn’t said that out loud to anyone. “Bet that’s been rattlin’ ’round your head since we spoke.”
You stared. “Were you… listening through the wall?”
“Didn’t have to.” He tugged one glove snug, leather creaking. “Can hear it on you. Questions. Curiosity. Bit of jealousy.” His gaze didn’t waver. “All loud as any moan, once you know how to listen.”
Your pulse was thundering so hard you were sure he could hear that too.
“You’re unbelievably arrogant,” you said, aiming for dismissive and landing somewhere in the vicinity of breathless.
“Honest,” he corrected again. “S’what started this, remember?”
You swallowed around the dry lump in your throat. “Well, honestly? I don’t need a neighbor commentary track on my sex life.”
He nodded once. “Fair enough.”
The elevator dinged again behind him. Someone laughed on an upper floor. The building hummed around you.
“You want it to stop,” he said, “it stops. I mind my noise, you mind yours, we go back to bein’ strangers.” He shifted his duffel on his shoulder. “Or…”
You hated that your entire body leaned into that “or”.
“Or what,” you asked, already knowing the answer and already wanting to punch yourself for asking.
“Or you stop pretendin’ this isn’t botherin’ you for more reasons than sleep,” he said. “You stop lettin’ blokes waste your time. You knock on my door instead of his.” His eyes caught yours and held. “And we see what all that noise in your head actually sounds like when it’s comin’ out of your mouth.”
Heat flooded you so fast you felt a little dizzy.
You opened your mouth and something petty and self-protective came out instead of the yes your hindbrain wanted to blurt.
“Pass,” you said. “I’d hate for you to lose more sleep. Noise complaints and all that.”
He smiled, small and knowing, like he could see right through you.
“As you like, love.”
He stepped past you, the faint brush of his arm against yours lighting up every nerve ending you had. The door swished open; cold air gusted in.
“You ever change your mind,” he added without looking back, “you know where I live.”
You watched him go, jaw clenched, fingers tight on your keys.
You told yourself the twist in your gut was annoyance.
You told yourself kicking the wall had been childish and you were done with this game.
You told yourself you definitely, absolutely, under no circumstances, were going to stand in front of your door later that night staring at his door number down the hall and wondering how it would sound when the noise wasn’t coming through plaster.
You were an excellent liar.
Just not to him.
You spend the whole day pretending you’re fine.
You go to work, or the store, or sit on your couch doomscrolling, whatever it is people do when they’re trying very hard not to think about their neighbor’s sex life. Every time your brain tries to replay it- the sounds, his smug little as you like, love- you slam a mental door in its face.
By the time it’s past midnight and the building’s quiet, you’re wound tight enough to hum.
You’re not even trying to be subtle about it when you finally say fuck it and reach for your drawer.
It’s not like you’ve never done this before. You have an orgasm history. Probably. Technically. Somewhere back there.
You lie back on your bed, phone screen dim, some mindless show murmuring in the background, and let your hand wander down the familiar path.
It should be easy. This is supposed to be the easy part.
Your fingers find sensitive skin, slide through the slick that’s already there because your body figured this out long before your brain admitted it. You circle your clit the way you always do, the way that usually works, and wait for the slow build.
It comes… sort of.
Your breathing picks up. Heat curls low. You press a little harder, up the pace, try to tune out the awareness of the wall to your left.
You remember the second girl’s voice. The way it had broken on a wordless sound, like something knocked the air right out of her.
You’ve never sounded like that alone, either.
You try to picture something else: old hookups, porn clips, that one crush; but your mind keeps circling back to the same place: his voice in the doorway. The rough, blunt cadence of it.
If I’m losin’ sleep over you, I’d rather it be worth my while.
Your hips flex up into your own touch. You groan quietly, annoyed at yourself, and let him in.
Fine. Whatever. If your brain wants to be a traitor, let it commit fully.
You imagine his hand instead of yours. Big, rough, that warm weight on your thigh. The pressure of him between your legs, fingers working you like he’s in no hurry at all. That low rumble he makes when he’s amused.
You speed up, chasing it. The build is there, tension coiling, but it keeps… slipping. You get close enough that your muscles flicker on the edge, but it never tips. The peak hovers just out of reach, taunting, and the more you push the further it recedes.
“Come on,” you mutter, sweat starting at your temples. “Come on, just- ”
Nothing. You circle harder, but now everything feels too direct, too focused on the finish line. Your thighs burn. Your wrist aches. Your brain won’t shut up long enough to let your body take over.
What if this is just… it? What if all those times you thought you came were just warm up acts? What if you’ve never actually-
You stop.
Just… stop.
Your hand falls away. You stare at the ceiling, chest heaving, unsatisfied need fizzing under your skin like static.
You can’t even remember the last time you were sure. Not “good enough, close enough, I made the right noises and my partner looked pleased so we’ll file it under win.” Actually sure. No pretending. No shaping it for someone else.
It’s been… a while.
Your eyes stray to the wall. The one that connects your bedroom to his.
You remember the first girl. The shivery, helpless sounds. The way her voice had gone ragged when she was close.
You remember the second one last night. The sharp gasp and the way everything about the rhythm had changed in that last, frantic minute.
You’ve never sounded like that.
You lie there stewing in it, cheeks burning, heart hammering, for a long time.
Your face is hot and your body is throbbing and you suddenly, viscerally, cannot stand one more second of being alone in this bed with that knowledge.
Then, without really deciding to, you throw the covers back.
Your legs feel shaky when you stand. You don’t bother with pants. You grab the first hoodie you find, shrug it on over your oversized shirt, and march for the door barefoot like a woman possessed.
The hallway is dim and quiet. Your pulse is loud in your ears.
You cross the few feet between apartments before your brain has a chance to catch up with your body and talk you out of it.
You bang on his door.
Not a polite neighborly tap. Three sharp, insistent knocks that say open up.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then you hear movement. Heavy steps. The thunk of a lock.
The door swings open.
He’s in grey sweats and a dark T shirt, mask on, hood down, blinking like you dragged him out of bed. Which, honestly, you probably did.
He blinks once, taking you in: bare legs, big hoodie, probably wild eyes.
“Thought you liked your sleep,” he says, voice rough with just-woke-up gravel. “What’s- ”
You fist your hand in the front of his T shirt, yank him down, and kiss him.
It’s clumsy at first. You hit mask instead of mouth and make a small, frustrated noise against the fabric. He goes still, not pulling back, not pushing in. Just… shocked.
Then he makes a low sound that’s almost a growl, one hand catching your hip to steady you as the other comes up between you.
Two fingers hook the bottom of the mask and shove it up, baring his mouth.
You only get a glimpse- full, soft, the hint of a scar near one corner- before he’s kissing you back.
Everything else drops out.
He doesn’t ease into it. One second you’re the one hauling him down, the next your back meets the inside of his door because he’s turned the whole situation around without breaking contact. The door swings shut with a soft click behind you, locking you in with 200 pounds of very awake soldier.
His mouth is hot and sure. He tastes like the faint tang of toothpaste, his lips moving against yours like he’s been waiting for this to happen since the first time he heard you through the wall.
His hand spreads over the small of your back, hauling you closer, slotting you against the firm line of him. The other carded into your hair, angling your head just where he wants you, tongue pushing past your lips like it’s a foregone conclusion.
You moan.
It’s instinctive, unplanned, a raw sound that catches both of you off guard.
He makes a deep, pleased noise in answer and chases it, kissing you harder. Heat slams through you, need surging up so fast it makes you dizzy.
You break just enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, his breath fanning hot over your mouth.
“You sure?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “’Cause if this is about provin’ a point- ”
“Not about a point,” you cut in, fingers knotting tighter in his shirt. “It’s about the fact I can’t- ” you swallow hard, pride hanging by a thread. “I can’t get there. Not with them. Not with me. I… can’t stop thinking about how they sounded and how I- don’t, and I’m- ”
Words tangle. You shake your head, frustrated.
“I want to know,” you say, finally, helplessly. “I want to know what it’s like.”
His eyes search your face. Whatever he sees there makes something in his expression go dark and intent.
“Yeah?” he says quietly.
“Yeah.”
Your voice wobbles but your grip on him doesn’t.
His thumb strokes your cheekbone once, oddly gentle for how wound up he feels under your hands.
“All right,” he says. “We’ll find it.”
He doesn’t say I will. Doesn’t make it a boast. Just a promise, simple and solid.
It hits harder than any smirk would’ve.
He backs you away from the door, mouth finding yours again, walking you blind across his living room. Your bare feet brush against the edge of a rug, then cool floor again. The space smells like him: soap, coffee, that faint hint of gun oil that clings even off duty.
Your calves bump a low surface. Couch. His hands flex at your waist.
You break the kiss long enough to gasp, “Bed.”
His eyes flash, hungry. “Bossy.”
“Focused,” you shoot back, breathless.
He huffs out a laugh and pivots, steering you further in. The bedroom’s only a few steps away: small, simple, lived in. Unmade bed. Dark sheets. The same wall your own bed rests against on the other side.
That thought makes your stomach flip.
He stops by the edge of the mattress, letting you feel the moment stretch between you.
You look up at him, heart pounding, fingers still twisted in his shirt like you’re afraid he might vanish.
“This it?” he asks, voice softer now. “Last chance to tell me to fuck off.”
“Shut up, Riley,” you say. “You talk too much.”
His mouth curves slow and dangerous. “That’s a first.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, like there’s no hurry at all. One hand slides up under the hem of your hoodie, fingers skating over warm skin. The other drifts down, catching the back of your thigh, lifting.
You wrap your leg around his hip automatically, body slotting against his. You can feel him, hard through the thin cotton of your underwear and his sweats, and the blunt reality of it knocks another sound out of you.
He catches that too. “There you are,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Knew you’d be loud.”
You want to say something snarky. All that comes out is a small, helpless noise when his hand squeezes.
He steps in, nudging you to turn. You end up sitting on the edge of the bed, knees between his. He peels the hoodie off you in a smooth motion, eyes dropping to take in the rumpled shirt beneath, your bare thighs, the way you shift in place.
“Up,” he says, tapping your hip.
You scoot back until you’re fully on the mattress. He follows, bracing a knee beside you, leaning over you like he’s staking a claim. His weight sinks the bed around you, his body caging yours without pinning you.
His fingers find the hem of your shirt and push. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away. The cool air kisses your skin; his gaze does far worse.
“Pretty,” he says. No embellishment, no theatrical appreciation. Just the word, rough and sure.
You shiver.
His hand drags down your torso, warm and callused, pausing at every small hitch of breath. When he reaches your underwear, he hooks his fingers under the elastic and glances up, checking.
You nod, teeth in your bottom lip.
He slides them down slow, knuckles skimming the insides of your thighs as he goes. When they clear your ankles he tosses them somewhere over his shoulder, like he doesn’t particularly care where they land.
You’re bare under him now, spread out on his bed, undeniably here by choice.
It should feel vulnerable. It does. It also feels… right.
He shifts down, shoulders settling between your knees as he nudges them apart. His palms wrap around your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles on the soft inner skin as he takes in the view.
You squirm, heat rushing to your face. “Simon…”
“Hush.” His eyes are dark, heavy lidded. “You came knockin’ on my door half naked and pushy. Let me enjoy the view a second.”
You’d roll your eyes if your pulse weren’t roaring in your ears.
He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another, higher. His stubble scrapes delicately against your skin, a rough soft contrast that makes you gasp.
He works his way in; lips, tongue, teeth nipping just enough to spark until he’s where you’re already slick and aching.
He looks up once more, catching your gaze.
“You don’t fake for me,” he says. “Not this. You don’t have to make it pretty. Just let it happen.”
You nod, throat tight. “Okay.”
He smiles wicked and lowers his mouth to you.
His tongue slides through your heat, up to your clit, circling lightly before backing off when your hips jerk.
“Mm.” His hum vibrates against you. “That’s nice.”
He does it again, a fraction more pressure. Circling, tasting, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every gasp. One hand stays firm on your hip to keep you from squirming away; the other drifts lower, fingers resting just at the entrance to your cunt, not pushing in yet. Waiting.
You fist your hands in his hair without meaning to. “Oh- fuck- ”
“There she is,” he murmurs, the words hot against your skin. “That’s better.”
He settles into a rhythm that has nothing to do with performance. No quick jackhammer motions, no frantic showmanship. Just steady, deliberate attention: the flat of his tongue here, the tip there, tiny adjustments based on how your breathing changes, how your thighs and hands tighten.
Every time you chase it, you feel him ease off just enough to keep you from tipping too soon. Not to tease you. To build you.
It’s infuriating. It’s incredible.
His fingers press in when you’re already hovering. Two of them, thick and sure, sliding into you in a smooth, unhurried stroke. You gasp, the stretch hitting deeper, fuller than your own hand ever manages.
“Fuck,” you whine. “Simon- ”
“That’s it,” he says without lifting his mouth. “Let me hear you.”
He curls his fingers just so and your vision goes white around the edges.
There’s no time to think about how you sound now versus how you sounded through the wall. No mental checklist of what noise might be convincing. There’s just this overwhelming, climbing rush rolling through you, riding the precise drag of his fingers and the relentless, perfect pressure of his tongue.
You feel yourself getting close in a way that’s… different. Less like a finish line you’re sprinting at and more like a wave you’re already on, cresting whether you’re ready or not.
Panic flickers. You try to hold back out of reflex, muscles tensing, the old habit of controlling it kicking in.
He feels it instantly. His free hand slides up, flattening over your lower belly, thumb reaching for your clit to keep the exact same unbroken rhythm.
“Don’t fight it,” he says against you, words half muffled. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Something in you trusts him enough to listen.
You let go.
It hits like stepping off a ledge into open air.
The orgasm rips through you in a sharp, shuddering wave that has you arching off the bed, a helpless, broken sound tearing from your throat. For a second you have absolutely no control over the noise you’re making, your body just… takes.
He doesn’t stop. He works you through it, tongue and fingers steady, easing only when the sharp crest breaks and rolls into softer aftershocks. You whine, oversensitive, thighs trembling around his head.
“Easy,” he murmurs, gentling his touch, pressing a last soft kiss to your swollen clit before finally easing his fingers out.
You slump back into the mattress, boneless. Your chest heaves. Your hands are still in his hair, sticky with sweat.
You have never, ever felt like this.
Your brain eventually boots back up enough to process that there are tears at the corners of your eyes. Which is… new.
He notices. Of course he does.
His big frame moves up the bed, careful of your limbs, until he’s braced on his forearms above you, lips slick and a little swollen.
He looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with taking his own pleasure yet.
“You all right?” he asks quietly.
You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. I just- ” You swallow. “That was…”
“Real?” he offers.
You nod, a little hysterical. “I think I saw God.”
“Not God,” he says, that same low laugh from the hallway rumbling in his chest. “Just me.”
He leans down and kisses you, letting you taste yourself on him. It should be filthy. It is. It also feels weirdly intimate, like sharing a secret.
When he starts to pull back, you catch his shirt.
“Your turn,” you say, voice still fuzzy at the edges but determined. “I didn’t wear out my foot on that wall to tap out now.”
His eyes darken, heat flaring back to the surface. “That so?”
“Mhm.” Your hand slides down, palming his cock through his sweats. He’s hard, thick under the soft fabric, and the way his breath catches when you squeeze makes something warm uncurl in your chest.
“Greedy,” he mutters, already shedding his T shirt in one smooth motion. The rest follows, sweats out of the way, his body finally fully against yours.
He lines himself up, pauses, eyes on yours.
“Tell me,” he says, voice lower than you’ve heard it yet. “You still want this?”
There isn’t a doubt left anywhere in you.
“Yes,” you say. “Please.”
His jaw clenches like the word please hits him somewhere vital.
“Good girl,” he says, and pushes in.
It’s a stretch that borders on too much thick, slow, inexorable; your nails biting his shoulders as your mouth falls open around a sound you don’t plan. His breath punches out through his nose. “Christ, love.” He holds still, buried to the hilt, the weight of him caging you against the mattress. “Warm little thing, aren’t you.”
You nod too fast, a shaky laugh tumbling out. “Move.”
He does; patient at first, like he’s proving a point to both of you. Long, measured pulls of his cock that drag over the place his fingers already found, each thrust a precise nudge that builds heat rather than blows through it. You chase up to meet him without thinking, the rhythm landing in your bones and taking over your hips. The bed creaks. A picture frame on his dresser taps out a tiny syncopated beat.
“This what you wanted?” he murmurs, voice gone low and ugly beautiful, stubble dragged over your throat. “Not pretendin’. Not rushin’. Just takin’ it?”
“Yeah,” you gasp, head tilting back. “Yeah- more.”
He obliges, hips snapping a little harder, a little deeper, the bedframe answering in soft, rhythmic complaint. Your heel hooks behind his thigh, urging him closer; he grunts, adjusts his angle, and suddenly you’re keening, fingers scrambling for purchase as he nails that exact spot again and again with the kind of stroke that uses all of him- hips, abs, thighs- until your body stops pretending it can keep up and just rides.
You’re loud now. There’s no containing it. Every time his pelvis grinds down you break apart a little more, noises rising without shape or shame. He drinks them like water, swallowing whatever he can and groaning into your mouth when he can’t.
“That’s it,” he pants, head dropping to lick into the hinge of your jaw. “There she is. Give it to me.”
You do; sound and heat and the looseness of your body yielding under his. He braces on one forearm and slides the other hand between you, thumb finding your clit with the same steady pressure he used with his mouth. The double edge of it rockets you forward so fast your breath punches out in a ragged little cry.
He hears it and smiles against your jaw, all teeth. “Thought so.”
You arch into him, shameless. “Don’t stop- don’t- ”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He keeps you right there, the pace unapologetic now, sweat beading at his temples, his breath stuttering in your ear in a way that obliterates whatever dignity you had left. You can feel him everywhere: weight, heat, the thick drag of his cock inside you and you’re already teetering again, that wave rising, bigger this time, inevitable.
“Simon,” you plead, shocking yourself with how desperate your voice sounds. “Please- ”
“Go on,” he orders, almost gentle. “Let me hear you.”
You break.
It rolls through you like a fuse finally catching, sharp, deep, whole body, your back bowing off the bed as your orgasm claws a raw, helpless sound from your chest. Your vision whites out; somewhere far away you feel him swear, feel the way your squeeze drags him to the edge with you. He doesn’t let your clit go until you hit that tumbling, sweet, uncontrollable after, and then he eases, mouth finding yours while you shake under him.
You’re still fluttering when he sits back on his heels without pulling out, palms sliding to your hips. “Turn over,” he says, voice shredded silk. “Hands and knees.”
You should be wrecked. You are. You go anyway, obedient on a gasp, cheek to the sheet, knees apart. He drags you back by the hips the last few inches- possessive little tug- and sinks home again in one long stroke that knocks a strangled moan out of you.
“Fuck,” he grits, both hands gripping your waist. “Look at that. Took me so sweet.”
You feel sweet and snug around him, every thrust a heavy slide that lands perfectly. His fingers shift, one hand splayed across your lower belly to feel himself inside you, the other bracing between your shoulder blades to arch you just right. The angle turns wicked; your thighs shake.
“Filthy thing,” he says, delighted. “Took one taste and now you can’t stand not havin’ me, hm? Knocked on my door in that little shirt- ” He thrusts, deeper. “- and now you’re squeezin’ me like you’re tryin’ to keep me.”
You are. God help you, you are.
He drives you hard enough to steal thought, hips clapping, breath hot where he bends over you to mouth at your nape. When his hand snakes around again, thumb finding your clit from behind, you actually try to crawl away from the intensity- one inch, a reflex- only to feel him chase you, pin your hips and give you nowhere to go but through.
“Stay,” he growls, not harsh, just inexorable. “Stay right there for me.”
You do. You come again, messier, thighs trembling, a broken sob scraping out of you as it hits. He snarls, driving you through it, and finally- finally- loses the last of his composure. His rhythm goes wild and perfect, hips shuddering, a bitten off groan against your neck as he buries himself deep and stays, eyes squeezed shut while it takes him.
Silence after, except for the hammer of both your breaths and the faint tick of the baseboard heater.
He stays inside you while he comes down, mouth softening against your shoulder, hand smoothing over your thigh like he’s easing you back into your body. When he finally slips free you feel empty and sweet and wrecked, nerves buzzing everywhere he’s touched.
He rolls you onto your back and props himself on an elbow, studying you like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in years. Hair ruined. Mouth swollen. Eyes glassy.
For a long, thick moment, there’s only breath. Your sweat slicked chest pressed to his. His thumb smoothing thoughtlessly at the back of your hip like he’s cataloging you to memory.
“Worth your while?” you manage, voice wrecked.
He huffs a laugh that’s almost tender. “There it is. The mouth.”
“I kicked your wall.”
“Mm.” His lips tilt. “I heard.”
You drag him down by the back of the neck and kiss him once, slow. “Worth mine,” you say against his mouth. “And then some.”
He exhales like that does something to him. “Good.”
He gets up long enough to grab a towel, cleans you with a gentleness that makes your throat tight, then tosses it aside and hauls you into his chest.
You lie there listening to the steadying thud of his heart, the quiet of the room, the hush on the other side of the wall.
After a while, you tip your head back. “Do you think…” You flush, suddenly shy in the wake of your own audacity. “Do you think you could… show me again? Not now. I mean- yeah, now, if you want- but also… again.”
He smiles slow and wolfish, eyes warm in a way you’ve never seen on him in the hallway. “Love, I’m on leave.” He kisses your temple. “I plan on sleepin’. But I plan on keepin’ you up, too.”
You snort into his chest. “Very neighborly.”
“Public service,” he says solemnly. “Educational.”
You elbow him; he bites your shoulder, playful, and you squeal and swat at him, and somehow you’re laughing together in his wrecked bed like you didn’t just redraw your whole life across eight inches of plaster.
Pt. 2 to this.
Careful what you wish for.
TF141 x reader
+18 mdni
TW: Heavy smut warning !!!!
Honestly, you didn’t know what had completely possessed you to suggest such a thing. Maybe it was the crushing lack of sleep, or perhaps the raw adrenaline of finally making it back to the safe house alive. But before you even realized the gravity of what you were doing, you were standing entirely bare in front of four hardened men whose intense stares burned into your skin with a nasty, unyielding need.
A volatile mix of too much testosterone and months of touch deprivation had completely sealed your fate. You knew exactly what they had in store for you.
With a slow, deliberate movement, you freed your hair from the towel, allowing the damp, dark strands to cascade down your bare shoulders. You watched with a smug satisfaction as the four of them stood entirely frozen, practically vibrating with tension as they waited to see who would dare make the first move.
Deciding to set the pace, you sauntered over to Gaz. His eyes were darting frantically between your bare breasts and the floor—a nervous little lamb caught in a trap. You stepped directly into his space and wrapped your hand firmly around his clothed erection.
A sharp, ragged groan tore from his throat the second you palmed the thick length of him through the fabric. A wicked smirk caught the edge of your lips as you watched him completely crumble from the faintest touch.
“Aww, I think little Gazzy boy is enjoying this, hmm?” you teased in a low, mocking tone. The taller man’s face scrunched up with pure pleasure, his hips instinctively bucking a fraction of an inch into your palm.
The other three just stood there, completely entranced as they watched you handle their teammate through his tight cargos. Almost in unison, their hands instinctively dropped to their own fronts, desperately trying to relieve the uncomfortable, suffocating tightness in their pants.
Before Gaz could pull away, you smashed your lips into his. A soft moan escaped your throat as his tongue immediately fought yours for dominance, tasting of raw hunger and desperation.
The dingy room only offered an old, weathered mattress resting flat on the floor, but it was more than enough for what you had planned for your boys.
“Strip,” you commanded, pulling back from the kiss just enough to look Gaz in the eye.
Without a single second thought, he scrambled to tear off his heavy tactical layers. You turned your attention to the remaining three, who were already standing there with their dicks practically in their hands, and gave them a sharp, commanding gesture to do the exact same.
As the clothes began to fly, you caught Simon about to pull his balaclava over his head. You stepped in immediately, your hand arresting his movement.
“Ah, ah, big boy. I want you to keep that on. Can you do that for me?” you murmured. You pulled the dark fabric back down into place, locking your gaze onto his wide, dark eyes before leaning down to press a slow, deliberate line of kisses down his heavily scarred chest.
Ghost could only nod eagerly, his massive frame shivering as he stood there, wanting nothing more than to completely lose himself in your touch.
As you continued to trail sloppy, hot kisses down Ghost’s chest, a strong pair of hands suddenly locked onto your hips from behind.
“Are you sure about this, Sergeant?” Price’s deep, raspy voice rumbled directly into your ear. His hot breath tickled your skin as you tilted your head to the right, leaning into his touch. “Because once we start, there won’t be any backing out. Not after you let us in.”
“I think I know what I’m doing, Captain,” you cockily retorted, though the sudden friction of his thick cock rubbing right against your bare ass sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.
Price didn't hesitate. His heavy hands traveled up from your hips to the swell of your breasts, his thumbs ruthlessly pinching your hyper-sensitive nipples. Your back arched instantly from the pleasure of it, which only served to push your aching body closer into Simon’s space. Ghost took full advantage, his thick fingers slipping down between your thighs to tease your soaking folds, extracting a breathless string of moans from your lips.
“Aye, don’t you two go having all the fun here,” a gruff Scottish accent cut through the dark room. Soap stood just a few feet away, his eyes wild as he stroked himself, completely transfixed by the sight of you already coming apart under your superiors' touch.
“Easy, MacTavish,” Simon growled darkly, his fingers still rhythmically playing with your slick, needy entrance. “Why don’t you and Gaz break her in for us?”
He looked down at you through the eyeholes of his mask, a dangerous glint in his stare. “She’s going to need all the preparation she can get.”
Ghost chuckled darkly, finally pulling his hand away and stepping back to let his two sergeants have their way with you. The pure gravity of his remark stirred an unsettling, intoxicating wave of excitement deep in your stomach. Before you could even process it, Price let out a low laugh and delivered a harsh, echoing smack to your bare ass, causing your entire body to jolt forward.
You didn't even have time to register the shifting movement in the room before Johnny’s hungry hands locked onto your waist, lifting you effortlessly and pinning you flat against the weathered mattress.
Soap flipped you onto your stomach with terrifying ease, his rough hands immediately kneading the soft flesh of your ass as he admired the stark red handprint left behind by the captain.
“What’s it gonna be, Gaz? Heads or tails?” Johnny joked darkly, his voice thick with a heavy, predatory amusement.
Gaz didn't bother answering with words. He walked over to the head of the mattress and dropped to his knees, lining his swollen tip up mere inches from your face. He reached down, tangling a fistful of his fingers into your hair while his rough thumb stroked your cheek.
Any trace of his previous nervousness was entirely gone, replaced by a dominant, sinister look that made your insides coil tightly, leaving you completely soaked.
“Nah, I think heads suits me just fine, Soapy boy,” Gaz murmured, a dark grin spreading across his face. Without a shred of warning, he shoved his length deep into your mouth, forcing you straight down to the base.
Your eyes widened at the sudden, suffocating fullness. A muffled gasp caught in your chest as you choked slightly, your throat struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him.
“Not so bratty now, are we, princess?” Gaz mocked in a tone of faux sympathy. Clamping both hands around your head with a crushing grip, he began guiding his cock down your throat at an unforgiving, relentless pace.
Behind you, Soap wasted absolutely no time. He lined himself up with your slick entrance, dragging his swollen tip along your wet folds until your entire body shivered with desperate need. With a heavy, deliberate shove, he buried himself inside you, completely stretching out your tight little walls.
The sudden, overwhelming blend of burning friction and fullness made your eyes roll back, an involuntary moan vibrating directly against Gaz’s cock. The tight constriction of your throat made Gaz grunt, his teeth biting into his lower lip from the sheer intensity of the feeling.
“That’s it, lass. Good little slut for us, aren’t you?” Soap grunted. He delivered a hard, encouraging pat to your thigh before gripping your hips in an iron hold, instantly picking up a brutal, rhythmically punishing pace.
You were quite the sight—stretched and thoroughly used at both ends by your fellow sergeants, completely caught in the middle of their raw, unbridled hunger. From the shadows of the room, Price and Ghost could only stand and watch. Their dark eyes were completely fixated on the chaotic spectacle, slowly stroking themselves in heavy anticipation for their own turn to completely ruin you.
Drool escaped the corner of your lips as you continued to take Kyle deep into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you looked up at him through tear-stained, lustful eyes. The visual alone was enough to push Gaz straight over the edge.
“S-shit, you’re fucking enjoying this, aren’t you? Such a fucking slut” he panted, his chest heaving.
You let out a muffled, wicked little giggle around his length in response, which only caused his thrusts to become entirely erratic. His head snapped back in pure pleasure, his face completely scrunched up as he released a hot, heavy load straight down your throat. He kept his hands locked in your hair, holding himself deep in your mouth to ride out his high and ensure you swallowed every single drop of his cum.
Behind you, Johnny was close behind. His brutal thrusts were becoming sluggish and heavy, his deep, guttural grunts echoing off the dingy walls as his climax neared.
The moment Kyle finally pulled out of your mouth, Soap gripped your hips and flipped you over onto your back, pulling his twitching cock out just in time to release all over your chest. You let out a shaky moan, watching the sticky, white substance coat your sensitive breasts. You dipped a finger into the mess, licking it off your skin as Johnny milked himself dry above you.
“That’s it, lass. Rub it all over that pretty body,” Soap growled, his voice thick and raw. He reached up, his firm hand wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you into a deep, bruising kiss, forcing you to taste his juices on your own tongue as you submissively allowed him to invade your mouth one last time.
You lay there flat on the weathered mattress, completely fucked out and floating in a haze of pure bliss—entirely unaware that you weren’t even close to being done.
From the shadows, the two older men stepped forward, stalking over to the edge of the bed like apex predators finally cornering their prey.
“Why don’t you lads go get cleaned up,” Price instructed. His voice was entirely calm, but it carried the unyielding weight of an order rather than a suggestion. Before either sergeant could even think to protest, they gathered their gear and slipped out of the room, quiet, satisfied smirks plastered across their faces.
Then, the door clicked shut, leaving you entirely at the mercy of your Captain and Lieutenant.
You could only let out a weak, breathy whimper as you looked up at the two men standing over you, their expressions dark with a terrifying, unyielding intensity. Your naked body was utterly dwarfed by their massive, towering builds, and the stark contrast only added to the frantic nervousness fluttering in your chest.
You knew right then and there that they had absolutely no intention of being gentle with you.
Dropping to your knees between them, you were completely caged by their sheer size. Their heavy, scarred hands began to roam freely over your already exhausted body—tugging at your waist, squeezing your hips, and delivering sharp, possessive slaps to your breasts that wrung helpless mewls of pleasure from your lips.
“Captain, I—”
You were cut off instantly by a sharp, stinging slap to your cheek. It wasn't enough to truly hurt, but the force of it was more than enough to put you directly in your place and let you know exactly who owned the room now.
“It’s Daddy to you, little miss,” Price commanded sternly.
His thick fingers clamped around your jaw, his thumb roughly forcing its way past your lips. Driven by the sudden, intoxicating shift in the dynamic, you immediately began to suck on his thumb, your wide, needy eyes locking onto his.
With his free hand, he reached down and pinched your nipple, calloused fingers rolling the hyper-sensitive bud so ruthlessly that a muffled yelp escaped around his thumb.
“Use your words, little miss,” his voice dropped to a deep, gravelly rasp.
“Y-yes, Daddy,” you managed to choke out, your chest heaving as you looked up at him through long lashes.
A low, gruff voice from directly behind you pulled you right out of your dazed thoughts. “Here’s how it works, dove,” Simon murmured, his tone cold, commanding, and absolutely unyielding.
“Since you were brave enough earlier to pull that stunt, we're going to see just how much you really mean it. You won’t disappoint us, right, little one?”
It was terrifying how easily you crumbled into a desperate, eager-to-please mess the second Ghost gave you an instruction. But before you could even nod, a massive, gloved hand slid between your thighs, finding your over-stimulated nub and pinching it firmly.
“What did we say about using your words, princess?” Simon warned, his voice vibrating against your back.
“Y-yes, s-sir… I’ll b-be so good,” you breathlessly choked out, completely undone by the agonizingly beautiful pressure building all over again.
"Good girl", Simon praised from behind.
Price lay back on the mattress, his dark eyes fixed on your trembling form as Simon lifted you with effortless, terrifying strength, guiding you directly over the captain’s waiting cock.
If you had thought Gaz and Soap were big, you were in for a brutal, rude awakening.
Price’s large hands clamped securely onto your hips, providing the leverage to slowly and unyieldingly ease you down onto his massive, twitching size. He stretched your tight walls like nothing you had ever experienced before.
Panicking from the sheer fullness of him, you instinctively tried to pull away and escape, but the iron grip on your hips held you completely paralyzed in mid-air, forcing you to take him.
“That’s it, pretty girl. Nearly there,” Price cooed, his breath hitching as he felt your tight, aching muscles convulsively swallow him down, forcing you to sink all the way onto his terrifying length.
Your aching core finally bottomed out against him, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. But just as you thought the worst of the stretching was over, Simon’s massive hands slid around your waist, adjusting your posture and tilting your hips forward.
His heavy palm pressed flat against your spine, pinning you in place as he lined himself up directly at your tight backdoor entrance. His tip was already leaking pre-cum with anticipation, rubbing in small, maddening circles against the hyper-sensitive skin of your second hole. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact.
“Be a good girl and breathe in for me, dove,” Simon murmured darkly.
Before you could even draw air into your lungs, a sharp, burning fullness invaded your lower half as he shoved himself straight inside you without an ounce of warning.
Your head flew back, your eyes rolling to the ceiling as a breathless, ragged scream died in your throat. The absolute pressure of having both of your superiors' cocks stretching both holes simultaneously was overwhelming. If it was even possible, Simon felt even larger and thicker than Price—which shouldn't have been surprising given the sheer, beastly size of the Lieutenant.
You were practically seeing stars. Your mind completely whited out as the two older men began a brutal, unyielding rhythm, bullishly pistoning in and out of your poor, tired holes with a relentless, synchronised force.
Your legs were shaking violently at this point, entirely spent and completely unable to keep you steady. But you didn't have to worry about collapsing; two sets of massive, heavily calloused hands held you in an iron vice, keeping you firmly locked in place as they thoroughly broke you in.
“Fuck…” Simon started
“That’s it. You’re so fucking good for us, little dove,” Simon growled, his deep voice vibrating right through your back. The raw praise only amped up your bliss, making your head spin. With what little strength you had left, you leaned back against his massive chest, hooking a tired arm around his neck to pull him even closer into you.
“Knew she would make us proud,” Price beamed, his eyes completely transfixed on your flushed, completely fucked-out face. He gripped your hips even tighter, brutally picking up the pace from below.
The room was filled with the lewd, echoes of wet friction and heavy skin slapping against skin, completely drowning out your strangled moans.
“F-fuck… i-it’s too m-much,” you practically begged, your voice cracking as you felt that familiar, tight knot in your stomach winding up all over again.
But your desperate pleas only encouraged your superiors to push you even harder, driving you right over the cliff.
Before you could even process the sensory overload, your climax tore through you yet again. Your entire body went completely limp against Simon, your muscles twitching helplessly. There was no physical way you could keep this up, but the two men had absolutely no intention of letting you off the hook just yet.
“What do you think, Cap? I think she’s got at least one more in her, don’t you agree?” Ghost asked. His breath was ragged and hot against your ear, and you felt his large, heavy hand slide up to wrap firmly around your neck, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to restrict your breath and force your head back against his shoulder.
The sudden restriction of oxygen made your vision blur with stars, your pulse hammering frantically against his palm as your tight, overstimulated cunt convulsed around them.
“Think you’re right, Lieutenant,” Price panted, his dark eyes darkening further as he watched your helpless, choked-up expression.
With that, their rhythm became even more brutal than before, their heavy bodies pistoning in a relentless, synchronized assault.
All three of you were completely slick with sweat now.
Simon kept his iron grip on your throat, using his other hand to reach around your torso, finding your hyper-sensitive, throbbing clit and rolling it at an evil, unforgiving pace that made you screech out a muffled cry.
At the same time, Price leaned up, capturing one of your sensitive nipples between his teeth and sucking hard enough to leave a deep, dark bruise.
You had never experienced this much overwhelming pleasure in your entire life. Somehow, your body found a second wind, and you crashed into another shattering orgasm—so intense you genuinely thought you were going to explode.
Both men were right behind you. With a final few deep, punishing thrusts, they both let out guttural roars, spilling their hot, heavy cum deep inside your holes, completely filling you to the brim.
As they finally pulled out, your legs gave way entirely. They gently lowered your trembling, spent body onto the weathered mattress before stepping back and standing up.
Lying flat on your back, you could only blink through the haze, admiring their toned, god-like statures. They stood panting in the dim light, their skin glistening with a mixture of sweat and your own slick juices as they proudly admired their handiwork.
“You did well, Sergeant,” Simon murmured, his voice returning to its usual quiet rumble. “Maybe that'll teach you to not be a brat in the future”, he teased, turning to leave the room to grab you a glass of water in a merciful attempt to bring you back down to reality.
“Think this should probably become a regular team-building exercise,” Price panted, chuckling to himself as he followed closely behind the Lieutenant.
You lay there frozen on the mattress, your muscles twitching as you tried to comprehend what the absolute fuck had just happened—while secretly hoping this was far from the last time they’d break you in.
Hi guys! Since the last post got so much love, it motivated me so much that I've made another Andrei Nolan drawing! (fanart:)
Sorry if the photo Is a bit blurry, the camera isn't so good:'), by the way, to keep it safe and with all the details, I might line-art it with some colour, might look cooler too! but that's for another time:)
Okay, Okay, Fine, I'll Make A COD Blog! @wildcaughtcod - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
