Stress Relief, Older man/younger woman, semi public sex,
Robby has a bad day at work, you wear his favourite skirt when you visit him, smut ensues.
Don't Let This Body Be My Tomb, three-part series, older man/younger woman, hurt/comfort, reader has endometriosis and suicidal tendencies, eventual smut.
Robby only wanted to help manage your pain. He was not ready to discover the depths of your hurt, but now that he knows, he will not let you suffer it along a single second longer.
Watching Robby sit on his bike and use his shirt to wipe sweat off his face, revealling his squishy, hairy, sexy belly was really all it tookâŠ
Rabbot x fem!reader
Their perfect girl, mean!dom!Jack, soft!dom!Robby, hair-pulling, degradation and praise kink,
You love being Jack and Robby's perfect little slut
Jack Abbot x fem!reader
Semper fi, ongoing series, Slow Burn, Eventually Sexually Explicit Content, Grief, PTSD, reader is a badass alt!girly, widow and has an adorable little daughter Jack adores right away,
You come to PTMC as the new nightshift attending, to escape grief, trauma and social expectations that never fit you. Penance for the darkness casting a large shadow over your past.
Jack is instantly smitten, he tells himself it's just natural protectiveness any serviceman would feel towards a military widow.
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⥠Mama's Gonna Give You Love (11k) | Hardly able to take her eyes or attention off of you for months, Baran finally takes the initiative to break the ice you seem so intent on keeping frozen between you. When she proves herself to be someone you can finally trust your heart with, she makes an offer to Robby as well to join her in loving you, as she only wants for you to be happy and content.
BRENDON PARK
⥠Just One Taste (10.1k) | The moment he sets his eyes on you, Dr. Brendon Park is sickened by how soft and weak you seem. As such, he makes it a personal mission to get under your skin every time he crosses your path as revenge for you invading his every thought. Intoxicating little thing that you are, however, he can hardly get enough... Despite his efforts to the contrary.
FRANK LANGDON | ( DRABBLES )
⥠You Can't Keep Me Away From Her (7.6k) | During his time off for rehab, Frank keeps in contact with you to keep up with the goings-on at PTMC. But when things go from bad to worseâAbby threatening divorce & a custody battle over their children, him continually relapsing, & the worry that if he can't get & stay clean, then he may lose his license & job as a wholeâhe begins to lay his baggage at your feet when he believes you to be all he has left. What begins as you trying to be a good friend ends in you running to Robby for help when you begin to fear for your safety due to Langdon's obsession.
JACK ABBOT
⥠As in Angelfish (2.5k) | When Dr. Park is called down to the ED for a consult, Jack's jealousy is riled when he gets a little too familiar with you, & you're then made to spend the rest of the evening reassuring him that you belong to one man only.
⥠Constantly On My Mind (4.3k) | You & Jack have both pined after one another since day one. Due to always believing the other to be disinterested, however, it's led to resentment, jealousy, & hurt on both sides. Just when he thinks he's about to lose you, Jack traipses up to the roof to fix things before any chance he might've once had with you is gone for good.
⥠I Care About Her, Too (3.4k) | After a patient attacks & strangles you, you're put on a short leave of absence so you can recover in peace. When you return to PTMC, you stay practically glued to Robby's side. Jealous, Abbot tries keeping his distanceâgranting you time & space, so as to allow you to come to him when you're ready to discuss the events of that day... Which he emerged from with bloody knuckles on your behalf.
⥠I'll Come Running Part I (1.6k) & Part II (1.9k) | When an unspeakable truth becomes apparent at workâthat you're harming yourselfâJack refuses to let the issue slide when he has a private heart-to-heart with you in the women's restroom. Later does there come a night when you relapse & pick up the phone to call the only person you know to. As promised, he races to your side to take care of you.
⥠It's Your House Too (1.9k) | What starts out as a cozy night in while Jack & Robby watch a Steelers game on TV soon sends you spiraling because of their endless shouting at coaches & players who can't hear them. You step out in attempt to calm yourself down & end up making nervous wrecks out of each of them when they can't find you.
⥠Let Me Be That for You (2.5k) | What begins as a good day with a service dog visiting the Pitt because it's still in training nearly ends with you being admitted as you spiral during a horrible panic attack outside, due to believing that you're going to soon be without a place to live. Until Jack rectifies the situation.
⥠Tell Me What You Feel (2.2k) | After another grueling shift, you feel like you're at your wit's end. On the verge of a mental break & about to make an irreversible decision, Jack finds you on the rooftop & talks you down... Both literally & metaphorically.
⥠That's What I'm Here For (3.8k) | Due to seasonal depression, your own self-care, & accuracy at work both begin to suffer. Unwilling to stand by while you're put through the wringer for the next few months until spring rolls around again, Jack takes it upon himself to look after you in the meantime.
⥠Things a Man Provides (4.3k) | After catching you on Tinder at work, Jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. Learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.
⥠To the Rescue (2.3k) | A patient presents with alcohol poisoning when she's brought into PTMC after getting rowdy at a bar. Jack attempts to treat her & when she gets physical... You see red & go to an extreme length to defend your husband.
⥠While You Were Sleeping (2.8k) | When a med student accidentally sticks you with an anesthetic intended for a patient, Jack sits with you until its effects wear off to ensure you don't have an allergic reaction. While under the effects of the drug, you make many confessions which he finds to be both entertaining and endearing.
⥠You Come First (3.2k) | When a patient attacks you & embeds a scalpel in your abdomen, you go to Jack for help. Overwhelmed & irritable, he snaps at you to go find someone else for whatever it is which you're running to him for. Once Robby has tended to your injury, he informs Jack of how he royally screwed up & your husband comes home after his shift to make amends.
⥠You Have to Lean On Me (2k) | All you've ever known is emotionally invalidating & abusive relationships. As such, bottling up your emotions comes firsthand to you now. The damage it's wrought comes to a head one night on the roof of PTMC, where Jack finds you falling apart on a familiar ledge.
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH | ( DRABBLES | SMAU )
⥠I Need You (2.3k) | Able only to find relief between your legs, Robby expects to be given access to what lies between them each night after walking through the door after a traumatic day at work. Now sore because his beard has rubbed you raw, you think to tell him to wait a few days, until he insists. And when he looks at you like that...how can you deny him anything?
⥠Right Where I Need to Be (12.6k) ; Headcanons | When Robby goes on sabbatical, he asks you to watch his house for him. You agree & spend the next two months looking after the space while he's away on his road trip. It's only when he returns & completely latches onto you that you become aware of the feelings he's been harboring for apparent years & find yourself reluctant to tell him no in anythingâto the point of lying to protect his feelingsâbecause he's become so unstable.
⥠The Right Thing (6.7k) | When you present to Dr. Robby with clear signs of domestic abuse, his efforts to try & convince you to report your abuser to law enforcement fall upon deaf ears. Knowing that once you leave PTMC, you may wind up in a morgue next, he takes a drastic step to save you by offering you a room in his house.
⥠Time May Forgive Me (6.2k) | Feeling like he's slipping away from himself, Robby pushes you away as well, thinking that he's saving you from an ugly fate at his side. Being one who is unable to let go once you've fully committed, however, you both end up headed down a dangerous road when you discover exactly why he eventually purchases his Bonneville.
⥠We On for Tonight? (9.4k) | What begins as mistakenly sending an erotic video to your boss late at night eventually blooms into something more when he makes clear that he's very much interested in taking over the role of being your late-night hookup when you're at home & looking for a bit of fun over the phone. But with you both being lonely, it was never just going to be some casual fling.
⥠Whatever Dada Wants (3.8k) | When you accidentally slip up at work and refer to Robby by a paternal nickname, you shut down from embarrassment. Unfazed, however, he encourages you to continue doing so in the future if it provides you with a feeling of stability in the workplace... And then he takes things outside of it.
⥠You Can't Keep Me Away From Her (7.6k) | During his time off for rehab, Frank keeps in contact with you to keep up with the goings-on at PTMC. But when things go from bad to worseâAbby threatening divorce & a custody battle over their children, him continually relapsing, & the worry that if he can't get & stay clean, then he may lose his license & job as a wholeâhe begins to lay his baggage at your feet when he believes you to be all he has left. What begins as you trying to be a good friend ends in you running to Robby for help when you begin to fear for your safety due to Langdon's obsession.
RABBOT ( Robby x Reader x Abbot) | ( DRABBLES | SMAU )
⥠Happy Birthday, Sweetheart (2.3k) | When the day of your birthday rolls around, no one but you seems to know about it. What you'd hoped would be a good day ends in upset when Robby lays into you for making a mistake. Come the following afternoon, he & Jack are made aware of how they screwed up & make strides to set things right.
⥠How a Woman's Body Works (3.3k) | Due to accidentally syncing your period tracking app to your work email, the entire ED is notified when you begin ovulating. Unable to not do something about it, Robby & Jack get you alone & all to themselves after work in a dark parking lot so they can tend to your needs.
⥠Maybe if We'd Met First Part I (3.6k) & Part II (2.7k) | Tired of Robby's calling you pet names & referring to himself as a sort of surrogate husband, Jack pulls him aside for a chat about the unwanted behavior. When Robby begins to drift away because of it, you try to fix the situation. Unsuccessful in your endeavors, however, Jack finally admits a hard to admit truth to the both of you which shifts your dynamic from one extreme...to the other.
⥠People Who Love You (3.4k) | Seeing that Robby is at the end of his rope, but also the way he looks at youâliked you're the last buoy in a sea with no shore on the horizonâJack makes a decision: not to be selfish with you, but to instead share with his best friend, and the man he considers a brother, hoping that maybe by loving you, too, he can be pulled out of the dark abyss he finds himself trapped in.
⥠We're Here Now (5.4k) | Broken & hopeless, you let go of the prospect of living. But like so many others who made a heartbreaking decision in a moment of absolute darkness, your mind changes. When Jack tries to save you...will he succeed?
⥠You Have to Choose (8.5k) | Due to initially undisclosed reasons, Jack begins berating you at every turnâeventually making you afraid of his very presence, his emotional abuse becomes so extreme. Robby eventually moves you to the dayshift with him so you & Abbot can get some needed distance between you. But with his mental state worsening & you being the only spot of sunshine left in the perpetual darkness Robby's life has become, your situation goes from bad to worse when you get caught between them.
⥠You Wish This Were Him? (2.2k) | What begins as a simple FaceTime call on an iPad ends with you, Jack, & Robby all orgasming together as loving admissions are made.
Livin' La Vida Loca - Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader x Jack Abbot
Summary: Jack insinuates his casual fling may be open to Robby joining them, effectively short-circuiting his best friend's brain.
Word Count: 298
Warnings: Implied smut, reader referred to as she/her, polyamory talks, flustered! and emotionallyconstipated!Robby, flirting
Song/Lyric Prompt: Livin' La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin / Once you've had a taste of her you'll never be the same
Jack recognizes his bestie could use some -- ahem -- stress relief and god, these two could use me as stress relief any time they damn well please. What is it about two older men, hmm? The world may never know. As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are super appreciated!
June Jukebox Scribbles Event
My June Jukebox Masterlist
"You couldn't wait until after hours to tell me that?" Robby demanded of Jack, feeling the heat rise along his neck as he and Jack leaned against the hub. The conversation had meandered off of shift handoff and onto Jack's latest "hobby" â you.
The two of you were casually seeing each other and apparently had wildly incredible sex in the on-call room last night while it was slow.
"Technically it is after hours for me. I'm telling you, brother," Jack said lowly, "Once you've had a taste of her, you'll never be the same."
"You say that like I even have a chance. Sounds like she's got her hands full with you," Robby commented nonchalantly when inside he was grasping at the shred of a hint of a chance that Jack presented.
If you had someone as solid, as trustworthy, as exciting as Jack Abbot, what could you possibly see in Michael "Emotionally Shut Down, Don't Even Ask" Robinavitch?
"She's got two hands, man. Not like we haven't talked about it," Jack hinted, leaning in closer to him.
Robby scoffed, "Bullshit."
"Why don't you ask her," Jack said just as you appeared on the opposite side of Robby from Jack.
"Ask me what?" you asked, exchanging one iPad for another. Your eyes were bright despite working all night.
"About what you and I were talking about last night," Jack said, his smug grin made Robby want to disappear. He was positive his entire face was red now.
Your face brightened once you caught on. The look in your eyes went from 'professional' to 'downright sinful' in a matter of seconds, which had his blood flowing south.
"You're welcome any time, Robby," you said, letting your fingers brush the back of his hand before going right back to work.
Pairing - cherry popper!Michael âRobbyâ Robinavitch x f!virgin reader
Summary - Robby accidentally overhears your conversation with Trinity about you being a virgin, dirty old man has to get his hands on you.
Warnings - SMUT, protected p in v, fingering & oral (f receiving), use of vibrator, no use of y/n
Notes - kinda bad, proofread but seems rushed ? let me know your thoughts !
ââââââ
For months youâd hear Santos talk about her casual hookups with Garcia, how good the orgasms were, youâd nod in acknowledgment, not knowing what to say, how to react, sometimes youâd just scoff in disbelief at the words that would come out of her mouth.
âI mean come on, Iâm sure youâve had a mind blowing orgasm or two in your lifeâ she said staring at the patient board before looking over to you.
You stayed silent, not sure what to say, with a stack of papers between your hands as you pressed your lips together, putting the stack down on the surface in front of you before looking at her with a blank stare.
Her eyes grew wide, her lips formed an âOâ, âoh my god, youâre a virgin ?!â She exclaimed
âJesus fucking Christ, Trinity. Please, announce it to the entirety of the hospital through the PA system while youâre at itâ you said panicked
You looked around the hospital, checking to see if anyone had heard you, only having Robby a few feet away but he seemed too entranced by his charting, Mel and Whitaker were too busy chatting on the opposite side of him.
âYes, Trin, I am in fact a virgin, and what the fuck about it ?â Your hands on your hips, waiting for a response.
âHey, never said anything bad about being a virgin, just took me by surprise is allâ she held her hands out in defense, âbut thereâs a sex shop down the street from the bar if youâre ever interested in a vibrator of sortsâ, she said as she walked away
Being a virgin was never something you felt ashamed or embarrassed about, if anything, you were indifferent to it, youâve had a few relationships which of course never lasted more than a week or two due to your busy schedule, hookups that fell through, the time would come when it would come.
ââââââ
The rest of your shift was tense, you found yourself assigned to every case that Robby was working on, he was more touchy than usual. His hand would find your waist, your hips, guiding your hand or elbow during a procedure, praising you for doing your job.
Robby couldnât help himself, having overheard your conversation with Trinity, it intrigued him, part of him felt like a dirty old man, you were one of his favorites, not for any particular reason other than the fact that you were wonderful to work with, fun to have around, hardworking, etc.
Now, all he could think about was your tight little virgin pussy. All the sounds he could draw from you, how soaking wet youâd be just by a few light touches, the way your pussy would stretch around his thick cock, he could have you clenching around his thick cock as he fucked into you, begging him to go harder, faster, as you gasped into his ear. A dream it would be to him.
ââââââ
Later that night, you found yourself driving to the bar, walking down the street, your eyes were met with pink and green neon signs, you took a second to collect yourself, thinking if this was a good idea at all, you finally took a deep breath before swinging the door open, the bell announcing your arrival to the salesperson.
Every inch of the shop was abundantly decorated with all of sorts of things, dildos in various sizes, ropes, gags, whips, everything you could think of, it was hanging all over the walls, you felt overwhelmed.
âHey there, anything I can help you with ?â The lady said with a smile.
You looked over, part of you wanted to ask for help, but you were overcome with shyness. âIâm good, thank you thoughâ you said before turning your eyes back to the wall.
You walked through the store, hands grabbing at things, reading the descriptions, you eventually came across the vibrator section, eyeing the wall up and down, wands, vibrating dildos, some disguised as makeup products, your eyes finally landing on the popular rose toy, grabbing it off the hook before walking over to the lingerie section.
The pinks, purples and red colors of the delicate lace of the lingerie caught your attention, you laughed to yourself as you shuffled through the various pieces, crotchless panties, bras with ribbon that tied right in front of the nipples. The doorbell rang again, not bothering to look to see who else had walked into the store, you were too intrigued by the beautiful colors of the lingerie. Finally settling on two different styles, one set with crotchless panties and the other full coverage, both with their own garter set.
You browsed a little more, the sales lady sparked a conversation with the other customer.
âJust this for you tonight, sir ?â She asked.
âYup..just theseâ he responded, looking around the store, his eyes stopped when he met your familiar figure.
Your ears perked up at the familiar voice, you looked up, your eyes found him
âHey, you, whatâre you doin here ?â He said with a friendly smile
âIâum, Trinity recommended me this placeâ you said stuttering through your words. You approached the checkout counter slowly, it felt like you were walking on eggshells, you felt awkward, being in the same sex shop as your attending, not to mention the items you held.
Robby looked down to your hands, seeing what you were carrying. âYou know what, Iâll get these tooâ he said grabbing your things, handing them to the lady for her to scan. He looked over his shoulder, âStep out, Iâll be outside in a minuteâ, you scoffed, but did as he said.
You stepped out, the warm air washed over your body, leaning against the wall of the store. Finally, the bell rang, turning over to see Robby as he exited, immediately snatching the bag out of his hands.
âWhyâd you do that ?â You questioned Robby, arms crossed over your chest.
Did he want to make up a stupid excuse or tell you the truth ? The truth about how he overheard your conversation from earlier, knowing youâd possibly stop by after work and heâd hopefully invite you back to his place ? Or that he just conveniently had to come to a sex shop rather than a regular convenience store to pick up condoms ?
He nervously rubbed the nape of his neck, he contemplated his answer, âlisten, I um, I overheard your conversation with Trinityâ
You threw your hands up, he didnât have to say more for you to know where this conversation was headed. âOh, my god, Robby, fuckâso you knew Iâd be here ?â You looked at him in disbelief
âWell, there was the off chance that you would, I just, look, I didnât mean to eavesdrop on your conversation, but knowing what the conversation was about, I figured, I donât know, I could help ? Iâm a jack of all tradesâ, he replied
There was a loud silence between you both, Robby stood there nervously, waiting for you to answer, you thought carefully, he was your attending, you were his resident, was it really that bad of an idea if you hooked up once ? Finally lose your virginity to an experienced man ?
âOk, fine, but just this once, Robbyâ you finally answered.
You hopped into your car and drove behind him, noticing him glancing over at you through his side mirror, you arrived at his place, unbuckling your seatbelt, grabbing your bag as you exited your car, you stood behind him, the metallic sound as his keys jingled around, the place was dimly lit, it smelled of sandalwood, decorated with wooden furniture, hardwood floors, you expected nothing more from Robby.
âSo, can I offer you a drink or something ?â He turned his body awkwardly, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
âUh, no, Iâm good actuallyâ you said reluctantly, you walked through his home, the walls were decorated with picture frames, some with family and some with friends. You walked into the living room, finding a spot on the couch
âIâm guessing itâs just you in this place then ?â You said as you sat down
âMmhm, just meâ his hands patting against his pants as he walked over to the couch.
You both sat there in silence, your eyes wandered off to the rest of the room, before meeting his eyes that were already on you.
âSo, ever been with a virgin before then ?â You asked, studying his face
He chuckled at the question, catching him off guard, he scratched his beard. âIâuh, not sure actually, none that I was aware of anywayâ, he could sense your hesitation, the way you looked at him, twiddling with your earlobe. He scooted closer to you, placing a hand on your thigh
âLook, whether Iâve been with a virgin before or not, I will take my time with you, weâll stop if you want to stop, we can even stop now, if youâre unsureâ, he wanted you to feel safe, to feel confident and comfortable that this was what you wanted. That you wanted to lose your virginity to him.
He looked at you again, you looked hesitant, like you were contemplating your feelings, he wanted you to stay, to give yourself to him.
âWhereâs the bathroom ?â You said looking at him, he pointed to a door on the right side of the hallway, you got up quickly, grabbing the bag and hurrying into the bathroom.
You were in there for what felt like an eternity, he wondered if you were thinking of leaving. You shuffled through the bag, your hand glazing over a satin material, one you know you hadnât picked out yourself, you pulled everything out of the bag, finally pulling the satin material, a pink satin robe, lace decorating the sleeves and the hem, Robby had grabbed it when he asked you to step outside.
You quickly changed into one of your pieces of lingerie youâd picked out earlier, a pink one with flowers, ripping the tags off and slipping the robe on. Looking at yourself in the full body mirror, the way the thong accentuated your plump ass, the bra hugging your plush breasts so perfectly, the garters digging into your thighs just a tad bit.
You cracked the door open, peeking out to see if Robby was still on the couch, âclose your eyesâ, you announced.
âSorry, what ?â He answered, confused at your sudden request.
âI said close your eyes, Robbyâ you said again.
You stood there for a moment, âare they closed ?â You asked.
âUh, yeahâ he responded.
You stepped out of the bathroom, leaning your left side against the wall, you propped your left arm over your head, leaning your head against it, âso, you got me a robe too..â You said inquisitively
Robby opened his eyes, surprised by the image of you in your lingerie, âooohohoho, wow, you look, fucking incredibleâ his face beaming with a smile.
You walked over to him. Surprising both of you by straddling him, Robbyâs hands awkwardly in the air, not wanting to immediately throw his hands on you.
âSoooâŠIâm not entirely sure whatâs nextâ you said teasingly, placing your hands on his broad shoulders. You watched as his eyes traveled through your body, admiring the way your breasts sat in your bra, the way every bit of your body looked, he wanted to be inside you right then and there, but he wanted to make sure you felt comfortable with everything.
âCan I uhââ he swallowed thickly, âcan I kiss you ?â He finally asked. You nodded, almost too desperately for your liking.
His lips were on yours, heâd been wanting this since your conversation with Trinity, his hands traveling from your thighs to your ass, your hands wrapping around his neck, his lips moved from your jaw to your neck, nibbling on your sweet skin.
You cocked your head, allowing him more access, you moaned at the sensation, âfeel good, sweet girl ?â he muffled against your skin.
âUh-huhâ you said, throwing your head back as his lips approached your breast, you felt his cock hardening against your thigh.
âCome on, letâs get you into bedâ he carried you into his room, gently laying you down. His bathroom light allowed him to see how your pussy glistened from arousal.
âGod, I get to ruin you in lingerie ?â He teased at you, sitting up as he admired your body. He crept up to you, his lips reconnecting to yours, you grabbed at his shirt, pulling him closer, both of you moaned into the kiss, hungry for more.
He had a hand propped up next to your head, his other hand trailed over your thigh, his fingers grazed over your skin, slowly moving up to your soaking pussy, he broke the kiss for a moment, you panicked at the sudden change, staring into his eyes.
âCan I touch you ?â, he asked sweetly
You nodded, âyes, Robby please, been waitingâ, earning a smile from him.
His middle finger found your aching core, swiping his finger through your folds before making contact with your clit, your breath hitched at the contact, he smiled proudly at the sight beneath him, heâd barely touched you. He felt like there was something missing. Your vibrator. He quickly got up, shuffled through the bag in the other bathroom before sprinting back to you.
You sat up in the bed, confused about what he was doing, he hopped back into bed with you, pushing your chest down so your back was to the mattress again, hooking your legs over his shoulders, you felt his breath against your core, âgotta taste youâ, carefully moving your panties to the side, you felt the flat of his tongue as he licked a wet strip up your pussy.
You hitched your breath, your toes curled up against his body, âoh god, Robbyâ, his tongue dove into your pussy, he had you squirming under him, your hands threaded into his hair, pulling at it as he continued to devour you.
He came to a stop, you looked down, confused and saddened at the sudden stop, âwanna see you come with thisâ, he said holding your vibrator in his hand. He clicked on the button, the rapid sound of buzz filled the room, you werenât sure what to expect with your lack of experience.
All you know was that you were in pure ecstasy when the vibrator touched your clit, covering your mouth as you moaned, âlet me hear youâ Robby said as he watched you come undone. He was enthralled by you, it wasnât long before your first orgasm stained his bed sheets.
âRobby, please, Iâm ready for youâ you said eagerly
âGotta make sure she can take meâ, he laughed at your eagerness.
He reached over to this nightstand, grabbed a small black and gold packet, quickly ripping it open before rolling the condom onto his cock. He lined himself up against your entrance. He stared at you for a second before making another move, âplease tell me if it hurts at any pointâ, you nodded in response.
He slowly pushed the tip in, you winced at the slight pain, he stopped his movement, he searched your eyes, a tear or two pricking in your eyes, he panicked, waiting for you to tell him to stop or to keep going, something for him to know that you were okay, that everything was okay.
âIâmâIâm okay, Robby, just stings a littleâ you sniffled, wiping the tears away. You nodded when you felt ready again. âJust go all the way in, Robbyâ
He looked at you with uncertainty, âare, are you sure ?â He asked.
âYes, Robby, Iâm sureâ you wrapped your hands around his shoulders.
âBiiig stretchâ he said as he gently pushed himself all the way in, you winced at the stretch, your nails dug into his skin, âyour idea by the wayâ he said staring at your teary self.
You swatted his shoulder, âshut up, I thought it would be a good ideaâ, you tapped his shoulder once you felt ready. Feeling him pull out, only leaving the tip in before thrusting into you again.
Robby watched as you fell apart beneath him, the way your sweet pussy felt when you clenched around him whenever he hit your sweet spot, how your hand wrapped around his neck, gasping into his ear from the pleasure, he loved how you bit down on his shoulder as you attempted to muffle your moans.
âLet me hear you, babygirl. Let me hear how good Iâm making you feel, pleaseâ he pleaded
He thrusted into you harder, faster, he turned to look at you, watching as your eyes rolled back, âRobbyyy, oh fuckkk, justâlike thatâ
He felt you tightening around him, âcome for me, be a good girl and come for meâ
You let a guttural moan out, your body tensed around him, your body arched into his as you fell apart beneath him
âIâve got you, baby, Iâve got youâ he whispered, leaving peppered kisses all over your face, intertwining his hand with yours as he spilled into the condom.
You both laid there, Robby waited until he went soft to pull out, getting out of bed to dispose of the condom, you let out a quiet groan at his absence, he came back to bed, pulling you into his arms, allowing you to hear his heart beating.
âGood first time ?â He whispered
You burst into laughter at the sudden question. âYup, good first fuckin timeâ
And you both laid there until you drifted off to sleep
Pairing- Michael Robinavitch x Pedes Specialist!Reader
WC- 7.4k :OOO
Summary- Robby's let the first two months of your relationship pass by in a blink. When this realization dawns on him, he runs.
Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v sex, dacryphilia if you squint, angst + no happy ending (yet), jack being an accidental goof, robby being canon typical avoidant (asshole), cabin very inspired by ron swanson's in parks and rec funnily enough, very lightly proofread, let me know if i missed any!
A/N- this was not originally supposed to be a two parter. c'est la vie. divider from @cillmequick!
Pungent, searing onions pierce the atmosphere. Feet kicked up, you wrap your hands around a glass of chilled white wine and settle into Robby's expansive couch.
"You sure you're doing alright in there?" You call out, listening for his rummaging in the kitchen.
"Yeah, 'f course babe. Don't worry your pretty little head," he replies, sweet but distracted.
A frown twists your lips, though you decide to leave him be, stomach rumbling at the garlic he's now added to the dish.
You try to relax, though a lack of Robby is making it difficult. You take in the low light of the living room, the secluded, large windows of Robby's rural cabin.
A 45 minute drive from the city, he'd purchased the home during his sabbatical. You look out the sliding glass door, where you know a calm river greeted him each morning.
The thought fills you with peace, tears glossing your eyes at the thought of who he was before he took a break. He's still not perfect, but he's so much better. You want to see him through it all.
"Smells great, Mikey," you mention, craning your neck to try and sneak a glimpse of him.
"Thhhanks, babeâŠ" he trails off, distraction lacing his tone.
Your brow quirks, and you can't help but pad into the kitchen. It's a bit of a trek from his living room, the square footage of this place nothing to turn your head at.
"You sure you're okay?" You ask softly, and he jumps.
"Shit," he whispers, placing a large palm on his chest. "Scared me, baby," he says, but doesn't make eye contact.
Guilt pools in your stomach for scaring him, your eyes darting to the pan sizzling on the stove.
"Sorry, honey," you smile, softly nudging your way into the space.
You set your wine glass down with a soft clink, and press your hands into his lower back. You pinch the excess skin at his hips, reveling in his little flinch.
"Hey!" He playfully groans, prodding at the searing vegetables in the pan.
"Need any help in here?" You prop your chin on his back, arms wrapping around his sweet tummy.
You silently pray he can't feel the rapid beating of your heart pressing against him, the sheer proximity enough to make you dizzy.
He shakes his head, but nothing comes out of his mouth. This is his telltale sign that he's not communicating what he needs. He's working on it, but he was so excited to have you this weekend, to make you this meal.
You understand, but you're not standing for it. Your fingernails dig into the plush of his belly, giving him a menacing pinch. His spatula clatters against the counter, his hands white knuckling the marble counter top.
"BabyâŠ" you mumble against his back, "can I help?" It's quiet, neutral and unassuming.
He shrugs, shaking his head again. You huff, pressing a light kiss on his shoulder.
"Promise, baby," he mutters, giving you a small smile.
He reaches for your wine glass, placing it back in your hands and gently ushering you out of the kitchen.
"Go sit," he encourages with a pat on the ass. "I'm fine, promise."
You look back at him over your shoulder, an unsure smile on your lips as you pad back over to the couch.
You curl into the elaborate furniture, the plush cushions enveloping you. Your lips find the rim of your glass, your eyes straining to see as much of him as you can.
Your heart drops, though, when an unmistakable burning scent fills the air. You're on your feet quickly, rushing into the kitchen to find Robby, once again gripping the counter.
This time, he's hunched over a bit more, deep breaths wracking his chest over the pan of now burnt vegetables. He doesn't seem to register you, and you're frozen for a moment, unsure how to proceed.
You decide on a slow step, the creak in the floorboard alerting him to your presence. He jolts up, his face red and blotchy, eyes glossy. Your heart clutches at the sight, and you reach a hand out.
He tenses up at the action, but you persist. You lay a gentle hand on his forearm, and he rests back onto the counter.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "Should've said yes, I'm sorry."
You frown, stroking his arm.
"It's okay, you wanted to do it. I understand," you say, inching closer to him. He allows it. "I appreciate you."
He melts at this, and your belly warms at his small smile. His eyes find the ground beneath him, and you take this as an opportunity to act, before he can notice.
You slink over to the cupboard, grabbing a short glass and filling it up with ice. Twisting open the lid of his favorite scotch, the liquid glugs into the glass. The sound piques his interest, head flitting up to see what you're doing.
You walk toward him as he nears the edge of the kitchen where it meets the living room. He accepts the drink, lifting his brows while taking a sip. He doesn't fully give in so easily, though.
He rests a shoulder on the archway of the kitchen, glaring up at you through the you knew he'd refuse to leave you alone with a running stove and oven.
"Let me help you?" You attempt to meet in the middle.
You watch him rattle the idea around in his brain, shaking his head from side to side as he contemplates. Your heart picks up at the sight of him, warmth swirling in your belly at his sleepy eyes, his angular nose.
"Mkay," he relents, setting his scotch down next to your wine.
He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing your back to his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you melt back into him. His warmth is all encompassing, and you have to will yourself to stand strong.
He walks with you to the fridge, where you grab a new onion and fresh bulb of garlic. You're quick at work, dicing and slicing the vegetables to sear them anew.
The wretched burning smell is quickly overpowered by the aromatic scent once again. Michael relaxes behind you, pinching your hip slightly before checking the meat that's braising in the oven.
You allow yourself a peek behind your shoulder, the slight bend in his torso allowing you a perfect view of his backside. He always claims it's unimpressive, especially compared to yours, yet you can't help but enjoy every bit of him.
You show him so, turning to swat him on the ass with your kitchen towel. He stands up starkly, hands on his hips as he turns toward you, a smile stretching across his face. It's tight lipped, annoyed, but loving all the same.
Your smile is sparkling, and you revel in the pink tint of his cheeks. He saunters back to you, pulling him back to his chest whilst you move the vegetable pan off the burner.
"Thank you, baby," he croons in your ear, placing sweet, slow, seductive kisses along your neck.
There's a flutter between your legs as you settle into him, your head falling back onto his shoulder at his touch.
"MikeyâŠ" you moan, squeezing your thighs together as his hands run down your waist, your hips.
He kneads your plush skin, greedy fingers squeezing and pulling you closer to him.
"So pretty, baby," he mutters, placing one last kiss on your neck. "Gotta get the pasta ready."
He moves to the cabinet, a burst of cold air rushing through you at his absence. You lean down to grab a large pot, shock reverberating through you when he gets his payback, landing a loud smack on your ass.
"Michael!" You squeal, standing up to reach for your stinging behind.
He just shrugs, though his cheeks have been flushed this whole time.
"Can you blame me? You're so pretty, baby," he shoots you his best puppy dog eyes, his lips in a soft little pout.
"I could say the same for you," you quip back, filling up the pot with water.
You place it on the stove, burner turned on all the way to ensure a quick boiling point. A soft silence settles over you two, then, no longer a need to frantically flit around the shared space.
You find your wine glass, lifting it to your lips and taking a slow sip, your eyes never leaving his over the rim of the glass. You lean back on the counter, and he does the same, taking a sip of his scotch.
Tension settles between you, thick like rising steam. You take a deep inhale, heart racing at the mere sight of him. You trail your eyes up and down, committing his look tonight to memory.
He's got jeans on, they're snug, yet low on his hips. His white button up strains against his belly, and you sink your teeth into your lower lip. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and a bead of sweat pricks your forehead.
You look down at your own outfit, a navy blue dress that fits around your waist and flows down to your ankles, adorned with white polka dots, matched with white kitten heels.
Your eyes find his, just to see him devouring you the same way you did earlier. Your cheeks burn at the heat of Robby's gaze, worrying if this is too much. Your relationship is still new, still not official, though you've been slowly embedding yourselves into each other's lives.
Like tonight, for example. You fit into this secluded space, your ability to help him tonight proof of that.
"You look so pretty tonight, by the way," he murmurs, arms crossing over his chest.
Your heart shocks itself back to life at his compliment, and your tummy twists.
"Thank you, handsome," you smile sweetly.
He smiles, and it's sweet, genuine with no underlying teasing underneath it. He moves closer to you, your heart pumping rapidly in your chest. He places a hand around your waist as he reaches for the spaghetti noodles, cracking them in half before throwing them into the boiling water.
You flinch at the action, having totally forgotten what you were in here for.
"Oh! I could have gotten that," you mutter sheepishly.
He just shakes his head, turning your back towards his chest and walking you back to the living room.
"No, baby," he says, guiding you back to the couch. "I can take it from here, you relax, okay?" He tries to sit you down, to give you a kiss. You don't let him off so easily.
"Can't relax without you," you mutter, running your hands up his bare forearms.
He shudders as you drag your nails over his skin, and you bask in the goosebumps popping up on his skin. His head hangs back, giving you an elongated view of his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing on full display.
You place a soft kiss to the pointy skin, and he shudders once more.
"Fine, baby," he relents, and you knew you'd get your way. He swats your ass once more as you hop back to the kitchen. "C'mon, brat."
-
Dinner was outstanding, more than anything you thought Robby could cook for you, even with your help. He'd pick the steaks out, seasoned and braised them, all while tossing together a tomato pasta sauce, cooking noodles, and chopping up ingredients for a salad.
He's now finally joined you on the couch, your legs propped up on his lap, refills of both your drinks in your respective hands. His large, calloused hand strokes up and down your shins, and the motion almost puts you to sleep.
"Feels nice, Mikey," you mumble, resting your head on the back of the couch.
"Yeah?" He asks, his tone light. "Makin' you feel good?"
You nod, the condescending lilt to his words burning deep in your stomach. It mirrors the way he speaks when he's deep inside you, and you can't help but press your thighs together once more.
He knows this, a small smirk playing on his lips as you squirm under his touch.
"This is so pretty," he mumbles, toying with the hemline of your dress. You want nothing more than for him to pull it up, drag you by your legs and have his way with you.
You want it so much that you kick your feet a little, twisting your body to give him as much access to you as possible. It's not the most comfortable position, but you'd rather deal with it than have him stop touching you.
He notices, though, because of course he does, and tosses your legs off him anyways. You scoff, heart sinking at the action. He sees the pout forming on your lips, a sad smile on his lips.
"C'mon, my girl, up," he pats his lap before reaching for you, essentially manhandling you onto his lap.
You allow it, grateful to be able to turn off the decision making part of your brain. You let him maneuver you onto him, knees hitting the couch on either side of his lap.
You straddle him, not sinking your weight down fully just yet. He's surprised by this, head cocking to the side, a smirk twisting his lips.
"What?" You shrug, like nothing's wrong. "You made me dinner just so you could get in my pants? Woooooow. Michael," you tease him, knowing full well you want him just as much as he wants you.
His hands grip your ass, squeezing and kneading, giving a light slap once again. You squeal, hips thrusting of their own volition. You feel a wet spot start to pool in your panties, desperate for friction. You won't let him win that easily, though.
He pulls your hips closer to him, your center pressed against his chest, his face in your tummy, your chest. He looks up at you, chin resting on your stomach.
"Not gonna sit on me, baby? Really?" He asks, soft and sweet.
"Nope!" You chirp, the heat burning in you making it harder to keep up this act.
"You don't want it?" He asks, expecting a predictable answer, expecting you to drop your core onto him and let him take you.
You decide to take his bait, shaking your head no, a proud smile playing on your face. Your heart pounds at the surprise seizing his features.
"Really?" His brows raise.
You've pushed it before with Robby, but due to the early nature of your relationship, it's never gone this far. Never have you denied him yourself, nor denied yourself him, because, as much as you pretend, this is a two way street.
"Really, 'm totally fine," you chirp, and you see his eyes darken. "In fact, is there dessert?" You twist your torso, going to move off of him, but he grips your waist even tighter.
Hook, line, sinker.
"Totally fine?" He grits, hands moving lower. "You mean, if I get my hands on your pretty panties, you won't be drooling for me?"
You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, body on fire at not only your proximity, but lack thereof. The distance between your lap and his feels like miles away, but his hands on you are electrifying.
Still, you shake your head no, defiant despite knowing exactly what he'll find. His hands travel farther and farther up your thighs, circling around to your backside, pushing your dress up over your hips.
Your pink panties give you away instantly, wet spot big and dark. His brows furrow, lips forming into an 'o' as he takes you in.
"Oh, baby," he coos, sliding the fabric to the side. "Fuck, drippin' for me, angel."
You squeal at his words, vulnerability seizing you as his thick fingers press against the damp fabric. You clench against nothing as his fingertips collect your wetness, running through your silky folds.
"Feels so good, Mikey," you whisper, grinding your hips to further the friction.
"Ooohohoho," he chuckles. "Now we want it," he teases, recalling your earlier defiance.
"You know I always did," you whine, giving him your widest eyes, the ones that get him every time.
You're proven right once more as he stands, your legs still wrapped firmly around him. He carries you to the bedroom, a large, cozy bed taking up most of the room.
The windows are floor to ceiling, and the late evening sun sets in pinks and oranges around you two. He tosses you onto the bed, and your heart picks up as you look up at him.
His eyes bore into yours as he settles a knee on the bed, his fingers reaching up to unbutton his shirt. You quickly sit up, folding your legs underneath yourself as you kneel, taking his buttons into your own hands.
You indulge in his half naked frame, trailing a finger down his chest, past his belly all the way to the waistband of his pants. You pause there, grazing your nose against his ever so slightly. His jaw goes slack, panting breaths fanning over your face.
Your heart pounds, tummy twisting with warm desire. You unlatch his belt, finally pressing your lips to his. He melts into you, lips crushing yours as he pushes you back on the bed.
He slides his pants down the rest of the way, boxers coming with it. It's always on brand for him to skip the middle man.
He shakes his head incredulously as he crawls back on the bed. He gestures to your fully clothed form.
"How's this fair?" He poises, and you can't help but giggle.
This gets a smile out of him, inching closer to you on the bed. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you the rest of the way to him until his hips are flush with yours.
You whimper as your sensitive core hits his, his hard cock pressed against you. You wiggle your hips, trying desperately to feel something before he releases you from the restraints of your clothing.
He coos, tutting his tongue and swatting your inner thigh. You squeal, lifting your hips up as his hands pull your underwear down your legs. He tosses them across the room, but not without taking a quick sniff.
"Michael!" You scoff, a small smile creeping on your face. "You perv!"
He smiles at your teasing, tapping his cock onto your clit. You flinch at the contact, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.
"Can't help it, baby, pussy's so sweet," he mutters, lifting your dress over your head to get you the rest of the way there.
The warmth from the sunset radiates from the windows, coating you in a golden sheen. You can almost feel the rays through the glass as your naked frame settles into the bed.
Insecurity settles deep in your stomach as he takes a moment to stare. He's slack jawed, eyes trailing from your face all the way down to the apex of your thighs, and back up again.
"You're incredibly beautiful, I don't tell you that enough," he mutters, pressing a finger to your entrance.
You moan, arching your back from the bed at the intrusion.
"So tight, shit," he whispers, and you clench around his digit. "No idea how you take my cock every time."
That last part seems more to himself than anybody else, and you can't help but agree. Taking in his length that sits right in front of you, you swallow. It's considerable, especially knowing the guys you've dated in the past.
His finger is fully inside you now, down to the knuckle. You whine, wiggling your hips to add friction. He coos, shushing you before pulling out and adding in a second finger.
You mewl at the stretch, cheeks heating up at the gush of your wetness around his fingers.
"Y'always get so wet for me, fuck," he whispers, jaw going slack at the squelch of your pussy.
"It's so much," you whine, embarrassment creeping up your spine. "'m sorry."
He stops at this, fingers halting inside of you. He quirks a brow, and you feel yourself shrink under his gaze.
"What was that?" He asks, his voice testy. "You're sorry?"
You nod, heart pounding deep and loud in your chest.
"I'm ruining your sheets," you whimper, and he swats your inner thigh.
You squeal at the sharp contact, squeezing your eyes shut.
"Not ruining anything, sweet girl, y'hear me?" He picks up the pace of his fingers once more, massaging your sweet spot with each thrust. "Could never ruin a thing, I promise."
You nod your head, his words shining bright within you. A white hot sensation burns in your lower belly, your blissful edge nearing with each motion.
"Michaelll," you whine, throwing your arms over your face.
"Shhh, I know sweetie, I know," he whispers, maintaining his agonizing pace. "We're gonna get you nice and stretched out for me, get you nice and ready to take me, yeah?"
You whine, wriggling in his grasp, arching your hips off the bed to be closer to him.
He pushes you back down with a firm hand, and a tut of his tongue.
"Nuh-uh, baby, you're gonna sit still and take it like a good girl, hm?" He raises a brow, and all you can do is nod, the pleasure building up to its peak.
Your orgasm is achingly close, your pussy clenching down on his fingers with all its might. He laughs at this, at the heightened resistance his fingers meet inside of you.
Your orgasm hits, then, a blinding hot wave of pleasure sweeping you out to sea. Robby unravels you, continues his brutal pace until your legs are shaking, your breath small, whiny gasps.
"Good girl, good girl," he repeats as he continues to work you out. It's so genuine, your heart clutches.
Tears prick your eyes, caught in a perfect intersection of his praise and the overstimulation. He nods, kissing your cheek as his fingers slow. He pulls out gently, you still whimper at the loss.
Your pussy pulses through the aftershocks, warmth blooming bright in your stomach. Robby nudges your cheek with the point of his nose, lightly grazing your soft skin.
"You ready for me, baby?" He asks, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek.
You nod against his lips, and he lines himself up to your entrance. He slides his head up and down your folds, collecting your wetness before pushing in.
His tip breaches your hole, and you feel instantly hazy. Your eyes flutter shut, lashes kissing your cheeks as he pushes even deeper.
Your jaw falls slack, gripping his hips, relishing the plush skin there as you pull him ever more closer to you, legs spreading even wider to accommodate his large size.
Taking him has always been a challenge, though you're never one to back down. Soon enough, he's buried in you, hips flush together. He sneaks his hands under your legs, pulling them up to his shoulders. Your shins dangle down his back, allowing him to push even deeper.
"Ohhh yes," your breathing is shaky, his tip nudging your sweet spot.
"I know, baby, I know," he mutters, pulling out slightly just to thrust back in.
You whimper as his hips hit your ass, a wet 'plap' echoing through the room. The feeling of him is intoxicating, the smell of him invading your nose and making you dizzy.
Your head falls back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as he continues to snap his hips. He finds a steady rhythm, his length pistoning through you like a bullet.
"Feels so good," he grunts, thrusts growing sloppy. "Always so fucking good with you, baby."
He turns his head to press a sweet kiss to your ankle, maneuvering your legs back around his waist.
"Never been this good before," he mutters. "Never."
His words knock the wind out of you. Things are still so new that you never really know what he's thinking. You love when he's like this, sensitive and vulnerable and unable to stop his mouth from running.
The telltale sign of your release creeps up once again. You're more sensitive as your second orgasm approaches, positively gushing around him.
Your juices flow down your ass and onto the bedsheets, the familiar embarrassment returning. Robby catches it before you can spiral, a sharp shake of his head keeping the tears at bay.
"Don't even go there, baby," he grumbles beneath his breath. "Get me as wet as you need to, 's okay."
The tears slip anyway, soft streams rolling down your cheeks. He kisses them away, shushing you as he continues to take you apart.
"You're okay, baby, we're okay. It's all okay," he whispers, kissing all over your face. "It's so okay, so good," he mumbles aimlessly, "so good for me, gonna cum, okay? Gonna cum inside, oh God please can I cum inside?"
You nod breathlessly, tears still spilling, a quiet cry escaping your chest.
"So fucking pretty when you cry, baby, fuck, 's gonna make me cum," he groans, halting his hips against yours as he spills inside you.
You fall apart at the same time, your entire body seizing against his. He brings his mouth to yours, brows furrowed as he parts your lips with his tongue. He kisses you through it, shushing you and stroking your hair.
You shiver and shake as he thrusts through it, gripping at his biceps to anchor you.
"That's it, you got it, you got it," he whispers, bringing your ankle back to his lips for another sweet kiss.
He pulls out slowly, collapsing next to you. Wasting no time, he pulls you into him, wrapping yourself around him so he can bring you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.
There's a shift between you two, you can feel it as he lays down next to you. The air is thicker, more intense. You lean into it, hands immediately finding his bicep and sinking your nails in.
He hisses at the contact, furrowing his brows before pulling you in for a sweet kiss. You melt into him, his firm grip allowing sleep to fall over you, content and in his arms.
The start of the week at PTMC is, as always, loud, chaotic, and smelly. Though, the influx of patients is not what's on your mind most, even though it should be.
You're eager to find Robby, missing him already, though you spent the whole weekend together.
You fill your locker and make quick work of rushing onto the scene, finding your guy immediately. You walk with him alongside a gurney from the ambulance bay as he describes the state of the new patient.
A child with bruises littering their skin and a head injury from a fall at the skate park nearby. This is fairly routine, and you go to retrieve the proper paperwork when he gives you a small tug on your elbow.
Your heart picks up in speed at the touch, albeit professional.
"We don't need you here," he mutters, and your heart drops.
After this weekend, the words feel like poison bubbling in your gut. You jerk your head back to look at him, brows furrowed in surprise and hurt.
He clocks it immediately. You watch his eyes shift momentarily before finding his work zone once again. You feel like you're drowning, like he was throwing you out to sea.
It's just your job, you know this. It doesn't stop the ache from nearly splitting your heart in two.
"It doesn't look like an abuse case," he eases your professional worries, and it helps, though it's not enough to quell your personal ones. "I'll call you if it ends up going that route."
You nod slowly, your ears flooded with anxious noise. You feel as if you're traipsing through water, movements fluid and languid, like you're not even here.
The juxtaposition of the Robby from this weekend and the Robby standing in front of you nearly gives you whiplash, and you're unable to take your eyes off of him.
"Go work with Langdon," he nods across the E.R, and you turn your head.
He's in Trauma 1, barking orders and checking a young child's pupils. You chew on your bottom lip in contemplation, turning your head back to find his face a hell of a lot closer than it was when you looked away.
"Robby-" you start, trying to knock some sense into him.
"What?" He quips. It's short, punctuated, and thoroughly pissed off.
This sparks something within you, a fiery combativeness that you can't seem to find the off switch to.
"Really? Langdon?" You prop your hand up on your hip, rolling his eyes.
He scoffs at your attitude, and 48 hours ago, you know he'd have you over his knee for this later.
Now? You're not so sure. The uncertainty knocks you off kilter, your legs like jelly beneath you.
You knew this was a possibility when you'd started seeing him, you've worked with him for five years now. The mood swings aren't surprising. What is surprising, is the fact that he's never taken it out on you before.
It's terrifying.
"You'll be of better use there," he clips, your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach.
"But, Robby-" you try, but he cuts you off.
"Now," he punctuates, and leaves the room.
The kid Langdon was with has been discharged, though a pile of CPS paperwork is going to loom high on your desk for the next few days.
As you scan the busy room for more cases to jump on, you spot Robby, still with the same child.
Your brow quirks, making your way over to the scene. He seems to be in some sort of verbal altercation with the mother, who is getting closer and closer to Robby, unkind words spewing from her mouth.
"I'm going to sue you, and I'm going to sue this entire fucking hospital!" She shouts.
Robby has two defensive hands up at his shoulders, and you can tell he's struggling to maintain his composure.
You slink in between him and this woman, a public service smile plastering your face.
"Hi!" You chirp, giving her your name and a hand to shake. "I'm our pediatric specialist. What seems to be the problem here?"
Your tone and demeanor soften the woman, a skill you've honed over half a decade of working this position. Really, all these parents want is for someone to listen. That's where you come in.
You shoot Robby a look as you guide the ever calming woman away from the scene, allowing them to work. He looks sheepish, eyes not leaving yours even after he moves back to the child on the hospital bed.
A sense of pride floods your veins at his battered expression, a smile reading 'I told you so' spreading your lips.
Around 2:30, you're able to steal ten minutes in the break room for a 'lunch' break. Your teeth sink into a granola bar, your chin in your palm as you allow yourself to zone out for a moment.
Since your earlier interaction, you've quietly eyed Robby's every move, tracking the way he darts from one patient to the other with learned ease. Not once had he looked at you, not even to spare a glance.
It's starting to chip away at you, withering you down to your rawest parts. You decided to give him the rest of the morning to reset- knowing the transition from his cabin back to reality can be tough for him.
His behavior today surpasses that, though. Blatantly ignoring you all morning- not letting you help, assigning you to cases with Langdon, of all people.
You've got nothing against the guy, you'd even consider him a friend. It still doesn't explain why Robby would hand you off to him instead of keeping you to himself.
By the time you've scarfed down a semblance of food, you're angry all over again. You march back out into the Pitt, greeted by all the familiar sounds and smells.
You wrinkle your nose, spotting Robby at the charting station. His glasses sit low on his nose, fingers clacking on the keyboard.
You stop in your fiery tracks as you take him in, heart pattering against your chest like a caged bird. It knocks you off kilter for a moment, the mere sight of him standing there.
His head snaps up instantly, and you roll your eyes, annoyed once again at how deeply he feels you. You stomp over, plopping yourself on the stool at the station opposite him.
You don't even pretend to look at the computer, folding your hands on the counter as you glare at him. His eyes divert from the screen to you, still glancing over his glasses.
His brows are arched, an expression on his face that, at home, usually reads as 'I'm done with your shit.'
But you're not at home. You're at your jobs, and the feeling is mutual.
"What's going on with you?" You ask, clipped and blunt.
He flinches at your brusque tone, still not fully used to your direct way of communicating. You don't let him get away with anything. He needs it, even if he doesn't like it all the time.
He averts his gaze, tapping his fingers against the keyboard once again.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, and you're seeing red.
You roll your eyes, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and dragging him through the E.R.
"Are you kidding-" he begins to complain, but you shove him into the ambulance bay.
"Do not whine at me, Robinavitch," you hold up a finger, and he relaxes just slightly. "Don't lie to me, either," you prop a hand on your hips, eyes big and sad. "What's going on?"
He's quiet for a moment, pensive and sad. The air hangs thick between you, flooded with the words you're too scared to say.
"It-" he starts, but you stomp down a foot.
"Do not tell me it's nothing, again, Michael!" You whine.
It's petulant, bratty, even. He's seen this part of you. It's not that you're worried about. What worries you is the pained crease resting between his eyebrows.
"What is it?" You whisper, heart pounding against your chest.
You're officially considering worst case scenarios. You lean into the anxiety, let it consume you whole.
"I don't know if this is working," he whispers. It's broken, his eyes sad. You feel your heart lurch at his words.
"What do you mean?" You ask, voice low.
"I think we may be taking things too fast," he mutters, and the words dart around in your brain like a pinball. They just don't make sense.
"What is going too fast for you?" You ask, the words wobbling from your lips.
He scoffs, shaking his head and avoiding your gaze, his telltale sign that he is not planning on telling you the answer.
"You're really going to let this go, just like that?" You ask, the reality of the situation settling over you like a cold, wet blanket.
"I didn't realize there was much to let go," he mutters.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. Your bold facade does nothing for the pounding of your heart against your rib cage, each throb a chip in your armor.
Logically, you knew you'd be getting this version of Robby eventually. You've worked with him for five years. You'd been there for PittFest, Adamson's death, but also for all the people he'd saved, the children's lives you'd changed together.
Then, two months ago happened. A shared beer on a late night after a long shift leading to a salacious make out against the hood of his truck, leading to dates and cabin trips.
You recount this past weekend, now in more detail. The nights you spent in his arms, in his bed, in his space. The breakfasts you'd shared as the sun crept through the windows. It was glaringly, achingly intimate.
Embarrassment burns low in your belly, acidic and tangy. as you study his face.
"I know you don't mean that," you power through, refusing to take your eyes off him. "Come find me when you're ready to talk about how you're actually feeling."
You slide off the stool, leaving him to stew in his own bad attitude.
The painful adrenaline coursing through you gets you to the end of the day. Shift hand off goes relatively smooth, essentially updating Abbot on all of your ongoing cases
Before you can turn to leave, he stops you with a quiet, 'uhmâŠ'
You turn, immediately receptive to the shift in his tone. It's no longer work related, you can tell by the lost puppy look in his eye.
"JackâŠ" you start, inching closer.
"How's Robby?" He asks, and your heart stops.
"Not great, actually. Why?" You cross your arms in defense.
"I-I think I may have said something to freak him out," he confesses.
You arch a brow, heart ricocheting off your ribcage. It's all you can manage to not lose your mind.
"I'm sure you're aware of hisâŠuhm, history," he starts, and loose pieces of this puzzle start to form together in your brain.
"The 'seven-week-itch'," you remark, recalling years worth of gossip of Robby's dating habits.
"And, how long have you two been seeing each other?" He supplements, and the final piece clicks into place.
"Two months," you whisper.
Eight weeks, more specifically. You had both let it fly right by you, not even noticing the passage of time.
"And I made a joke about it," Jack says, guilt lacing his tone. "On Sunday, after you guys had gotten home."
You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut so you don't take your anger out on the wrong subject.
Jack is a dear friend, to both you and Robby. You know he'd never intentionally say something hurtful. You also know that Robby's triggers, while on the mend, are still raw and vulnerable.
"Okay," you sigh. "Thank you for telling me, Jack. I appreciate the honesty."
You mean it, because, although it's not the best case scenario, you now know how to tackle it accurately.
"For sure," he nods, guilt spreading across his soft features. "I'm sorry, bud."
You smile softly at the nickname he'd bestowed upon you at your first handoff.
"It's okay, I can handle it," you assure him, before spinning on your heel in the direction of the lockers.
Robby's not there, and you curse softly under your breath. You make quick work of gathering your things and running out to the parking lot.
You catch his broad frame across the parking lot, and you break into a jog, catching up with him swiftly.
"Robby!" You call, slowing your pace as you reach him, and you can feel the iciness radiating off of him.
He stops, takes a deep in hale, and turns to stare daggers at you. You take a step back at the look in his eyes, a dark, distant sadness to them that stuns your nervous system.
"Is this about the seven week itch?" You ask, and now it's his turn to take a step back.
The space between you is deep and vast, an ocean of swirling emotions. His chest begins to heave, and for a brief moment, guilt bubbles low in your belly.
Maybe you took it too far, but you're nearing your point of no return. He can deal with it.
You adjust, rolling your shoulders back- standing taller, unafraid. You stare down the empty barrels of his eyes, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
"The what?" Is all he manages, and you scoff.
"Really, Robinavitch? That's how you want to play this?" You ask, giving him another shot.
He shrugs, and you just fold your arms across your chest.
"We've been dating for eight weeks, dummy. Jack told me about what he said. Is that really what this is about?" You ask, rage boiling from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.
He laughs sardonically, a furious smile painting his lips.
"This isn't about Jack, or the-what the hell did you call it?" His tone is gruff, and he runs a palm down his face.
"Your seven-week-itch, Michael? Ringing a bell?" You poise, brows raised. "I'm not an idiot, you know. I know I'm not the first girl in this department that you've dated, hell, I'm probably not the youngest, either," this part is a little hyperbolic, but you wouldn't be surprised. "People talk, and if Jack's joking about it, that all but confirms the gossip."
He scoffs, hands coming up to the nape of his neck.
"Fuck," he growls, and you flinch.
You watch him falter at that, and it pauses you for a moment. Each beat of your heart is a throb of affection, for him, for your relationship- or what's left of it.
"You heard all of that and still wanted to be with me?" He asks, and it's insecure as much as it's defensive.
"Yes," you breathe, your heart clutching. "Because I got to know you for myself, and I really like the Michael I know. It doesn't feel like I'm talking to him right now."
He scoffs, walls immediately shooting back up.
"I'm not one of your case kids, y'know," he remarks, and you roll your eyes.
"Okay, so stop acting like a child," you quip back, not missing a beat.
An incredulous chuckle wrestles itself from his chest, eyes glossing over. In this agonizing, purgatorial waiting game, you've stopped feeling sorry for speaking your mind.
"I can't," he mutters, eyes focused on the ground.
You see the wet drops fall from his eye and hit the pavement, fighting your resolve down to the bone.
"I'm sorry, it's not fair," he croaks, and rage pounds in your ears. "But I just can't. I think you need to find someone better."
Your heart burns, tears stinging the backs of your eye ducts.
"But I don't want that," you grumble, pouting your lip. "I want you. Do I not get a say in this?"
He shakes his head, and annoyance pricks at your stomach.
"Really? I don't get a say in my own relationship?" He flinches at that word, and it's like a knife to your gut.
"Relationship?" He repeats, and you throw up a disbelieving hand.
"What the hell else are you calling this?" You ask him, voice raising.
"Of course I'm calling it a relationship I just don't think I've ever actuallyâŠ" he trails off, and you nod, not needing the rest of that sentence.
"Got it," you press your lips together, egging him to say more.
"I don't know if a relationship with me is what you want," he mutters.
"Well, I know for sure that it is," you stand firm, despite his denial. "What do you want?"
The question hangs in the air like a bomb, prompt and deadly.
"I don't know," he says, and it's the final nail.
"I guess that's our answer, then, isn't it?" You croak, not daring to look at him as you walk past him to your own vehicle.
"Congrats on a new record, Robinavitch," you shout across the parking lot, slinking into your car and slamming the door.
The tears are immediate, flowing down your cheeks, smudging your eyeliner. Your hands white knuckle the steering wheel, chest heaving as your sobs rack through you.
You knew seeing Robby wasn't going to be necessarily easy. He's your colleague, an attending at the hospital you work at, not to mention multiple decades your senior. Plus, everything else.
You're sure of your choices, though, and it's agonizing to know that he's not.
Your mind goes back to this past weekend, how sweet and assuring he was, how safe he made you feel. The difference between that Robby and this one is enough to give you whiplash.
A new set of cries strangle you, clutching your stomach and wringing it out like a dirty dish rag.
You lift a shaky finger, pressing the on button of your car. You let the cool air hit you, drying the wet streaks on your cheeks.
Your veins rage with a cocktail of shame, hurt, and embarrassment. You should have listened.
You should have listened to Princess and Perlah when they dropped you subtle hints on his dating life. You should have listened to Trinity when she told you this was crazy. You should have listened to Dana when she told you he'd break your heart.
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pairing â garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary â a sick day turns into garrett's worst nightmare: emotional honesty, fever-brain, and being forced to admit this stopped feeling casual a while ago.
warnings â fever/illness, coughing, sneezing, caretaking, relationship insecurity, emotional vulnerability, strong language
notes from me â this is based on sooo many requests!! hope u enjoy, babes!!
word count â 3.6k
navigation â masterlist | taglist
The first thing she thinks, when the knocking starts, is that someone in her dorm has lost their mind. Not in a haha, college girls are so silly and loud way. In a genuine, diagnostic, should-probably-alert-campus-housing way, because the sound is going straight through her skull like someone has taken a tiny hammer to the inside of her forehead and decided to make a morning of it.Â
Three knocks. A pause. Two more. Then her name, muffled through the door, low and familiar enough that her fevered brain immediately files it under impossible and tries to go back to dying with dignity.
Sheâs somewhere under two blankets and one hoodie sheâs pretty sure is inside out, curled on her side with one knee tucked up and a tissue crushed in her fist. Her room is too hot. Or freezing. It keeps changing, which feels rude.Â
The little desk fan she dragged from the corner is aimed uselessly at her bed, pushing around air that smells like Vicks, stale water, honey cough drops, and the kind of tragic dorm-room illness that makes every surface feel faintly contaminated.Â
Thereâs a sleeve of crackers on the nightstand, three of them eaten. A half-empty bottle of water. Her laptopâs open at the foot of the bed, paused on an episode of something she has absolutely no memory of choosing.
The knocking comes again. She peels one eye open.
âGo away,â she tries to say, except what comes out is a hoarse, shredded little sound that barely qualifies as language.
Thereâs a pause on the other side of the door. Then, âBaby?â
Oh. Okay. So sheâs officially died.
Thatâs fine. Honestly, it makes sense. Her whole body has been giving up in installments for two days, first the sore throat, then the chills, then the cough. This is probably the part where the afterlife gives her Garrett Graham in a hoodie with damp post-practice hair because her brain is basic and under-medicated.
She lies still for another second, blinking at the wall while her body attempts to boot up. Everything feels far away and too close at the same time. Her skin hurts against the sheets. Her eyes feel hot. Thereâs a weird ache in her hips like sheâs done a full leg day instead of lying in bed sweating through cotton and making pathetic little noises every time she has to swallow.
âHey,â Garrett says through the door, gentler now. âYou in there?â
She pushes herself up on one elbow and immediately regrets every choice that has led her to this moment. The room tilts, it makes her stomach roll and her head pulse behind her eyes.Â
âYeah,â she croaks, then coughs so hard her abs ache with it.
âCan you open the door?â
âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm outside it.â
She frowns at the blanket like that might explain the flaw in his logic. âThatâs stupid.â
Garrett laughs once under his breath. Soft and relieved and a little disbelieving. âYeah, okay. Good to know youâre still mean.â
The insult gets her out of bed on principle. It takes longer than it should. She has to sit up first, then sit there breathing like sheâs climbed ten flights of stairs, then shove the blankets away while her body complains.Â
Her sock slides halfway off on the way to the door. She catches her reflection in the little mirror beside her wardrobe as she passes and stops for half a second, because holy fuck.Â
Her hair is twisted into something that might once have been a bun but has clearly lost its will to live. Her cheeks are flushed too bright. Her lips are dry. Her eyes look glassy and annoyed, which is probably the only part of her still operating at baseline.
The knock comes again, lighter this time, and she unlocks the door mostly to make it stop.
Garrettâs standing in the hallway in grey sweats and a Briar hockey hoodie, one hand braced high on the doorframe, curls damp and messy from the shower, cheeks still a little pink from the cold outside and practice.Â
He has his gear bag slung over one shoulder and his phone in his other hand, and for one very weird second, all she can do is stare at him.
He stares back.Â
The easy, teasing set of his mouth drops. His brows pull in. His eyes move over her face, her hoodie, the blanket marks on her cheek, the tissue in her hand, the way sheâs gripping the door.
âOh, fuck,â he says, stepping in before she even moves out of the way. âJesus, baby, are you alright?â
She opens her mouth to answer and sneezes three times in a row instead. One of those full-body, medically humbling sneezes that bends her forward and makes her eyes water instantly, and by the third one her head is throbbing so badly she actually groans.
Garrettâs hand lands at her shoulder, warm and immediate. âOkay. Yeah. Great. That answers that.â He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel and drops his bag near the desk without looking. âCâmon. Back to bed.â
âIâm fine.â
âYou look like you got run over by a Zamboni.â
She blinks at him, offended but too slow to make it useful. âThatâs mean.â
âThat was me being nice.â His hand slides from her shoulder to her back, steady pressure between her shoulder blades as he starts walking her carefully across the room.Â
She coughs again, the nasty deep kind that drags up from her chest and leaves her breathless at the end of it. Garrettâs whole body goes still beside her. His hand tightens once before he gets her to the bed and peels back the blankets like heâs done this before.Â
He hasnât, as far as she knows. Garrett Grahamâs sick-care experience probably begins and ends with telling Logan to stop being dramatic about food poisoning and then driving him to urgent care when he turned green.
Still, he gets her tucked in with alarming competence. Blanket up. Pillow fixed. Water bottle shifted closer. Tissues within reach.Â
He crouches beside the bed when she sinks back into it, knees bent, forearms resting on the mattress, his face much closer now and much more serious than sheâs emotionally equipped to deal with right now.
She frowns at him.
Garrett reaches up and smooths his thumb over the tight space between her brows. âWhatâs that face?â
Her eyes slip shut for half a second because his hand is cool against her skin. Or maybe sheâs just too hot. Everything in her body is confused and dramatic.Â
âWhyâre youâŠâ She has to stop because the cough comes back, rough and ugly, tearing through her chest until she has to roll halfway into the pillow and ride it out with one hand pressed uselessly over her sternum.Â
By the time it eases, Garrettâs gone quiet in a way that makes the room feel smaller.
âOkay,â he murmurs. âThat sounds awful.â
âItâs super fun, actually.â
âYeah, sounds like it.â He waits until she can breathe properly again, then brushes the hair off her damp forehead with the backs of his fingers. âWhat were you asking me?â
She has to think about it. The thought floats away from her, then returns with the annoying brightness of something she probably shouldâve been more embarrassed to ask. âWhyâre you here?â
âYou havenât texted me back in two days.â
She blinks. âHave I not?â
âNo.â
âOh.â Her eyes drift toward the dark phone on her nightstand like itâs a separate, mysterious artefact from another life. âI was sleeping.â
âI figured.â He tries to make it casual. He really does. The problem is Garrett has never been as casual as he thinks he is when it comes to her. He can do cocky. He can do lazy grins and half-lidded looks and smug little comments that make her want to throw something. But this, sitting beside her bed in his practice hoodie with worry sitting badly under his skin, doesnât pass as casual for even a second. âWanted to make sure you were alright.â
She hums, which is easier than finding a sentence. âThatâs nice.â
âYeah, Iâm a sweetheart.â His hand comes to her forehead again, palm settling there properly this time, then sliding down to her cheek, then her neck. His brows tighten. âYouâre burning up.â
âI know.â
âYou taken anything?â
She nods automatically, then frowns. âMaybe.â
âMaybe?â
âI dunno.â She swallows and immediately makes a face because her throat feels like someone has lined it with sandpaper. âI had some.â
âWhen?â
Her frown deepens. âTime is fake.â
âRight.â Garrett exhales through his nose. He reaches for her phone, glancing at her for permission. âCan I?â
She waves one hand, then lets it flop back onto the blanket with the full weight of her exhaustion. âDonât look at anything weird.â
His brows lift as he taps the screen awake. âNow Iâm definitely worried.â
âI have a lot of photos of wound dressings.â
âThat tracks.â He glances down at the lock screen, and his face flattens. âYouâve got a reminder from three hours ago. Due for meds.â
âOh.â She closes her eyes. âI was sleeping.â
âYeah, I got that.â His voice gentles at the edges. âYou shouldâve had more three hours ago.â
âOops.â
âBig nursing student energy.â
She cracks one eye open to glare at him, but itâs weak and probably mostly watery. âDonât bully the sick.â
âIâm not bullying you. Iâm making observations.â He picks up the packet on her nightstand, scans the label, then checks the other blister pack beside it with a kind of exaggerated seriousness that would make her laugh if her chest didnât feel like an elephant was sitting on it. âYouâve been eating?â
âCrackers.â
âPlural?â
She gives this due consideration and moves her hand in a little so-so gesture.Â
Garrett pauses, packet in hand, and looks at her. âThatâs a no.â
âWell, I had soup yesterday.â
âYesterday when?â
âGod, youâre nosy.â
âYeah, apparently when girls go silent for forty-eight hours and then answer the door looking like Patient Zero, I get curious.â He stands, taking the water bottle with him. âIâm getting you meds and something that isnât⊠three sad crackers.â
âIâm not hungry.â
âI know.â He grabs the mug off the nightstand and makes a face at whatever is inside it. âThis tea is fucking freezing.â
âBe nice to her. She was warm once.â
Garrettâs expression softens so quickly she almost misses it. âOkay, fever girl. Stay put.â
âWas gonna run laps.â
âDonât tempt me, Iâll tie you to the bed.â
âMmm. Fun, but inappropriate patient care.â
âWrite me up later.â
She means to answer. She really does. Something about reporting him to whatever governing body handles smug hockey players with boundary issues.Â
But Garrett moves around her room like he belongs there, picking up the cold mug, the empty tissue box, the discarded hoodie from the floor, and her brain snags stupidly on the sight of him in the middle of all her mess.Â
His gear bag by her desk. His damp curls. His broad shoulders taking up half the room. The quiet little frown still on his face when he thinks she isnât looking.
The thought is warm and dangerous and immediately too much work to hold. Her eyes close.Â
When she wakes again, it happens slowly and in pieces.
Thereâs sound first. Low, tinny voices from her laptop, turned down so far they blur into background noise. Then warmth, heavier on one side than the blanket, human and solid and so much better than the weird fever heat burning uselessly under her skin.Â
Her head isnât on her pillow anymore. Itâs resting somewhere firmer, the side of her face pressed into soft cotton and the warm line of a thigh beneath it. Thereâs a hand on her shoulder, broad and absent, fingers curved over the blanket like it landed there a while ago and forgot to leave.
She blinks. Garrett is sitting up against her headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly so she can lie half-curled against him with her head in his lap.Â
Her laptop is balanced near his knee, playing some sitcom she vaguely remembers putting on and then abandoning somewhere in the wreckage of yesterday.
Thereâs a bowl on the nightstand with a spoon in it, crackers on a plate, a fresh bottle of water, and the thermometer she bought during freshman year after a girl on her floor convinced herself she had meningitis because WebMD said so.
Garrett looks down the second she stirs, like heâs been waiting for it. Like some part of him has been tracking her breathing under the dialogue and the fan and the stupid little coughs that keep catching in her sleep.
âHey,â he says quietly.
Her eyes drag over his face. Heâs softer from this angle. Or maybe sheâs just cooked. His hoodie is wrinkled where sheâs been lying against him. His hair is mostly dry now, curling messily around his forehead, and thereâs a faint line between his brows that makes him look less like the terrifying Briar captain every freshman stares at in the dining hall and more like a boy sitting in her tiny dorm bed because she forgot how phones worked.
She looks at him for a long second. âYouâre pretty,â she says.
Garrett goes still. Then his mouth curves, surprised first, then delighted because unfortunately heâs still himself. âOh yeah?â
She nods, which makes her head throb a little, so she stops. âMhm.â
âFinally awake, and thatâs what youâre telling me?â
âYou have a nice face.â
âThank God.â He settles his hand more carefully against her shoulder, thumb moving once through the blanket. âI was starting to worry the fever had affected your judgment.â
âNo, itâs always been bad.â
He laughs, soft enough not to shake her. âYeah, that checks out.â
She should probably be embarrassed. She can feel the shape of it somewhere far away, waiting for her temperature to drop and her dignity to come back online.Â
Right now, everything is too floaty for embarrassment to stick. Her body feels heavy and loose, the edges of the room blurred by sleep and fever and whatever cold medication Garrett must have coaxed into her while she was only half-conscious.Â
Her mouth is dry. Her thoughts are slow. But Garrettâs hand is on her shoulder, and his other hand comes up to push her hair back from her forehead, and the touch goes through her in a soft, aching line. Her eyes sting for no reason.
Garrett notices, because Garrett notices everything when she least wants him to. His smile fades. âHey,â he says, quieter. âWhat hurts?â
She frowns up at him. âAm I not good enough to be your girlfriend?â
The words leave her mouth before she even knows theyâre arranged that way. They just slip out, small and cracked and awful, and then theyâre sitting in the room between the laptop dialogue and the fan noise and the miserable little wet sound of her breathing.
Garrett freezes. His whole face shifts like the question has hit him somewhere he didnât have padding. His hand stops moving in her hair. His throat works once.
âWhat?â he says, barely above a breath.
She stares at the drawstring on his hoodie because his face is suddenly too much. âNothing.â
âNo.â His voice is careful now, and that scares her a little, because Garrett being careful usually means something is bleeding. âBaby, what did you just say?â
She presses her cheek more firmly into his thigh, like that might hide her from the consequences of being conscious. âForget it.â
âIâm not gonna forget it.â
âThatâs annoying of you.â
âYeah, well.â He lets out a rough little breath, his hand sliding from her hair to the side of her face, thumb resting near her temple. âIâm annoying. We know this.â
She closes her eyes. The room rocks a little behind her eyelids, hot and dark. âItâs fine.â
âIt doesnât sound fine.â
âItâs just the fever.â
âOkay.â He says it like heâs willing to accept that and also absolutely not accepting it at all. âThen fever-you can tell me what that means.â
She opens her eyes again, and Garrettâs looking down at her with something so openly worried on his face that it makes her want to laugh and cry and cough herself into a new dimension.Â
âI dunno,â she whispers.
His jaw flexes. âThatâs notââ He stops himself, visibly, dragging the sentence back before it can come out wrong. When he tries again, his voice is softer. âThatâs not how I think about you.â
âHow do you think about me?â
The question is too honest. She hears it after she says it and hates herself immediately. If she were well, she would have turned it into a joke. She would have flicked his drawstring and told him to stop looking constipated.Â
She would have found a way to walk the whole thing back with enough sarcasm that neither of them had to stand under the full weight of it. But her throat hurts and her body aches and sheâs tired in places she didnât know could get tired, and she cannot find the energy to save him from answering.
Garrett looks down at her. His hand is still against her face. His thumb moves once, slow and restless.
âI think about you all the time,â he says.
Her chest goes tight. He seems to realise, a second too late, how much that sounds like something real. Panic flickers across his face, quick and bright, and then he starts talking again because heâs Garrett and the solution to an emotional landmine is to skate directly over it at speed.Â
âThatâs notâ I mean, Iâm not saying it likeâ fuck.â He tips his head back against the headboard for half a second, staring at the ceiling. âIâm so bad at this.â
âAt what?â
âThis.â He gestures vaguely between them, then winces like the gesture itself is embarrassing. âYou. Us. Whatever the fuck Iâve been pretending isnât us.â
The laptop keeps playing at the end of the bed. Someone on screen laughs. The sound feels insane in the middle of this.
She swallows carefully. âYou donât do girlfriends.â
His eyes come back to her.
âNo,â he says slowly. âI donât.â
Something inside her sinks, dull and expected, and she hates that it still hurts when she saw it coming from the other side of campus.
Garrettâs hand tightens gently at her jaw before she can turn her face away. âHey. Donât do that. Iâm not done.â
âYou paused.â
âI paused because Iâm trying not to be an idiot.â
âAmbitious.â
A laugh breaks out of him, quiet and helpless and a little wrecked. âSee? Youâre dying and youâre still mean.â
âEfficient.â
âYeah.â His smile flickers, then fades again. âI donât do girlfriends because Iâm busy, and because hockey eats my entire life, and because most of the time thatâs been a pretty convenient excuse to not have to be responsible for anyone elseâs feelings.â He exhales, eyes dropping to where his thumb is brushing carefully over the hot skin at her cheek. âAnd youâre busy. Youâre busier than me half the time. Youâve got placement and exams and shifts and you scare grown men with your colour-coded notes. I thoughtâŠâ He stops again, and this time his mouth twists. âI thought this was what you wanted too.â
She looks at him for a long moment. Her vision blurs a little at the edges, which is deeply inconvenient, because she would like to appear less pathetic during whatever this is. âI donât know what I want.â
Garrettâs face changes. Worried, like he heard the wrong part first. âHeyâ baby. What? What do you mean? Do you not wanna do this anymore?â
She sighs, and it shakes on the way out. Her whole body feels wrung out, too hot and too heavy and too open. âNoâ yesâ I donât⊠I dunno.â Her fingers curl weakly in the fabric of his hoodie. âI want you.â
His expression cracks so fast it makes her chest ache. âYou have me,â he says, immediate and rough, like the answer is obvious enough to hurt him.
She frowns and shakes her head a little. It makes the room sway, so she stops. âNot really.â
Garrett goes very still. She means to say more. Thereâs more somewhere. Itâs sitting behind her ribs, swollen and fever-soft and hard to name.Â
She doesnât want some grand declaration from Garrett Graham like a man being dragged to public execution. She doesnât want him to suddenly become someone who buys roses at the campus store and says the right thing because he thinks itâs what she wants to hear.
She wants the thing that already exists to stop pretending it doesnât.
She wants the car doors and the hospital pickups and his hand finding hers when he thinks sheâs asleep. She wants the sleepovers that arenât called sleepovers. She wants him showing up because she didnât text back.Â
She wants to be able to want those things without feeling like sheâs the only one stupid enough to notice them.
She wants to say that. Instead her eyes close.
Garrettâs thumb strokes once over her cheek. âBaby?â
She hums faintly.
âHey. Stay awake with me for a second.â
âCanât,â she mumbles, already slipping under again. âToo hot.â
âOkay. I know. I know, Iâve got you.â His voice is close now, low and strained and trying so hard to be steady that even half-asleep, she can hear the effort. âJust sleep, okay? Iâm right here.â
âDonât leave.â
His hand settles over hers where itâs twisted in his hoodie, warm and firm. âIâm not leaving.â
She falls asleep to the feeling of his fingers threaded through hers, and her fevered brain doesnât have the energy to argue.
description: you and your attending butt headsâand itâs no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects moreâand youâre done with it. Just as youâre about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patientâand his patientâtests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, youâre both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
wc: 4k
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension, angst city (will repair tho promise), take a shot every time i say âtwelve daysâ
series masterlist
I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags arenât fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified
A/N: i literally adored writing this chap. Like the complexity of their feelings is giving me life idk hope yall enjoy
You ran out of underwear.Â
Yes, it finally happened.Â
Maybe it was silly, but something about going through every pair Santos had shoved into that duffel bag felt almostâŠsymbolic.
Youâd done laundry here before. Your tanks after yoga. Towels. Pajamas.Â
But this felt different.
As ridiculous as it sounded, running out of clean underwear meant time had passed.
Twelve days to be exact.Â
Twelve days of waking up in the same house. Ignoring each other. Sharing meals. Scheduling blocks of time to use the couch. Falling into routines that no longer felt novel enough to notice. Twelve days of learning which cabinet he kept the mugs in, and how he always checked the locks before bed without even seeming aware he was doing it.
Twelve days of becoming accustomed to someone.
All to turn into what?
The thought settled uncomfortably in your stomach as you stared at the washing machine, watching the fabrics tumble lazily behind the glass.
This was almost over.
Tomorrow would be your last full day here. Then, the following evening, youâd both walk back into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center and somehow return to normal.
Or whatever normal was supposed to look like now.
You werenât sure when Jack had become woven so tightly into your day. Maybe he always had been and you simply hadnât noticed it before. At work, there had always been a reason to seek him out.Â
Here, there were no excuses.
Just you and him.
The machine hummed steadily beside you, pulling you from your thoughts only when footsteps sounded in the hallway.
A minute later, Jack appeared around the corner, fresh from a shower. His hair was still damp, a towel slung over one shoulder as he rubbed absently at the back of his neck.
His eyes landed on you immediately.
Then the washing machine.
Then back to you.
The pause that followed told you he was trying to determine whether you were having an actual problem or one of your moments that usually you brought upon yourself.Â
ââŠWhat happened?â
You sighed.
âIâve reached the end.â
His brows furrowed.
âThe end of what?â
âThe underwear supply.â
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then his eyes drifted to the washing machine.
Understanding dawned.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
âOh.â
âYeah.â
âAnd just so Iâm clear,â you saw him come to stand beside you in your peripheral vision. âOnce theyâre clean, youâll have a replenished supply?â
âYes.â
Another pause.
âIâm failing to see the issue.â
You groaned. âShe only packed me enough to last the quarantine.â
âOh, so she underpacked you?â
âNo, itâs justââ Your head tilted back as you took a breath. âWeâve only got two days left.â
âRight.â
âAnd then this is over.â
âAnd by âthis,â youâre referring toâŠ?â
Your head turned, giving him a look.
His turned to meet yours, face as expressionless as ever, as if he were asking whether it was going to rain and not where your entire relationship was headed in forty-eight hours.
âYou know what I mean.â
âDo I?â
âJack.â
âUse your words.â
You stared at him.
He stared right back.
Infuriating, infuriating man.
âThe quarantine,â you finally said, as if it were obvious.
âMhm.â
âAnd the living together.â
âMhm.â
âTheâŠâ You gestured vaguely between the two of you. âWhatever this has been.â
For the first time, something flickered across his face.
It wasnât concern or uncertainty.
It could only be described asâŠunderstanding. Which, really shouldnât surprise you. Over the last few days, you were starting to learn that it was very possible that he was the only one fully capable of that.Â
âAh.â
You hated how small that sound made you feel. The pause that came after it, like it was your turn to respond again.Â
âThatâs all youâve got?â
A corner of his mouth twitched.
âIâm letting you finish.â
You rolled your eyes and looked back at the washing machine.
The clothes continued tumbling around as if they werenât currently starring in one of the most uncomfortable conversations of your life.
âWe go back to work,â you said quietly. âAnd everything gets complicated.â
Jack was silent for a moment.
âWe always knew it would.â
âI know.â
âYouâve been thinking about this.â
You scoffed unpleasantly. âJack, Iâve thought about this approximately every six minutes since day nine.â
That actually got a smile out of him.
âOnly every six?â
âDonât mock me.â
The smile lingered for a moment before fading into something gentler.
âYou know whatâs interesting?â
âWhat?â
âYou keep saying this is over.â
Your brows furrowed.
âBecause it is.â
âThe quarantine is.â
His shoulder bumped yours lightly.
âIâm not.â
The response was so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that you almost missed it.
Like he wasnât making a declarationâhe was simply stating a fact. The sky was blue. Never shock for asystole. He wasnât going anywhere.
Your chest tightened.Â
âJackââ
âWeâll figure it out.â
âYou say that like itâs just that simple.â
âNo.â His gaze stayed on the washing machine. âI say it like itâs worth figuring out.â
The room fell quiet.
You wished his answer made it that easy.
Part of you desperately wanted it to be.
You wanted to take his confidence and wrap yourself up in it. To believe that because Jack Abbot said youâd figure it out, then somehow the universe would rearrange itself accordingly.
But your brain wouldnât let you.
Because twelve days ago, you were convinced this man couldnât stand you.
Twelve days ago, youâd been preparing to ask Robby for a shift change because working with him felt impossible. Twelve days ago, every interaction had felt like a battle you were somehow losing. Every critique wasâor feltâpersonal. Every argument chipped away at the already-barely-there will to make it through the shift.Â
Twelve days ago, if someone had told you that youâd be standing in Jackâs laundry room discussing the future of your relationship while your underwear spun in his washing machine, you wouldâve asked for a psych eval.
You huffed out a laugh at the absurdity of it.
Jackâs eyes slid toward you.
âWhat?â
âI justâŠcanât believe Iâm the one being practical here.â
His brow furrowed.
âThe practical one?â
âYes, practical.â You gestured vaguely around the laundry room. âBecause somebody has to be.â
The corner of his mouth slid into a grin, like he thought you were joking.Â
âSweetheartââ
âNo.â You pointed at him. âDonât âsweetheartâ your way out of this.â
His expression immediately shifted.
Not angry, but alert. AlmostâŠbraced. Like he knew this tone and body language.
The same tone that usually preceded an argument in the ED. Your arms were crossed, feet planted in the only way you knew how to go toe-to-toe with this man.Â
âOkay.â
âOkay?â You scoffed. âThatâs your response?â
âWhat would you like my response to be?â
âI donât know, maybe something that acknowledges this is insane?â
His jaw tightened slightly.
âWhat part?â
You stared at him.
âSeriously?â
âYeah.â
A scoff escaped you, incredulous.
âTwelve days ago I thought you hated me.â
âI didnât.â
âWell, yeah, I know that now.â
âGood.â
You threw your hands into the air.
âSee? Thatâs exactly what I mean.â
âWhat?â
âYouâre acting like that explanation justâŠfixes everything.â
His face hardened a fraction.
âIt explains a lot.â
âIt explains your side.â
âAnd your side is?â
You opened your mouth.
Then closed it.
Because there it wasâthatâŠfeeling you used to get in the ED.
The feeling of being backed into a corner by Jack Abbot until you were forced to articulate what was actually bothering you.
âI donâtâŠknow how to trust this.â
The words came out before you could stop them.
The room went quiet.
Jackâs expression immediately softened, which you hated.Â
Because it wasnât supposed to. You wanted his expression to harden, with knowledge and agreement that this was, in fact, an insane fucking situation. Because at least then, youâd have an easy out.Â
âI mean, come on.â You looked away. âFor years, every interaction weâve had has been an argument. Every patient, every procedure. You made me feel like I was under a damn microscope.â
His jaw flexed.
âI know.â
âSo forgive me if Iâm having trouble immediately jumping to âweâll figure it out.ââ
âIâm not asking you to.â
âIt kind of sounds like you are.â
âNo.â His voice remained frustratingly calm. âIâm asking you not to decide itâs doomed before weâve even tried.â
You crossed your arms.
âAnd thatâs easy for you to say.â
Something flashed across his face.
For the first time since this conversation started, he looked irritated.
âEasy for me?â
âYes.â
He barked out a short laugh.
âThatâs an interesting assessment.â
âIs it?â
âYou think this is easy for me?â
You shrugged.
Compared to the alternativeâthat he was just as scared as you wereâthat seemed safer.
Jack stared at you for a long moment before shaking his head.
âThatâs your problem.â
âWhat is?â
âYou still think Iâm the confident one.â
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because standing in front of you wasnât Dr. Abbot. It wasnât your attending. It wasnât the man who always annoyingly had an answer.
It was just Jack.
âIâm the one that was hesitant to do this,â he spoke, words sounding slightly strained now. âThe one considering your role in this and the impact it could have on your success. Making sure I didnât incriminate us in every single moment weâve had because of how I felt towards you.â
Your jaw ticked.
âCongratulations?â
His eyebrows shot upward.
âNo, seriously.â You laughed, but there wasnât much humor in it. âWhat am I supposed to do with that, Jack?â
âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means twelve days ago I thought this was basically a prison sentence.â
The words landed harder this time.
âI know.â
âNo, I donât think you do.â You shook your head. âYou keep saying that like it explains everything, but it doesnât. For years, every interaction weâve had has been through the lens of me thinking I wasnât good enough for you. That I wasnât smart enough, experienced enough, careful enoughâpick one.â
He shook his head incredulously at your words as they continued.
âAnd now Iâm just supposed to just flip a switch because it turns out youâve secretly been in love with me the whole time?â
âI never saidââ
âYou donât have to say it.â
The washing machine hummed steadily beside you.
Neither of you looked at it.
âI spent years convincing myself I was imagining things,â you continued. âThen I convinced myself I disliked you. Then, that I hated you. Do you know how hard that was? To convince myself that, while everyone had this amazing experience of you, I was the outlier?â
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
ââŠHow hard it was to deprive myself of that?â It was barely even audible.Â
Youâd heard the storiesâthe attending who stayed hours after his shift to help a struggling intern, the good guy who quietly paid for a patientâs medication, the mentor who somehow managed to be demanding and deeply respected at the same time.Â
Everyone seemed to get that version of Jack Abbot.
Everyone except you.
He was quiet for a moment, his broken gaze settling on you. âI do know.â
âBecause you had years to process that.â The word came out sharper than you intended.
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor.
âAnd it wasnât hard for me?â
You opened your mouth.
Stopped.
Because that wasnât what youâd meant, but it wasnât entirely wrong either.
âYou had certainty,â you said finally.
His head lifted. âNo.â The answer was immediate.
âYou think I was certain?â
You blinked.
âJackââ
âI spent years wondering if it was me reading too much into something.â His voice was rising now too, not angry, but frustrated. âYears making sure I wasnât treating you differently because of how I felt. Years watching you date other people and convincing myself it didnât bother me because there wasnât another option.â
The room went quiet.
âI wasnât certain,â he continued. âI was careful. For years I got to watch everyone else have the version of you that I wanted.â
The words knocked the breath from your lungs.
âI watched residents become your friends. Watched nurses invite you out after shifts. I listened to stories about your dates, your weekends, your life.â His gaze settled back on yours. âAnd every time I wanted to know more, I had to remind myself that it wasnât my place.â
The frustration had drained from his voice now, leaving something quieter. Something painfully honest.Â
âYou think you deprived yourself of some version of me?â He huffed a laugh. âI deprived myself of you, too.â
Your throat tightened.
âEvery time you sat in the break room laughing with everybody else while I walked past. Every time I wanted to ask how your weekend was and couldnât justify it. Every time I had to pretend I wasnât looking for your car in the parking lot when I came in for a shift.â
His eyes dropped briefly.
âI know what it feels like to watch everyone else get something you donât.â
It wasnât enough to erase the fearâbut enough to make you realize heâd been standing on unstable ground too.
âYou got to think I hated you,â he said quietly. âI got to think youâd never look at me the way I looked at you.â
His smile was small.
Sad.
âNeither of us exactly won there.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The quiet swish of the washing machine rumbled in the background, water sloshing rhythmically through a load of laundry. It felt absurd, somehow. Such a mundane, ordinary sound accompanying a conversation that seemed to be rearranging years of assumptions in real time.
Just existing alongside two people standing in a laundry room, finally admitting things theyâd spent years trying not to feel.
Your eyes drifted over his face to the tension in his jaw and the exhaustion around his eyes.
The vulnerability that still looked foreign on him, like he hadnât intended for you to see this much of him when the conversationâor, hell, the dayâstarted.
You thought back to all the times youâd imagined what was going on inside Jack Abbotâs head.
Every shift where youâd driven home angry.
Every critique youâd replayed in his voice.
Every argument youâd dissected with Santos over drinks on your days off.
Heâd existed in every crevice of your life for years.
And somehow, despite all that time spent trying to understand him, youâd never once landed anywhere close to the truth.
Not until right now.Â
And for somebody who spent most of his professional life maintaining complete control over every room he entered, he suddenly looked remarkably unguarded.
Like heâd finally run out of places to hideâor, maybe, decided he didnât want to anymore.
Jack was the first one to look away.
His hand rubbed across the back of his neck before he exhaled slowly.
âI think we should spend tonight apart.â
The words hit like a bucket of cold water, your face falling before you could stop it.
Jack noticed immediately.
âNotânot like that.â
âThen how?â
âSweetheart, weâve spent almost every waking moment together for nearly two weeks.â
You crossed your arms. âThatâs kind of what quarantine is.â
A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
âFair.â
The smile disappeared just as quickly.
âBut, I think weâve gotten a little too good at avoiding this conversation.â
Your eyes dropped to the floor.
Because unfortunately, he wasnât wrong.
Every time reality crept in, youâd found a way around it. A distraction in the form of avoidance. A passionate kiss against the counter. A joke about the ongoing bet.
Anything to postpone the inevitable.
âWe donât have to decide everything tonight,â he continued. âBut I think we owe it to ourselves to actually think.â
Your stomach twisted.
âAnd if we donât come to the same conclusion?â
The question escaped before you could stop it.
Jack went quiet.
When you finally looked up, he was already watching you.
âThen weâll deal with that.â
He didnât say weâll be fine. Or donât worry. He didnât make some reassuring promise he possibly couldnât keep.
He just told the truth.
And you hated how much you appreciated that.
âYou really want to spend the night alone?â
A faint laugh escaped him. âNo.â
The answer came so quickly that it caught you off guard.
His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
âNot even a little.â
That made something in your chest hurt.
âThen why suggest it?â
Jack glanced toward the washing machine. Toward godforsaken underwear tumbling endlessly in circles.
âI think Iâve wanted this for so long that Iâm willing to accept almost any version of it.â
His voice was quieter now. âAnd thatâs not fair to either of us.â
Your breath caught.
Because that was the most frightening thing heâd said all day.
You couldnât sleep.Â
The room was quiet. Empty. Every shift of the mattress reminded you that for the last few nights, warm hands were only an inch away. A presence now so obviously absent.Â
Your mind went where it was told toâ
Back to him.
Back to the quarantine.
It replayed itself in fragments rather than a sequence. The first day, in shock and irritated, convinced Jack Abbot was the worst possible person you could have been stuck with. The arguments that followed almost immediately after, sharp enough to feel personal even when they werenât supposed to be. The way he never seemed impressed by you in the ways you wanted him to be, and somehow always noticed the things you were trying to hide.
Then it shifted, slowly, into something deeper.
The kitchen. The couch. The small ways you hadnât realized you were letting each other in. Finding each other in different rooms without being surprised to find each other there. Falling into conversations that no longer felt like arguments just for the sake of them.
The way he had always paid attention.
Not loudly. Not obviously. But consistently, in a way that had been easy to misread when you were convinced he didnât like you. Or worse, that he thought you werenât enough.
Instead of paying attention to see you fail, heâd been paying attention to learn you.Â
You turned onto your side, pulling the blanket closer, as if that could keep the thoughts from spreading.
Because the worst part was realizing that the quarantine hadnât created anything new.
It had only removed everything that usually stood in the way.
The hierarchy. The patients. The interruptions. The carefully maintained distance required by the hospital and social setting that had shaped every interaction between you for years.
And it had granted you time. Proximity. And honesty, whether you were ready for it or not.
Your thoughts drifted again to PTMC.Â
You had built an entire version of him in your head over the years.
A version that explained everything neatly: He was hard on you because you werenât good enough. He was distant because he didnât like you. He challenged you because he wanted you to fail.
It had made things safer, in a way.
Because if that version of him was true, then nothing more complicated had to exist underneath it.
You stared up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.
Because the alternativeâthe one you kept circling back to no matter how many times you tried to avoid itâwas that you had been wrong about the foundation of all of it.
Not just about him, but about the space between you.
And that meant the last twelve days hadnât been an anomaly. They werenât some isolated event. They had been what happened when neither of you had anywhere left to hide from it.
Your heart rate quickened as you thought about tomorrow. About the last full day. About what came after.
The return to work. The eyes on you. The roles snapping back into place out of habit more than intention. The version of yourself that knew exactly how to survive him professionally, even if you no longer trusted your understanding of him personally.
You pressed your hand against your face, letting out a slow breath.Â
Because no matter how many ways you turned it over, you kept landing in the same place: this wasnât something you could un-know anymore.
You couldnât unlearn the way his body felt against yours, the way that awareness had settled into your system so completely it no longer felt like something you could switch off.
It was in the smallest things, the ones your mind kept replaying without permission. The way his gaze would catch on you across the counter, a glint in his eye during a hushed compliment that you struggled to accept. That brief flicker of satisfaction he didnât ever bother hiding.
Even the ordinary parts of the day had started to feel different now that you knew what it was like to be on the other side of him.
Breakfasts that used to feel like an unfortunate shared space had become something else entirely, especially when heâd lean in just slightly to say something under his breath, low enough that it felt like it was meant only for you, and youâd feel your face betray you before you could stop it. And he noticed.Â
Then there were the quieter moments, the ones that should have been easy to dismiss. Sitting on the couch in the late afternoon, some movie playing in the background that heâd insisted on putting on but wasnât really watching. The two of you ending up closer than necessary without either of you moving away, like distance had slowly stopped being the default and started becoming optional.
At some point, youâd stopped paying attention to when you were touching and when you werenât. An arm brushing yours. Your head resting against him without thinking. His hand finding your shoulder like it had always belonged there.
And now, lying alone in bed, it was all still happening anyway, just without him in the room.
You sat up suddenly, the movement sharper than you intended, like your body had finally decided it couldnât stay still with all of this inside it anymore. Your head throbbed from the sheer weight of everything youâd been turning over and over in your mind until it no longer had clear edges.
Twelve fucking days.
That was all it had taken to undo years of push and pull.
You let out a breath that turned into something halfway between a laugh and a sigh, pressing your fingers briefly against your forehead as if that might slow your thoughts down.
âGod damn it,â you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.
Because it wasnât just confusing anymore. It wasnât just annoyingly complicated.
It was obvious in a way that felt almost insulting, like your brain had been the last one to arrive at a conclusion everyone else had already seen coming.
You dropped your hand slowly, staring into the dark of your room, the realization sitting there with an infuriating kind of calm.
You were done trying to figure out what this was anymore.
Because you already knew.
And that was way worse.
Because it meant there wasnât a version of this where you could go back to.Â
Not after the non-dairy milk. Not after the spoon-feeding you soup. Not after the way he looked at you like he had stopped pretending, even before you had.
You swallowed, the thought settling deeper than you wanted it to.
Of course it had happened like this.
Of course it couldnât be gradual in a way you could ignore for a few months and mull over at a pace you were comfortable with.
Of course it had been him, of all people, undoing you in less than two weeks after years of intentional distance.
You leaned back against the headboard, exhaling slowly, staring at nothing.
And in the quiet, unhelpfully honest part of your mind, there it was.
It wasnât framed as a question anymore. Not something you were still debating.
Just simply the truth, arriving late and unapologetic:
You were in love with Jack Abbot.
And you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do with that in the morning.
Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? Youâre almost certain youâd rather freeze to death. Almost.
WC: 18k+
Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steveâs trauma. readerâs trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.
A/N: Said I wasnât gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if youâre sick of the van fics, but hereâs one more đ title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine.
ââȘ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armorâs heavy, never suited me at all / but itâs the devil I know âŹ
This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.
Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.
Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.
Leaving you-Â alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.
Yeah, lucky you.
This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.
You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.
It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.
And that's never your call to make.
Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."
"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.
He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.
Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"
"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."
"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.
"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but⊠kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"
"Oh, for the love ofâ" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."
"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."
"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."
"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'monâ"
"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."
Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just⊠leave socks for other people to use."
"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking morâ"
"Hey, guys, you good to go?"Â Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.
Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."
There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.
Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.
Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?
It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.
Until you justâŠÂ left.Â
 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.
No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.
You'd drift in, drift out.
Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.
In, out.
All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.
So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.
Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.
When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.
What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?
What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?
What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?
If you stayed⊠would it have been worth it?
The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.
It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.
That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.
No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.
Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as familyâ bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.
Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?
Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well⊠she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.
You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.
Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.
Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.
That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.
Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.
The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.
That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.
You can only tread water for so long, though.
"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"
Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.
"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, butâ"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."
And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.
"Steve, I wasn't trying toâ"
"Don't."Â His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.
Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.
What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?
Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.
Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.
"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speedâ a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."
He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."
"God, you're such a bitch."
"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has leftâ which isn't muchâ and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."
"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like youâŠ" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"
"What?! Christ, can't you shut upâ"
"Stop!"
"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaningâ"
"I meant the van, asshole!"
Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.
Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.
You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.
"Waitâ watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"
Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.
His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"
You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.
Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.
"ShitâŠ" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "⊠You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.
"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"
He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."
Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.
She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"
You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.
"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've neverâ I don't evenâ"
Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."
"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.
In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.
Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uhâŠ" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."
"Shit! Can you make it back safely?"Â She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."
So the two of you slid on black ice⊠for nothing.
Fantastic.
"Um, hangâ h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."
Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.
"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"
"Uh- well, it's actuallyâ" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"
Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"
Hopper.
Oh, boy.
Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.
Well, can't say you didn't try.
Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo⊠we're stuck in a ditch."
You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.
"Okay, where are you exactly?"
The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.
You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.
Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."
"Language."
"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.
"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."
So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.
Way off.
"I- I don't know."
A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.
"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"
Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.
There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."
Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling a cold.
You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.
"I personally think Hop lost the trackerâ" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."
You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."
Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."
"I didn't lose the fuckingâ"
The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.
"Anyway⊠we're not that far from the station, right?"
"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."
Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.
Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.
"This is fu-Â fuck, it's coldâ!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."
Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.
"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."
There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.
Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.
He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".
"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."
Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."
Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just⊠tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."
Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."
That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.
Together.
Alone.
"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"
A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.
"Yeah, kid. I got it."
In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.
It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.
Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.
"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your sizeâ"
"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"
Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?
"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."
Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"
"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."
"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.
"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.
There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.
UnlessâŠ
There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.
You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.
"Hey, whoaâ" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."
But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"
"Maybe? I don'tâ that's notâ" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."
"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just⊠wait here. I'll be quick."
"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"
His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.
"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right nowâ"
"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."
"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."
He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"
Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us outâ"
"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"
You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "⊠I might know a guy?"
"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"
"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and thatâ" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."
"Wh⊠what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about youâ"
"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."
"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."
"Yeah, wellâŠ" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.
Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.
The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.
If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.
Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from graceâ Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.
The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.
Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.
Every creak in his house on nights home aloneâ loneliness all too common in that houseâ had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.
Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.
He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.
And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.
So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.
He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.
By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.
Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?
What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.
To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.
To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.
The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.
The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.
He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.
Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the stationâ assuming they stayed in for the night with the stormâ but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.
You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.
Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.
It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.
Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?
In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.
There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.
"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.
You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.
"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.
When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.
"OwâŠÂ S'loud," you groan.
"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.
"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.
It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.
Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.
Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off nextâ Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.
"M'fine," yet you look far from itâ hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.
Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.
And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.
Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.
Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.
"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the boxâ seriously? You thought of everything with this box.
He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.
Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."
"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."
"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."
The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.
Yeah, you're worse than he thought.
"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"
"M'yeah, s'kay."
If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.
Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.
Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeansâ Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.
He sucks in a breath, "Uh⊠can you get them off yourself?"
"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."
"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.
He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.
"Okay, c'mon, boots first."
Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.
Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.
And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sighâ out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himselfâ and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.
He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks âŠÂ fuck me.
You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.
"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."
There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.
At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.
"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.
"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.
"You'dâ bet that'd make y'happy."
He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.
"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your spaceâ the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ahâ shit, I- I'm sorry."
If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.
"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."
You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.
"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"
That's a dumb fucking question.
"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."
When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.
About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.
"Sorry, just, uh⊠your, uh⊠theâ" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."
"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.
"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."
Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.
Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.
But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.
Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"
"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.
You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."
He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.
What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as⊠some horny creep.
Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.
"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."
He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?
That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.
Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.
Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.
He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.
That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.
The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleepâ they sleep, right?
God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?
Whatever.
It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that'sâ no. Just no.
The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.
Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.
That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.
Okay, focus. Think about⊠concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks andâ
"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"
Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.
Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."
Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.
Which, yeahâ you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.
He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.
"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.
He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.
"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."
Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."
The words ache with more desperation than he intends.
"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.
"A-Â ahâ"Â Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.
"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"
He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"
"Fu- fucking cold."
"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."
You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."
"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."
You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.
Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.
Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.
Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.
"Be n- n-Â nice!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"
"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"
The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.
Like a fucking fool.
"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."
The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.
"⊠Didn't th- think you c- cared."
"IÂ do, it's justâ" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"
You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um⊠I g- guess?"
"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"
"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.
He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."
"You could h- have some f'ya' want."
"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."
"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."
"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.
You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."
He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more⊠s'good for me."
Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.
"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.
You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.
"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you'reâ you like me, or something."
Oh, if only you knew.
"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"
"Make wh- what weird?"
Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.
The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fuâ fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."
"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."
"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.
The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.
"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don'tâ hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."
"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "⊠Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."
You sound mortified.
"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"
"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I justâ friction causes he- heat, and I didn'tâ I wasn't tr- tr- trying toâ"
He nervously chuckles, not at you, justâ well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?
"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."
"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."
He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.
There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.
Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.
Talk about something else. Anything.
"Hey⊠thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.
"Hm? Wi- with what?"
"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad⊠could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."
"We still ended up in a ditchâ"
"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."
You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.
"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin'Â boat."
Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."
"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."
Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.
"⊠We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."
"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.
"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."
It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.
"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let downâ be a let down to you, eventually."
He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.
"⊠What?"
Because since when do you care about letting him down?
"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."
Steve would do anythingâ hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-batsâ if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.
"Even when it was elsewhere, itâ" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you justâŠÂ leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptlyâ you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."
And look where that got the two of you.
Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.
You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to⊠to trust. It scares the hell out of me."
"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."
"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."
"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilotâ courtesy of his heartâ as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."
The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."
We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.
"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."
An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.
Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.
"I still have nightmares, and Iâ" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too⊠and I- I can't do anything but watch."
It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but nowâŠ
Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.
And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.
"Then you just⊠you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting closeâ"
"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just⊠acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I feltâŠÂ guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been thâ"
"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the springâŠ" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "⊠But so was I."
Scared is an understatement.
He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.
He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die tryingâ to Steve, no other choices existed.
He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustinâ two childrenâ that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.
And the Mind Flayerâ Jesus Christâ that fuckin'âŠÂ thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam andâ
Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.
Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.
Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.
Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.
And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.
Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.
Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shamblesâ yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.
If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.
And you.
Youâ he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, andâŠÂ andâ
It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.
He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.
Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.
So much wasted timeâ
"Steve?"
Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.
Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the startâ"
"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we⊠start over?"
A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um⊠we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."
"Oh my god, Steve."
"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."
"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.
"Oh, what, I'm sorryâ did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'mâ fuck."
Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.
"âŠÂ Okay?" Steve scoffs.
"I mean⊠it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."
"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."
Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "⊠Still do."
A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.
The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.
"Fuck, shit, fuckâ"
Yeah. He's hard.
He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.
Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."
"Uh-huhâŠ" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keepâ"
Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."
Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.
"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah butâ" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- nowâ"
Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."
He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?
"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."
"No, no, I'mâ" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour agoâ"
"Not to death."
"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."
"But you're the one who suggestedâ" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"
"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"
"OkayâŠ" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"
He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pinkâ now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.
"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "⊠Bats."
"The same thatâŠ" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that⊠that attacked Eddie?"
"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."
"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.
No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.
"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."
"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "SteveâŠ"
He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flareâ like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.
Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than onceâ one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.
Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.
Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, umâ" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."
Not like this one's much easier to talk about.
Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.
"I'm sorry. That'sâ I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurtâ"
"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."
You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.
It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.
"Whenever your headaches start⊠you'll tell me, right?"
When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.
"It's⊠it's okay, I can handle it on my own."
For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.
"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."
It's so direct, so honestâ how can he even respond to that?
There's so much to sayâ how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire beingâ and he still keeps it hidden away.
The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.
"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."
Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.
Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.
You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.
He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.
The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.
"Shit, SteveâŠ"
He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.
He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.
"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"
"Only 'cause you- youâ a- ah, fuckâŠ" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and godâŠÂ if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.
If, you know, you were into that.
His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.
The two of you just have to survive this night first.
"'Cause IÂ what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."
You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.
Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.
"Finish. The. Sentence."
You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.
"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"
"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."
Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.
"Bet you were this wet before you left."
Your brows knit together. "IÂ wasn't."
"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm⊠you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."
"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."
Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.
"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."
"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.
"In factâ" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."
Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."
The smug expression falters, "Too much?"
"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."
Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."
Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.
He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.
Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."
"Mhm, yeah, I'mâ" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."
"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."
You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."
"So what you're saying isâŠ" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"
"D- don't let it get to your head, Harâ" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."
He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.
And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.
The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.
Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.
"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."
Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.
"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"
Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.
"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."
The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.
"OhâŠ" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"
The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.
"Hey!"Â Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"
Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.
"Whatâ what are youâ" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggodâ Steveâ"
You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.
This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.
Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.
And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real youâ the one Steve's always pined overâ finally melts through.
He's missed you. So, so much.
The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.
"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.
"Oh my god, oh my godâ" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"
Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.
"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."
Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.
"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.
"I- I want it."
"WantâŠÂ what?"
Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."
"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."
"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.
Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.
Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.
"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."
As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouthâ it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.
You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.
"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You'reâŠ"
Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I justâŠ" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're soâŠÂ big."
He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.
"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't knowâ" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."
Steve blinks as the words sink in.
Oh.
"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."
"I wanna, I really want to, it'sâ I'mâ youâ"
He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.
"One step at a time, okay?"
He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.
Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.
Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.
"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his faceâ as if it's even possible at this pointâ and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.
Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.
"SteveâŠ" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.
In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."
Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.
Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.
"Steveâ" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu-Â oh my god, fuckâ!"
You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.
Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But⊠his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.
Oh, no.
"So, uhâŠ" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "⊠How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"
Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficultâ" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "âŠÂ Why?"
"No reason, really, justâ I'm just curiousâ"
"Steve."
"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.
"Were youâ oh my god."
"What?!"
A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"
"Well, when you put it like thatâŠ" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It justâ Iâ youâ" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.
The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."
He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.
Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"
"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."
"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"
"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."
Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.
You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.
It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.
A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but⊠Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.
Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.
It's⊠kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.
By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warmâ fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.
Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.
He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.
Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.
"Mmâ" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"
The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.
"S'okay?"
"It- yeah, butâ" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.
"But?"
Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.
Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.
He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.
"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can'tâ ah⊠f- fuckâ" he grumbles, forcing out, "Iâ dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"
"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."
Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.
As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.
You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.
Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.
"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.
"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'
Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."
And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.
"Fuckâ fuck, you'reâ" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "âŠMight need a minute."
"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."
"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."
Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.
"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recoveryâ" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "â Christ, Steve! What theâ"
Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.
With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.
"You done talking logistics yet?"
Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.
That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.
No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.
"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."
"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.
Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in.Â
Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.
Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.
What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.
Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.
It tightens.
Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.
"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.
The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.
"Wouldn't drâ oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."
Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.
But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.
Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.
That plucks at his heartstrings, too.
"Steve?"
Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.
"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."
Baby.
Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.
Wait, did you say he was crying?
"Sorry, IâŠ" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."
"Steveâ"
"No, I swear. I'm justâ" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."
"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."
"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."
Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.
"Stâ"
He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.
You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You shouldâ"
"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."
And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.
You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'mâ Iâ"
He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.
"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"
"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.
You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.
"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slowâ Don't need you passing out."
Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"
"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."
Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"
It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.
His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.
And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.
No one's like you. No one could even compare.
"FuckâŠ" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."
"Iâ" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."
Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.
"Steve,"Â you whine.
"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."
You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be sayingâ a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."
"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."
"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"
"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus ChristâŠÂ suckin' me right in."
You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."
"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"
"Jesus fuckin'â"Â irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."
"PleaseâŠÂ what?"
"Steve, I s- swear to godâ"
"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."
"You're such aâ" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuckâŠ" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.
He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.
"Such a what?"
"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "âŠÂ please?"
Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.
"Aw, see?â He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. âNot so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.
 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same.Â
"IâŠÂ Yours?"
 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.
"Mhm, ifâŠ" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey⊠s- so goodâŠ"
Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.
"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.
He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"
"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you.Â
"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."
"Y- you."
Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.
"I'm right here."
Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.
The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.
And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.
"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.
It's only fair to match his energy.
"DunnoâŠ" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."
He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.
No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.
"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."
Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.
Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.
God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.
"Fuck, you're unreal."
You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.
Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck
"St- Steve, m'gonnaâ Iâ" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.
"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuckâ"
He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.
Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.
Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.
Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any wallsâ built with years of spite, grudges, and lossâ between you have been demolished.
That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.
"Would youâŠ" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.
All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.
"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."
Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."
"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."
Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.
The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.
"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."
And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.
There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.
"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "⊠and clean up first."
"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, andâ" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'monâ don't open it!"
Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of aâ"
"Okay, okay!"Â You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.
Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.
It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your headâ and he does.
"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."
"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, andâ"
"Okay."
"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."
This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.
"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."
He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."
"Steve."
The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will.Â
summary: menstruation, no matter how much you tried to see it in a hippie way, was a bitch. the lack of medical help in that field was even worse. itâs a good thing sharks like blood.
cw: fem!reader, menstruation kink, talks about menstruation, a lot of blood, an angry reader with the system, smut, dirty talk, trauma shame?, park being park ig, medical inaccuracies of course, english it's not my first languague, and this is also my first time writing smut.
wc: 5.2k
a/n: iâm not a doctor or a healthcare worker; in fact, iâd rather drink a remedy passed down by my grandma before setting foot in a hospital, so this is FULL of medical inaccuracies. just lean into the fiction with me and enjoy a freaky park. thank you!
Maybe if your normal menstruation had accustomed you to pain, the one this month would not be killing you like this. Yes, you were used to the feeling of being bloated, the heaviness in your boobs, and that mysterious sting in your butt that would randomly come. But you had never had cramps this painfulâto the point of waking you up in the middle of the night to writhe in bed while you cried all your tears out. It got to a point where you had to crawl to the bathroom and throw up in agony, until at some point you passed out with your back leaning against the wall and your hands trying to offer some warmth to your belly.
The gynecologist had advised you that it would take some time for your hormones to stabilize after stopping the pill, but you had never imagined that it would be this crazy. After breaking up with your boyfriend of four years, two months ago, you just wanted to take back some control over your body. It seemed like it had backfired.
By 6:00 am, an incoming call on your cellphoneâabandoned on your nightstandâwoke you up. It was your dad, with whom you talked every morning while traveling on public transport for 40 long-ass minutes, because your apartment was that far away from the PTMC. Cheaper than most, yes, but at what cost? His call only meant that you had overslept for an entire hour, not hearing your alarm as a consequence of the fatigue. You rushed to take a hot shower and headed over to the PTMC with nothing in your stomach except the feeling of your organs trying to kill you.
It was a workday, and even though the wish to call in sick passed through your cloudy mind, you had already burned that cartridge three weeks ago with bronchitis; you were forced to work, then, bleeding between your legs.
âYou are half an hour late,â was Donnie's greeting as you entered the pitt.
âIâm aware of that,â was your reply.
âYou also look like shit,â Santos added with a grimace.
âGuys, guys, stop with the compliments, you cannot make my day any better,â you deadpanned, walking to the nurseâs station to take a deep breath after the sprint you had run to get there.
âActually, we can.â Donnie gave you a sorry look. âDana is looking for you, and sheâs having a day, soâŠâ
âFuck me.â
âWhatâs wrong with you?â the brunette asked, looking at your appearance. You didnât look disheveled, but you didnât look like yourself either. If there was something Santos admired about youâbesides your dedication to patients, obviouslyâit was the well-put-together looks you always adorned yourself with, no matter how draining it was to be a nurse: different hairstyles, head accessories matching your long-sleeved underscrubs, and makeup that lasted through chaotic shifts. Now you stood in front of her clean-faced, with your hair thrown into a loose ponytail. âYou fall off the bed or what?â
âIf only I had slept in my bed,â you huffed, thinking of the cold bathroom floor.
âWho didnât sleep in their bed?â Dr. Nosy Robby appeared beside Donnie.
You didnât have the energy to sustain any more conversation, so you gave him a tired smile and headed to the lockers to start working, leaving the gossip to Santos and Donnie. The figure of a tall, dark-haired man in navy scrubs staring at you went unnoticed by your oblivious self.
The day went by hard, exhausting, and bloody. The countless times somebody (men, always men) asked you if you were okay, why the long face, if it was "that time of the month", should have set a Guinness record. But you kept your head high and your hands steady and gentle while treating patients, because the world keeps spinning even if there are blood clots coming out of you. You felt one second away from crying too, but that didnât make you any less badass.
âCan you check if I have a stain on my pants, please?â you asked Emma after getting out of a trauma room.
âYou are good,â she told you, walking behind you to check. Before you could thank her, a voice interrupted you.
âWhy are you watching her ass so openly?â
Of course it had to be Ogilvie.
âUh...â âI have a great ass, I wouldnât blame her,â you tried to joke so he would drop it.
âStill, thatâs not appropriate behavior forââ
âOh my god, Iâm on my period, Ogilvie,â you cut him off, exasperated. It had been a hell of a day, and probably he didnât deserve your outburst, but most likely he did because he had been an stuck-up egomaniac the past week, so you kept talking while massaging your temples. âGirls let their friends check their asses in order to avoid having their uterus's revenge leaking through their pants, capiche?â
You and Emma walked past him with a roll of your eyes. Behind you, another male voice was heard.
âYou have to learn to mind your own business, genius.â
It sounded like Dr. Park, but it was probably somebody else. Yeah, probably.
âWhen I'm on my period I get angry really easily,â Javadi shared while charting. âLike really, really easily.â
âMaybe you just let out what you don't the rest of the month,â Mel suggested with a shrug.
âMaybe, yeah.â
âI donât think I get angry, more like super sensitive,â you said, putting your elbow on the desk to rest your chin in your hand. âI will cry at anything: commercials, TikToks, the most stupid things. One time I actually cried while watching Elf, you know? The scene where people get together to sing carols. I was watching that scene, and then I wasnât, because my eyes were so full of tears I couldnât see shit. I donât know, the idea of people coming together just to sing a silly song on the holidays really got me. I was like, 'Oh my god, we are all just humans enjoying the small things,' you know?â
âYeah, thatâs a really powerful movie.â Mel nodded in all seriousness.
âFor my part, I get super horny,â Santos said, sitting down on a chair to start charting too. âI could fuck a dust bunny.â
Before you could keep talking, the voice of Dana saying your name made you raise your eyes to look at her.
âGo to Trauma 3, Robby asked for you; ortho is on the way and he doesnât need a shark attack today.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â you asked, confused.
âMy oblivious, oblivious girl,â Santos teased with a smirk.
âJust go,â the blonde nurse nodded in the direction of the room.
With a tired huff, you followed the instructions, entering the room to discover Robby, Whitaker, and McKay already there. In the middle of them, a sedated patient lay on the bed, their left arm in an inhuman position.
âHow can I help?â you asked, looking around trying to find something to assist with. The room was in relative calm, and the three doctors in there seemed like they were just waiting for the ortho consult.
âJust stay here,â Robby told you, taking off his glasses. He looked like it had been a hard day for him too, though he had been having hard weeks in general.
âWhat?â
âActually, come closer. Here, beside the monitor.â
âI donât understand,â you mumble, standing to the left of the machine.
âYou donât have to,â was McKay's reply, smirking.
You felt his entrance without needing to turn your head to the door. Dr. Brendon Park was a silent man with his words, but loud in his presence. His broad shoulders helped with that.
âShark,â Robby greeted the surgeon, to which he responded with a nod. âLooks like we have an isolated ulnar shaft fracture.â
âX-ray.â
âUh, here,â Whitaker gestured toward the X-ray monitor and started to move so he could show Park the image, but the tall man quickly lifted a hand to stop him. Looking you in the eyes, he said:
âLet her.â
In your peripheral vision, you could detect McKay's smirk growing, but you decided to ignore her, loading the digital X-ray image onto the screen instead. You knew Dr. Park liked things fast and efficient, and the last thing you needed was somebody snapping at you for taking your time. Though, as feared as the ortho surgeon was, he had never hissed or treated you badly. He may have pity on you.
âVisible deformity in the ulna, the X-ray shows a clear break,â Whitaker spoke nervously from across the room.
âMhm.â With narrow eyes, Park thoughtfully scanned the bones on the digital screen. You could smell his cologne since you were so close, and between your thighs, a sudden dampness gathered; you knew it wasn't only blood. âWhere is the rest of the X-rays?â
âTh-the rest?â
âWe only took one of the forearm,â Robby saved an increasingly wide-eyed Dennis. âDo you think another part should be checked?â
âYes, I need a bigger image to rule out a Monteggia injury. Joint above and joint below,â Brendon ordered, still looking at the screen.
âOkay, they're on the way.â Robby nodded before instructing the X-rays to be taken.
The sound of his voice and the others became white noise when Park looked you in the eyes again. Intense, confident, like a predator staring at its prey.
âWhat happened to the head stuff?â he asked, nodding above you.
âThe what?â you frowned at him.
âThe things you put on your head. You donât have any today.â
âThe things I putâOh! My accessories? Like the hair clips and bands?â At his nod, you shrugged. âI didnât have time this morning. I left in a rush.â
âMhm, too bad,â he hummed, looking you up and down. âI like them.â
He then turned on his heels and walked out with heavy steps.
âSend me the X-rays when they are ready.â
You stood there frozen, cloudy-minded. Park the Shark had the capacity to like things besides bones and remarks? And said things were your things? With your heart racing, you wondered if hallucination was another symptom of hormonal imbalance.
âWell, team, that was a great avoidance of a shark attack,â Robby cheered, clapping his hands on his thighs.
The break room was empty except for you, sitting in a chair with your head resting on the table. The coldness felt nice, a distraction from the war in your belly. You had just taken another pill for the pain, and just like the previous ones today, it didn't feel like it was working either. You had at least just changed your pad, and the sensation of not carrying around a bloated diaper felt dignified enough to sit there without the fear of involuntarily recreating a gore scene. You felt drained, dirty, inhuman. Funny how something so natural took you back to years of shame and taboo. Another of the gifts your ex gave you to tell your therapist about, you guessed.
A moan of pain escaped you before you could stop it, your hands clutching your midsection. There was also a ringing in your head, hammering your thoughts. And god, how much you wished to take off your bra so you could just hold your breasts tenderly. Stupid long-ass shift, and stupid birth control pill, and stupid misogynistic medical field that is so behind on women's health issues; you knew that if masculine bodies were the ones that menstruated, there would already be a goddamn cure for the monthly discomfort you are just supposed to bear.
There was only an hour left of your shift before you could go home and cry.
âHoney, are you okay?â Dana asked, entering the room, a gentle hand caressing your shoulder.
âYes, just cramps.â
âMhm, you have had them all day.â
âThe gyno said it will be normal for the next few months, until my body regulates again. I think Iâm just being a baby because this is the first one.â
âNow, donât talk like that about yourself. You are in great pain, and showing it doesnât make you a baby,â she reprimanded you in a soft voice, in that unique way of hers.
âI think you have had enough for today, yeah? Go get your things, and then go home and try to relax.â
âDanaââ
âNo fighting, young lady. Do as you are told, or I personally will kick your ass out.â
In other circumstances, you would have put up a fight longer, your pride and the need to prove yourself worthy of this job screaming at you; not today, though.
âThank you, Dana,â you said, smiling tiredly before standing up from the chair.
âWe take care of each other, kid. Now hurry up before someone needs you here.â
Ten minutes later, you were at the bus stop hugging your backpack, waiting for the damn delayed bus. The clouds in the sky were starting to darken, and the smell in the air told you a storm was coming your way. Luckily, you would be under your own roof before it hit. Another five minutes passed before a pristine black car stopped in front of you. Please donât be a weirdo, please donât kidnap me, pleaseâ
âWhere are you going?â a familiar masculine voice appeared as the window rolled down. None other than Dr. Park was sitting behind the wheel.
âHome.â
He nodded calmly and unlocked the door, stretching to open it from the inside. âGet in, Iâll drive you.â
âUhm, my bus is almost here, donât worry.â
âYeah, well, a storm is almost here too, so get in.â
You didnât know what mortified you more: denying an order from the intimidating Shark or giving him the trouble of driving you home.
âMy apartment is really far away,â you said in a weak attempt to make him desist.
âItâs a good thing the car has seats, then,â he deadpanned in a flat tone. âGet in now, donât make me get you myself.â
If you hurried to follow his orders, it was only because of the tiny raindrops starting to fall, and not because of the waterfall forming in your panties.
His car was warm and spacious, with a smell of sandalwood and freshness, strong but not overwhelming. His own cologne also lingered in the atmosphere, rich and deep, like the roots of a vine climbing up your nose. Even if his presence had always made you nervous, you felt yourself relaxing in the comfy seat, your muscles loosening up after telling him your address. Maybe you were like Santos after all, getting horny out of nowhere, but there was something about him just having to hear the street name and the boulevard near it to know where it was that made him more attractive in your eyes. No GPS, no googling, just the ability to know his way around the city like in the old days. You liked your men smart and capable, and Brendon Park was all that without showing off.
The ride was silent for a couple of miles before he broke it with a brief glance in your direction. âAre you still in pain?â
âUh?â
âSaw you hugging your belly a couple of times back there.â
âIt comes and goes,â you answered with a small grimace. âNothing tooâOh, fucking God!â
Your attempt to dismiss it was interrupted by a cruel cramp that forced you to curl up on yourself. Park quickly squeezed just above your knee in a comforting manner, not high enough to be disrespectful. Surprisingly, the warmth of his big hand helped distract you from the pain, and you let out a sigh, resting your head on the seat.
âSorry.â
âDonât be,â he grunted, as if your apologies somehow offended him. âWhat have you taken for the pain?â
âUh, my gyno gave me some pills, but she was honest enough to let me know that they most probably wouldnât make a difference. I just have to endure these next months and then, well, hopefully things will get back to normal.â
âIt's normally not like this?â he adjusted the rearview mirror, giving you a clear view of his head-sized bicep. âWhat changed?â
âI stopped birth controlâthe pillâand my hormones decided to torture me in revenge.â
âMhm, I have read about the hormonal disaster they cause.â
âYeah, I mean, itâs not like when I was taking it, it was a walk in the park, you know? Four years ago, when I started on them, I would get breakout acne and I also gained weight, but after some time my body accustomed itself. Now that I stopped taking them, it just has to go through it again. I just didnât think it would be this painful.â
His hand, heavy and firm, traced invisible figures on your leg.
âFour years on birth control?â he asked, raising his brows.
âEven worse, four years on birth control because of an asshole,â you tried to joke, looking out the window at the raindrops dancing there. The world outside the car was a blur of speed.
âThat means you broke up with your boyfriend? The lame blond?â
You laughed at his words and resisted the urge to take his hand in yours just to feel him. âYou knew I had a boyfriend?â
He just shrugged his shoulders, like it wasnât a big deal that a surgeon from another department knew that information about you. Maybe he was just really nosy, like Dr. Robby, but to be honest, he didnât give off that vibe. Who knowsâdoctors are a rare species.
You knew Park had never met Chris, your ex. First of all, you were an ER nurse, not an ortho nurse, so you didnât really share a lot of time together. And two, because the scumbag you dated for four years never dignified you by showing up at your workplace: not to pick you up, not to deliver lunch, not even by accident. He was so scared of hospitals, syringes, blood, and anything related to human anatomy that he would rather die on his sofa than see a doctor. âIâm so lucky to have my own little sexy nurse at my disposal,â he would say with puppy eyes, making you overlook the misogyny behind his words countless times.
âWell, I donât have one anymore. We broke up over a month ago.â
âThatâs good,â Brendon said, bluntly.
âYeah, itâs good. I mean, he wasnât always an idiot, but... after some time, it gets tiring. So, yeah, itâs good. Itâs good for me,â you repeated to convince yourself. Getting out of a long relationship is difficult, and some days you miss the good days, but there were also many bad ones, so itâs for the better.
âItâs also good for me,â the blue-eyed man affirmed, tapping the wheel with his long fingers at a red light.
âWhy is it good for you?â you asked, turning your head to look at his sharp profile. He had never been one of the people you used to complain to about Chris, so he surely couldn't say that the relationship had been tiring for him.
âBecause now I can ask you out.â
The car was still stopped in traffic, waiting for its turn to advance, and only then you realized Brendon had been doing the same with you. For how long? His face turned toward you, slowly, cautiously, with a look you had never seen on him: vulnerable. ââand hopefully you will say yes.â
Your apartment was getting closer in the distance, and so was the space between his hand on his leg and your trembling hand. After some consideration, you took his in yours and caressed it. You heard him take a breath beside you.
âAre you... serious?â
âI've been praying every night before bed for you to kick out that undeserving asshole,â he confessed without shame, parking the car. âGuess my miracle finally happened.â
One look at your face tells him everything he needs to know about your decision, so he closes the space and kisses you. Not demanding or rough, but slow and gentle. Both his hands cup your nape and cheek, and his tongue opens its way into your mouth. He tastes like peppermint and addiction, and a whimper escapes your lips. Brendon growls in response. After some time, you pull apart to catch your breath, but once again, he pulls you in for another all-consuming kiss. His lips dance on yours, his tongue fights for dominance, and his hands hold you intimately. And he repeats it until the car is no longer just warm, with the pouring rain being the only sound in the street.
You have to pull away with a breathless laugh, asking for air. The image of Dr. Brendon Park red-cheeked, lips swollen, and hair disheveled is one to remember forever, and you got the privilege that night.
A thunderclap in the sky makes you both look at the storm outside, which has just become stronger and relentless.
âWe should get inside,â you tell him, looking for your keys in your backpack, and before he can say noâlike the gentleman he isâyou cut him off. âYou are crazy if you think I will let you drive home in this weather.â
By the time you are inside your apartment, your clothes are soaked and your body is shivering. That, however, doesnât stop you from kissing him againâbecause when you have the opportunity to kiss Brendon Park, you donât waste it. With hunger, he takes off your top, and then caresses the skin on your waist, traveling up to your back, where he stops at the bottom of your bra. His lips find a place on your neck, where he licks and touches tenderly with his teeth.
âYou smell so good,â he moans, nuzzling you. âSo fucking good.â
You want to tell him that you had just worked a twelve-hour shift, and that the shower you took in the morning was quick, but the hardness you feel against your belly through his pants shuts you up. Itâs only when you sense that his hands are moving down towards your pants that you stop him.
âUh, no, waitââ
âYeah, yeah, right, Iâm sorry,â he mumbles with his forehead leaning against your shoulder, taking deep breaths. âFirst the date, first the date.â
âNo, no, itâs not that,â you reassure him, stroking his dark hair. âItâs just that... um, Iâm dirty.â
He lifts his head to give you a confused look, still caressing the skin on your ribs softly. âDirty how, pretty?â
âIâm on my period, remember?â
You wait for him to pull away, to understand the circumstances, but he just frowns more at you, still not letting you go. âAnd how is that dirty?â
Now itâs your turn to look at him puzzled. âWell, you are a doctor, you must know what menstruation implies.â
âI do know that. What I donât get is how that makes you dirty.â
The thing about being with someone for so long, so many years, is that you acquire the thoughts of said person. Chris was a total hater of your periods, because as he said, they got in the way of properly fucking his girlfriend. The huffs at your complaints about lower back pain, the shaking of his head when you stained the sheets, the disappointment on his face when you told him that you couldnât have sex... it all became expected during that time of the month for you. So, seeing Park searching for your eyes with a small pout at your words froze you on the spot.
He kissed you again, shortly, softly, to get you out of your head.
âYou donât think itâs dirty?â
âSweetheart, when have you seen a shark turn away from blood?â
You convinced him to at least take a shower first, because no matter how sweet and normal he acted about your period, old traumas take time to vanish. The pout on his lips disappeared completely when you told him that you could shower together, and it was a nice feeling to discover that the action was so intimate.
He washed your hair, massaging your scalp with a focus only a surgeon could master, all while you soaped his hairy chest, followed by his shoulders and his abdomen. Before your hands could wander lower, he instructed you to close your eyes and lean your head back so he could rinse the shampoo. A relaxed hum made its way out of you.
With the same veneration, he washed your entire body, and it was nice to be touched not by lust but by care. When he accumulated enough soap in his hand and made his intention clear to lower it to your privates, you stopped him by grabbing his wrist hesitantly.
âAllow me to take care of you,â he asked, caressing your cheek with his other hand. It wasnât until you nodded that he placed his hand on your mound first, delicately. The shame that you had felt when you took your panties off, revealing the hair between your legs, was short-lived when he growled that he loved that you had the body of a woman.
So, he washed the dried blood on your thighs, on your mound, in your soul. He cupped your belly when a cramp hit, and kissed you under the artificial rain, with the thunderclaps echoing outside the apartment. You returned the kiss, and let your hands wander over all his glory: his strong shoulders, his broad back, his veiny forearms, his thick thighs. His erection rested against your hip, but he didnât pay it any mind, focusing instead on presenting you two fingers so you could suck on them.
âWet them well, pretty. Yes, like that, attagirl. You are so good at following instructions, right? Knew you would be, my good girl,â he said, looking down at where your mouth greedily swallowed his fingers. When your tongue twirled around them, a deep groan dominated the sound of the water. âPerfect little mouth.â
He then pulled them out of you, and maintaining intense eye contact, moved them down until you felt them against your labia, where you needed him most.
âOpen your legs, sweetheart, let me in.â
His wet finger then touched your clit, making you sigh in appreciation. He circled it calmly, supporting your head with his other hand, all while praising you.
âDoing so good, you just have to let me make you feel good, yeah? Thatâs all I am asking.â At your nod, he moved his fingers to your entrance, where he collected your juices mixed with blood. He inserted one finger first, slowly, pumping in and out of you. âFucking hell, so damn warm, so damn tight. You are soaked, pretty. I donât care if it's blood or not, I wanna taste you so bad. Want you to make a mess on me, yeah? Can you do that? Stain me with your juices, come on.â
You moaned at his dirty words, letting your puddle of a body collapse completely against his chest, where he held you firmly.
âBrendon, please.â
âShh, shh, you donât have to beg me, honey. Iâll give you everything before you even ask. You deserve everything, such a strong girl, my perfect nurse. I might steal you to ortho so I can see your pretty face whenever I want. The pit will have to fight me to keep me away from you,â he groused, humping your hip, where you felt his heavy cock leaving a trail of precum. A second finger made its way inside you, and in no time, the palm of his hand brushed against your clit firmly. âGreedy lil pussy, soaking me completely. Does it feel good, sweetheart? Am I making you feel good?â
âSo good, Brenâfuck, so so good,â you whimpered, following the rhythm of his hand with your hips, letting your forehead rest against his armpit, where you sniffed the freshness mixed with his own scent. You felt dizzy, like your body didnât belong to you, and your mind was a puddle of wishes that didn't need to be shared out loud, because they were already being taken care of.
âI can feel you sucking me in, pussy so greedy, hungry to be played with. You needed this, right? Needed your pussy stuffed after a hard day; Iâm here for it, use me, use my hand. Want to take care of you, want you to trust me, want you to let goâcome on, baby, let it go, give it to me, make a mess, Iâll lick it all.â
His final words and the speed of his hand are what finally throw you off the abyss, his name loudly moaned by the phantom of your voice, sounding far away in your ears. Itâs his scent, his warmth, his touch, and his reassuring words that bring you back slowly, only to open your eyes and see him bring his fingers, coated in your blood, to his mouth, where he licks them clean with a moan.
âKnew you would taste divine.â
Soon, the shower is turned off, followed by him wrapping you in a towel with which he dries you off. Then, he takes you in his arms and lays you on your bed, while he returns to the bathroom to take care of the discarded clothes and whatever is left. You lay in bed on top of the towel, eyes focused on the ceiling, with your knees bent toward the sky and your arms open at your sides, breathing in the peace.
The steps of Brendon, now dried off too but still naked, greet you as he leans against the doorframe. Your eyes travel down, where a still veiny and thick cock stands proudly, its tip angry in a delicious shade of red. Your mouth salivates with the desire to feel his heaviness on your tongue, but he beats you to it, walking toward you and placing his hands on your knees.
âOpen your sexy legs, sweetheart. I wasnât joking when I said I would lick you all,â he orders, forcing your thighs apart. The coldness of the room hits you in your center, but it is soon replaced by the heat of his ravenous eyes that devour you with need. âI couldnât look at her properly before. You were hiding the prettiest pussy from me, werenât you? So mean, baby. Look at her, all bloody and tender, only for me, yeah?â
âUhm, yes, only for you,â you whimper, raising your pelvis despite the shyness you feel.
âIâve heard orgasms help with period discomfort,â he smirked, kneeling in front of you, big hands caressing your thighs, his hot breath so close to your core that it made your clit throb. Between your legs, he still had a trace of your blood on his chin from when he had licked his fingers clean in the bathroom, and watching his hungry eyes looking at you directly, you finally saw the true version of a shark in human form. Before going completely down on you, he mumbled in a teasing tone only reserved for you: âLet me kiss it better.â
brendon park may escatimates in words at the PTMC but i know that man talks the shit out in bed! and he is freaaaaky.
While Robby is away on sabbatical, his coworkers all start texting him pictures of Dennis.Â
It takes him a minute to realize that's what's happening. Of course, they all send the Dennis pics along with texts and photos of other people. Sometimes Whitaker's in a group shot, or caught in the background of a selfie. It takes Robby a beat to realize that the pattern is Dennis-centric.
It only occurs to him that it's deliberate after a pic from Dana. At first, Dana sends weekly updates about the Pitt and an occasional word of support. Lets him know the Pitt's not on fire without him there to put it out. Then, after he's been gone a month, the first week of September, she sends a shot of Dennis at the backyard barbecue she hosts on Labor Day each year. Whitaker is wearing shorts, armed with a squirt gun, laughing, a passle of little kids crawling all over him. The accompanying text just says: missed u at the bbq this year boss. Casual, like Dana didn't just send him an image custom designed to hit him right smack in the Daddy issues.
Robby almost drops his phone.Â
Pretty soon, they're all doing it. Week five, McKay sends a question about some paperwork and a picture of herself, Dennis and Mateo in the park after work. Then, Dennis apparently does a week of Night Shift because Shen sends a selfie with Dennis, each holding enormous Dunkin iced coffees. Javadi sends him a group shot that so happens to have Dennis front and center of the Pittlings, captioned that they all miss him. Princess sends a candid pic of Dennis and Jack, heads together during change over. Dennis is gesturing to something on a chart and Jack is listening with a slight frown of concentration. They're standing with the same stance. They look like two of the same letters in a slightly different font. Robby is struck by how similar they are from that angle and he ignores they way his stomach clenches with suppressed desire for both of them. Mel King sends a shot of Dennis and Santos obviously doing a round of Rock Paper Scissors to see who has to do some sort of unpleasant procedure. Even Langdon, of all people, sends Robby a photo of Dennis leaning on the desk, arms crossed, caught for a split second between patients. The kid seems unaware of his picture being taken, probably looking up at the board. His shoulders and arms look absolutely magnificent. But that surely can't be the reason why Langdon sent it?Â
If it were only a few people sending them, he would consider it a coincidence, but by the six week mark, it's almost everyone who is aquatinted with the both of them. Robby can't miss the pattern. It's quite clear, all his people think Robby wants to know how Dennis is doing in his absence.
He does want to know.Â
Of course, he does, despite the fact that it makes him feel like the butt of a group joke. It's embarrassing actually. Realizing they all know he's infatuated with Dennis, Robby feels called out and transparent. Like everyone must think he's such a ridiculous, old perv to be pining over a young guy like that. Thinks they must be sending these texts to make fun of his pathetic "secret" crush that was apparently obvious to everyone in the ED (except maybe Dennis himself). He doesn't know how to respond to the pictures. Usually changes the subject and asks the sender how they're doing. Or sends a pic of the scenery from his road trip.
Naturally, Trinity Santos is the most egregious Dennis pic sender. Unlike the others, there is nothing about Santos's pictures that stays within the mentor/mentee bounds. Hers are far too personal to send the man's boss. She doesn't even bother to pair the pics with a question about emergency medicine. She sends a pic of Dennis singing karaoke in a bar, wearing a crop top and smeared black eyeliner. A week or so later, she sends a pic of Dennis at an outdoor concert, toasting the camera with a plastic cup of beer. The later summer sun has brought out the freckles across his nose. A week after that, it's a pic of Huckleberry hard at work out on what must be Amy's farm. He's wearing a faded blue T-shirt that perfectly matches his eyes, stained dark with sweat. Then, there's another shot of Dennis behind the wheel of the farm truck, wearing a battered, straw cowboy hat, grinning at something the photographer was saying or doing, that little gap in his teeth showing. A few days later, she sends one that shouldn't be as hot as it is, a scowling, grouchy Dennis, obviously hungover, hair a mess, unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his pretty mouth, cooking breakfast while wearing nothing but a pair of dark sunglasses and some baggy blue boxer shorts. He's flipping off the camera. It makes Robby's heart do something strange when he realizes that one was taken in his own kitchen. Because of Santos, he sees sides of Dennis that he never gets to at work.Â
There's nothing like that sent from Dennis himself, of course. Texts from him are a few carefully worded questions about the plants. Once, a question about working the dishwasher. Every week, he sends a picture of Robby's house plant collection, to show him they're all still alive and well. He sends occasional updates about Duke's post surgery recovery. It's all very Midwestern polite. Robby's replies are the same, professional and appropriate.
He suspects that poor, innocent Huckleberry has no clue his friends and co-workers are doing this to them. Robby wonders if Dennis would be embarrassed or angry about the photographic teasing if he knew. If he would be disgusted by Robby's inappropriate crush. It makes him cringe to think of Dennis finding out. Perhaps he should tell them to stop sending the pictures, but he doesn't. Can't quite address it directly because that would make it A Thing.Â
It should be noted that Jack Abbot is suspiciously quiet during this whole pictorial onslaught. Though he's well aware of Robby's crush. In fact, Jack was the only person Robby openly spoke of Dennis to. Abbot sends no pics. Just a brotherly word or two, checking in around sunset each day. He thinks of calling Jack to say something about what the others are doing, find out if it's a prank, but just rehearsing the conversation in his mind is so awkward that he doesn't dare do it.Â
After weeks of it, gradually, Robby starts to see how sweet all the messages really are. No one ever says "gotcha" or admits it's a gag. He begins to suspect it's not actually a joke, because people send him Dennis stories, too. They don't violate HIPAA by talking about the patients, but they all send little tales of Dennis's good deeds. His moments of kindness or brilliance. Robby comes to realize that it doesn't actually feel much like teasing, no one seems to be mocking either one of them. In fact, there's something endearing about the gesture.
To be known is to be loved, so people seeing his attraction to Dennis is maybe not such a bad thing after all? Perhaps this is their odd way of accepting and supporting him, inappropriate as it is to surveille his resident for him.Â
They keep coming. Dennis petting a golden retriever on a coffeeshop patio. A slightly embarrassed Dennis appearing in one of Javadi's tiktoks. Dennis asleep on the too short sofa in the break room, a curling mustache drawn on his upper lip in what Robby hopes is eyeliner and not magic marker. Even Duke sends one, a shot of the two of them, both giving a thumbs up to the camera.
By the end of the second month, Robby has dozens of pics of Dennis saved to his phone, sent from atleast ten people. At that point, it feels a lot like they're all trying to lure Robby back home with adorable pictures of his favorite person.Â
He starts to look forward to receiving them. Downloads each one that comes in. During lonely nights on the road, he looks through them all before sleep. The cowboy hat pic becomes his phone lock screen. Why not? There's no one out here to see it and tell on him. Or perhaps, because the "secret" is so obviously out now, he no longer feels ashamed of it, feels no need to keep hiding. There's still lingering guilt, because innocent Dennis has no idea.
But he does not turn the bike around and head home just yet. No, that comes after Jack finally sends his Dennis text.Â
Agent of chaos, Jack sends it without warning, on an otherwise unremarkable, sunny Tuesday afternoon. Robby opens it while he's stopped, gassing up Bonnie. It's not a pic. It's a link. A long line of random numbers and letters, an anonymous, encrypted website, the kind with private accounts and log-ins. The kind that hosts invitation only videos that disappear after the log-in expires. He knows how this is supposed to work, but it's not something they've ever done, he and Jack. To open it would definitely cross a line. And Robby knows, Jack loves crossing lines. He wouldn't be Jack if he didn't.Â
The temporary log-in is Robby's birthday. That definitely reminds him that he is far too ancient to be clicking on whatever it is he's about to see. "Thanks for that, Jack", he thinks. He puts his phone up and gets back on the bike.
Once he's alone in his hotel room, though, of course, Robby clicks the link. He watches.Â
A video. Dennis and Jack in Robby's own bed. Looks like the phone is propped up on the bedside table, probably leaning against his Bubbe's lamp. This time, Dennis is fully aware he's on camera. On all fours, he makes direct eye contact and preens as Jack pushes into him from behind. His mouth is open, he's saying something. Robby catches only the words "want you to see", he can't hear the rest over the slap of their skin and Jack's panting groans. Never taking his eyes off the camera, Dennis goes up onto his knees, Jack's arms circle his chest, holding him up. Dennis bouncing with each thrust. Dennis only looks away when he twists his upper body to turn his face towards Jack, who kisses him, deep and messy.Â
The next clip is Dennis on his back on Robby's kitchen table, Jack standing between his thighs, his legs propped up on Jack's shoulders. Dennis's actually holding the phone himself in this one, so it's close to his mouth when Dennis cums, unmistakably calling Robby's name along with Jack's. Dennis pans to Jack who looks down the barrel of the camera, face framed by Dennis's legs. Still pounding away, Jack says, "Get your head out of your ass and come home, brother."Â
Then, it's Dennis kneeling on the soft carpet at the foot of Jack's bed. It's been a few years, but Robby still remembers the feel of it under his own knees. There are purple love bites on his pale thighs and chest. He looks wrecked and needy like Jack's been edging and overstimulating him for hours. Dennis is looking up at the camera, big blue eyes welling with tears, he simply says, "Please, Robby."
The next morning, he's on the road back to Pittsburgh by sunrise.Â
(Whole thing is Dennis's idea, btw. He posed for and approved every single one.)
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summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until youâre an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
âč àŁȘ Ë word count: 127kâongoingâupdates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
blurb: pt. 2 to jealou$y. lingering feelings of jealousy bubble up into desire inside logan. it certainly doesnât help that you look so good in your costume.
warnings: fem!reader, smut, established relationship, alcohol (not under the influence), CONSENT KING JOHN LOGAN, oral (f!receiving), john logan tits guy CONFIRMED, fingering, riding, lots of praise because itâs john logan i donât make the rules
You stopped having drinks after that incident. If you were getting lucky tonight, you needed to be sober and ready to pounce on Logan in the right state of mind.
Logan seemed to have the same idea, for you noticed he switched out his bottles of beer for cans of Sprite for the remainder of the night. Neither of you addressed it.
âBro, donât be so fucking boring!â Dean clapped him on the back and tried to hand him a suspicious-looking green concoction.
âNot boring, just responsible,â Logan replied, but his eyes were on you when he said it.
He also kept a heavy hand on the small of your back any moment his hand was free. You put on a good act, pretending it didnât get to you every time his fingers drew small shapes over your top, or whenever his digits slipped beneath the fabric when the boys were too busy laughing, leaving you with a hitched breath and a warm feeling between your legs.
When the other half to your dynamic duo, Kendall, stepped between the two of you and grabbed your hand, spluttering something about dancing to her favorite song, Loganâs grip tightened on you for a moment before he loosened up and plastered a pursed smile on his face.
âAs long as you bring her back to me,â he said. Kendall laughed at his joke as she dragged you away. But one look between you and Logan and you knew he wasnât trying to be funny.
âHeâs so down bad for you, itâs hilarious,â Kendall giggled to you with a roll of her eyes. âHe needs to lighten up.â
The pair of you danced to an ABBA song, laughing and belting out the lyrics. You closed your eyes and let loose, submitting to the tingle of whatever alcohol remained in your system.
John watched like a hawk. The irony wasnât lost on him considering his bird costume. You looked so good. He wanted to hold you from behind and make you feel how heavy hisâ
âAny more staring and sheâll burst into flames.â
Logan snapped out of it and turned to Garrett, who wore a knowing smirk and offered him another can of Sprite.
âThanks, man,â Logan said gratefully, taking the refill.
Garrett looked at your dancing figure. âFreshmen on the team were asking about her.â
âYeah? Whatâd they say?â Logan replied almost absentmindedly, sipping his drink and staring at you.
Garrett sighed. âRather not say. Iâm supposed to be Hannahâs âboyfriendâ and all.â
Logan peered at him from the corner of his eyes, feeling his protective instincts start to wake. Garrett noticed and gently bumped their shoulders together.
âNot like that. Wasnât bad. JustâŠâ Garrett hummed into his red solo cup. âHorny.â He settled on that word.
That was enough.
Logan chugged down whatever was left in the can of soda before making his way over to you. He crossed the room in quick strides, ignoring Kendallâs amused voice when she cooed, âUh oh, return to sender already?â
Logan took your hand and pulled you away; away from the dance floor, away from the party, and most importantlyâaway from the lingering gazes so many guys sent your way.
âLogan?â You queried as he brought you up the stairs.
He didnât respond, just kept tugging you along.
âLogan.â
Nothing.
âBabyââ
He finally stopped and turned to look at you. His stature towered over you and you suddenly felt small with the way he was staring down at your face.
He exhaled a heavy breath. âFuck, baby, Iâm trying really hard to be respectful.â
You cupped his cheek. His skin was hot to the touch. He subconsciously burrowed closer into the palm of your hand.
âYou donât have to be,â you murmured.
He closed his eyes for a moment. âHow many drinks have you had?â
âA can and a half of beer,â you answered.
He opened his eyes to make sure you were being honest. You stood unwavering.
âYouâre sober?â He asked.
âMhm.â
âYouâre sure?â
â100%. Are you?â
He sighed, turning away. âYeah. Yeah, I made sure not toâŠâ his words trailed off.
You smiled. âYou made sure not to drink too much so we could fuck?â
He looked at you again. âDonât say it like that.â
You giggled, pushing away a strand of fallen hair from his forehead. âIâm saying it as it is.â
âI made sure not to drink too much to be responsible,â he corrected.
You nodded along, âOh, yeah. Responsible. My responsible and respectful boyfriend.â You teased. He did not appreciate that.
âOkay,â he let out an amused sound as if he were faced with a challenge. He leaned in and whispered, âLetâs see whoâs laughing when I stop respecting you and start doing all the things I plan to do to you.â
You gulped.
+
He led you to the nearest vacant bedroom in the Maxwell family home before pushing you inside and locking the door behind him. You thought heâd pin you against the door and makeout with you.
Instead, he said, âSit on the bed,â in that husky voice you rarely hear so you knew you had to listen.
You sat down. The covers were soft and cool. You watched and waited for his next words, but Logan was too busy pacing in front of the door and running his hands through his hair. He looked so yummy.
âTake your clothes off. Let me see you.â
You blinked. You werenât used to Logan being like this. He usually did all the work. But this new side of him was hot, so very hot.
You slowly unzipped your boots and kicked them off along with your socks. Next, your headpiece with the sprinkles. Then, your tube top, revealing your bare breasts, and lastly, your skirt, leaving you in nothing but underwear.
You felt exposed, just sitting there on the bed as Logan stared at you without a word. His eyes were nearly black from how blown out his pupils were, his bottom lip chewed and slightly pink from how much he dragged it beneath his teeth.
âPretty,â he finally commented. âThatâs new.â
You glanced down to where he gestured, looking at the lace thong you wore. He was right; it was new. You and Kendall bought matching ones for the costumes, but you didnât need to tell him that bit right now.
âYeah,â you confirmed.
âWas it expensive?â He asked.
âNotâŠreallyâŠâ
âGood,â he nodded to himself. He pushed off the wings he wore for his costume and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.
He knelt down in front of you and spread your legs apart. âSo I can ruin it, right?â
That shot up your spine. Your thighs wanted to rub against one another at his remark, but he held your knees firmly. âAnswer.â
You nodded without thinking. âYes.â
He smiled at your obedience and nodded. âYeah, weâll get to that. But for nowâŠâ his words died down as his lips attached to yours.
It was all tongue and messy. Logan pinned your wrists to the mattress as he kissed you. He grunted against your lips every time you bit his lip teasingly. Eventually, his kisses trailed downwards. To your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone. He made sure to give all your sensitive spots an abundance of attention.
Then? His favorite bit. Your tits. John Logan was a tits guy, through and through. Doesnât matter what size or shape, he was enamored with them.
âMissed my girls,â he murmured before he took one of your breasts into his mouth, swirling his tongue over your pebbled nipple and sucking softly, then switching to the other boob and giving it the same treatment.
Your head tilted back and let out soft sighs. The comfort of him mouthing at your breasts left you aching and squirming on the bed. âOh, babyâŠâ
He pulled away at your voice and left a sloppy kiss between your tits. He peppered a few more kisses on your abdomenânipping an especially ticklish spot below your ribâbefore diving in and licking you over the fabric of your lace thong. You gasped, your hand flying to his hair like second instinct.
He groaned against you, the sound muffled but the vibrations sending sparks to your core. âAlready so wet for me. I hardly did anything.â
âLogan, pleaseâŠâ
He kept licking up your slit through your panties. He could feel your juices seep through the delicate material. The friction was doing wonders for your pleasure, but you grew impatient. âLoganâŠâ
He finally pulled your thong to the side and resumed his ministrations with extra fervor. The direct contact had you jumping in your seat, but Loganâs strong arms held your hips down.
He groaned again, pulling away just to mutter, âFuck, gorgeous, maybe he was right to call you cupcake. You taste so fucking sweet.â
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before his words fully registered in your head. âJames?â You asked, breathlessly.
He pulled away and looked at you with a deadpan expression. He crawled up your body until he was face-to-face with you and said, âPlease donât ever say another manâs name when my tongue is inside you.â
That had your hole clenching around nothing.
âGot that?â He asked.
You nodded right away, âMhm.â
âWords,â he demanded.
âYes. Got it.â You responded quietly.
âGood,â he murmured before smoothing your hair down and admiring you for a moment. Then, his head was back between your thighs.
âAh, Logan!â You breathed out, digging your nails into his scalp.
He raised up two fingers to your lips without stopping. You blinked back bleary eyed at that. âOpen,â he said.
Immediately, you parted your lips. He shoved his ring and middle fingers inside your mouth and you sucked on them diligently, running your tongue over his calluses earned from hockey and various handyman jobs. Once they were appropriately wet, he pulled his fingers out and into your pussy.
You keeled over with a loud cry, âJohn!â
He raised his head up, letting his fingers do all the work now. âYou like that? Yeah?â
You bobbed your head up and down, unable to find any words left in you from how nicely Logan scissored his fingers inside you, all whilst keeping his thumb on your clit in steady motions.
âLook at you. So pretty and whiny for me,â he murmured, voice smooth as honey. âLetting me wreck you like this and I havenât even used my cock yet.â
You whimpered, hand gripping onto his bicep. You were sure youâd see nail marks on his skin even tomorrow morning.
âOh, you like that?â He asked, tilting his head. âYou want me to fuck you stupid with my cock?â The pace of his fingers increased.
Your eyes screwed shut. âYes! Please, I want that.â You tugged him closer so you could bury your face in his neck, feeling so overwhelmed by pleasure.
He let out an airy chuckle. âSuch a good girl. Just for that? Iâll reward you.â
He made you cum on his fingers. The heel of his hand applied pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves until you seized and melted against him with a moan.
âShhh, thatâs it. Come down from it, youâre okay,â he kissed the top of your head.
You mumbled incoherent sentences into his neck and he merely smiled and rubbed your back.
After a minute of breathing, he pulled back slightly to look at your face. âYou okay?â He asked, pushing a lock of hair away from your face.
You nodded, still buzzing from what had happened. âYeah,â you exhaled.
He nodded, watching you carefully in the vulnerable afterglow. Your hands trailed down to his jeans, tugging at his belt, silently asking for it to come off.
Logan chuckled softly before helping you remove his belt and jeans. He reached into the pocket then chucked them on the floor and you instantly started palming his eager boner through his boxers.
He hissed, tossing his head back. âFuck, baby.â
âPlease tell me you have a condom,â you said.
He held the small foil up in his fingers.
At that, you rid him of his boxers and watched in tense awe as he teared the packet open with his teeth and rolled the condom on. You settled back against the bed pillows as you waited in hot anticipation.
âUh uh,â he wagged his finger before curling it in a come hither gesture.
You sat up, letting out a surprised squeal when he lifted you by your thighs and settled on the bed before placing you above him. Your hands scrambled until they settled on his abs.
He looked up at you with hooded eyes, âLook good for me, gorgeous. I want a show.â
You leaned down and peppered kisses over his face. He let out a relaxed sigh and rubbed up and down your sides lazily. You nibbled on a spot right below his ear, earning you a delicious whimper from him.
âTease,â he muttered and you grinned.
âThought you wanted a show,â you remarked.
He hummed, âMm, yeah. But just for me. No one else.â
You looked down at him, realizing heâs still a bit hung up from the incident earlier that night. Your finger slid sensually from his adamâs apple to his naval. âNo one else. Only you.â
âYeah?â His voice got deeper. âShow me.â
Sir, yes, sir. You held his dick from the base and slowly sank down on him. Logan groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. The stretch of him filling you up was deliriously good. You bit your lip as you took him in, inch by inch.
Finally, you both let out a sigh in unison. You planted your palms flat on his abdomen and started rocking back and forth.
The room succumbed to the sounds of soft moans and the subtle creak from the bed. The party downstairs was long forgotten. Here, it was just you and Logan.
âJust like that, baby, hah,â he breathed out, moving you back and forth. Even if he put you on top, Logan would always end up doing the work for you. You were his pampered princess.
You threw your head back, feeling the pleasure build up in your tummy once again. You took one of Loganâs hands and guided him through rubbing circles on your clit.
âDo you like that, sweetheart?â He asked.
You nodded fervently. âYes. Fuck, yes, Logan. Keep doing that, baby, Iâm so close.â
He held you firmly and started bucking up into you. You cried out, slumping against his chest as he thrusted in and out of you, reaching so deep inside, hitting that spongy part that left you seeing stars.
âCum for me, baby. I know you can do it,â he said.
The coil snapped and you released, letting out a long moan. Your body shook, the pleasure and adrenaline rushing through you like a live wire meeting water. You collapsed against him, your bones feeling like putty.
He took your chin in his hand and tilted your head up to meet his face. He was still rocking into you. âNeed to see you, baby. Need to see your pretty face when I cum.â
You were so out of it, barely processing his words. You simply nodded and chewed on your bottom lip. He looked so hot all sweaty and breathing heavily.
His eyes squeezed shut when he came, letting out a guttural groan. You felt his hips falter as he bucked up into you, rhythm sloppy and erratic. He let out a shuddering breath and dropped his head back onto the pillow.
The room was quiet now. The hum of electrical circuits and the distant noise of the party below filling up the space. You traced shapes onto his ribs, your touch barely skimming his skin. His hands caressed your back slowly, giving a small squeeze every now and then.
âNot jealous anymore?â You murmured, looking at him with an amused smirk.
He scoffed. âI wasnât jealous.â
You hummed, âOhhh, okay. Not jealous. Just possessive.â
He rolled his eyes fondly, a smile threatening to tear his lips wide. âJustâŠwant you to be mine. All the time.â
You smiled, âI am.â
âI know you are.â
mr. i get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy fr
about me. elle. 27 yo. she/her. love yapping and writing about the fandoms i love, so thank you for tolerating me during my phases!
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âź masterlist âź taglist form
andrew 'pope' cody (animal kingdom)
Redamancy series (AO3) part one âź part two
And, Lord! She found me just in time (Soulmate!Reader) (10k) (AO3)
jack abbot (the pitt)
now that i found you, please stay (while you were sleeping!au x reader) (1k)
the art of mutual benefit (med student/roommate!Reader) (AO3) + bonus scene
The Sunshine Chronicles (AO3) part one âź part two
I've been on a liking spree so that I could put this list together of all of the best fics of Shawn's characters I've been reading lately. This list is in no way comprehensive but I've done my very best to put everything I've been loving on it
It is also 100% smut
JACK ABBOT
quarantined by @itslowkeyatthenightshift
you and your attending butt headsâand itâs no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects moreâand youâre done with it. Just as youâre about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patientâand his patientâtests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, youâre both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
do you want the kitchen tour? by @witchywithwhiskey
when your already bad date takes a turn for the worse, the head chef of the restaurant comes to see what he can do to help. when he offers to give you a tour of the kitchen, you jump at the chance to escape, and your bad night turns into something else entirely.
behind closed doors by @andrewmiinyard
you took over jack and robby's spare room a few months ago and now you and jack are constantly at each other's throats. robby has finally had enough and he's hoping some forced proximity will do the trick. seems like it works a little too well.
temperature control by @mrshatosy
Jack Abbott was supposed to find a safer hobby. He wasnât prepared to find you.
you have no idea by @geminiwritten
even after swapping from nights to days, you just canât seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words ânever have i ever finished during sexâ ever again
the art of mutual benefit by @softundermoonlight
âI will pay for your coffee,â you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space. He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: âIâll go down on you.â
gentleman's instinct by @sun-snatcher
Sometimes you're reminded how merciless Abbot can be. You indulge in it.
semper fi by @hirukochan
Jack Abbot finds himself feeling oddly protective over the new night shift attending. He tells himself it's natural. You were the young widow of a Marine, a military spouse who brought the greatest sacrifice for her country - your husband. He watched you push on with gritted teeth, haunted by your own demons and trauma, all for the little girl depending on you. It was only natural. Any serviceman would feel an obligation towards your well-being. Any serviceman would want to know you were safe... happy... So how come, he can't help but feel like he is stealing another man's life?
ANDREW CODY
bambi series by @miasvelvetvoid
One secret changes everything. As the Cody familyâs carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesnât just change your life, it changes the entire family.
here is my hand that will not harm you by @erwinsvow
against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.
sweetheart by @pearlessance
Everyone knows that Pope Cody's girlfriend is a real sweetheart. What they don't know is that, behind closed doors, you're a real fuckin' freak, too.
late shift by @in-ky
Being the Codyâs on-call emergency nurse isnât easy. A dislocated shoulder turns into late night gunshot wounds and before you know it, youâre part of the family. After a rough night, Pope needs some TLC. And who else can help him if not his favorite nurse? Youâre the only one who can stitch him up, physically and emotionally.
break me down and I'll call you mine by @flowersforbucky
other than the men he brings home on occasion, youâre the only person who knows that deran cody is gay. when your best friend becomes anxious that people are growing suspicious of his sexuality, you suggest telling people that the two of you are dating. everything is going perfectlyâŠuntil his brother is released from prison and you start feeling things that you havenât felt in years.
fate. by @andrewmiinyard
the three times you decided to flirt with pope cody and the one time you decided to take it one step further.
crush by @pittrabbit
the aftermath of overhearing that conversation between pope and baz
worthy by @stellamarielu
you tell andrew you want to start a new life with himâ away from the chaos of his family, and he agrees with another future promise on his mind
found out by @love-quinn
as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town thatâll still serve him, youâre popeâs girl. doesnât matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartmentâs paper thin wall. youâd usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.
TITUS DANFORTH
the hunt and the vow by @sargeant-bxrnes
you broke up with titus danforth this morning. by nightfall youâre running through his familyâs forest with a seven-minute head start and one rule: if he catches you before sunrise, you marry him.
the devil's favorite by @hirukochan
In all the years Titus had been alive, no woman had ever captured his attention like you did. Titus could not explain it, he just knew, from the second he first met you, he needed you like air. And he'd move heaven and hell if necessary to get you. Not his father, not yours, not the Lawyer, Mr Le Bail or his demons he had watching over you could ever stop him.
the lottery by @thatcorporategirlie
You return to the estate after learning Chester has fallen ill, and learn that the beginning of a new game is about to unfold.
mrs. danforth by @rr-after-dark
 As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.
hazard pay by @spikedfearn
The Danforth estate was built to swallow screams, and tonight youâre the one cleaning up what the hunt leaves behind. When Titus Danforth arrives bleeding, furious, and far too aware of your hands on him, the private medical room becomes its own kind of trap.
please let me know if any of the links aren't working. I want to make sure everyone gets credited for their amazing work :)
The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all. in this chap - underage drinking, smut, protected pinv
main masterlist // jack abbot masterlist
August 27th.
Senior year is supposed to be a breeze. Jackâs put in the work, done the MCAT, and now he just has to wait for the interviews for med school to roll in.
After a year of being President of Sigma Chi, heâs dropped to a less strenuous role this year - Academic Rep. Itâs a role he takes with a healthy dose of irony, mostly spent chasing underclassmen to ensure their collective GPA doesn't tank the houseâs social privileges before graduation.
He sits on the worn leather sofa in the fraternity common room, a lukewarm coffee in hand, watching a pair of freshmen argue over a video game. Last year, this room was a minefield of budget crises, noise complaints from the dean, and brotherhood disputes that required the diplomacy of a UN peacekeeper.
Now? His biggest administrative headache is convincing a nineteen-year-old sophomore that failing Intro to Macroeconomics will directly result in a ban on the upcoming Halloween celebrations.
Itâs a glorious, low-stakes existence, and Jack intends to ride this wave of absolute mediocrity straight through to May.
His only other role in the frat this year is party-planning, and Jack has no problem dedicating time to that.
Tonight's festivities - their annual Hippies vs. Cowboys party. A legendary night that requires him to dust off his old presidential authority to keep the drinks flowing and spirits high.
Planning it is always an exercise in absurdity. Jack spends the week leading up to the party negotiating borders in the backyard, dividing the lawn into a "Saloon" and a "Commune." He has to veto the freshmen's increasingly dangerous ideas for a homemade mechanical bull, while simultaneously confiscating suspicious bundles of sage that the "hippies" want to burn inside a house with centuries-old wooden beams.
Everything is set up. Now, his only concern is trying to salvage the guestlist when Robby decides heâs not coming out of the blue.
"Come on, man, itâs Hippies and Cowboys," Jack argues, propping his phone against the mirror. "You can literally just wear some denim. I have an extra hat. It takes zero effort."
On the screen, Robby looks thoroughly exhausted, surrounded by thick textbooks and empty coffee cups. "I'm in med school, Jack. My brain is leaking out of my ears. Youâll understand next year."
As one of the only academically-inclined members of the team, he and Robby had become fast-friends in Jackâs first year, when Robby was a senior. Now an MS3, heâs been a life-saver when it comes to applying to med school.
"Which is exactly why you need to get drunk in a basement. Savour this before youâre pulling fourteen hour shifts every day.â
"I am not traveling all the way up from the medical campus just to watch a bunch of freshmen pass out on a mechanical bull," Robby groans, rubbing his temples. "The commute alone will kill me, and I start my Psych rotation at dawn. Go have a beer for me.â
âLoser,â Jack hollers.
âWhatever. Try not to torment the female population of Cornell tonight, and Iâll see you at the first game.â
*****
The bass from the speakers downstairs is already vibrating through the floorboards when the front door officially opens. Within an hour, the house is packed to capacity, a sweaty, high-energy blur of denim, suede, flower crowns, and flannel.
Jack takes his role as host seriously. He moves through the crowded living room with easy, senior-year confidence, high-fiving guys from the lacrosse team, directing people toward the kegs, and making sure the hired DJ actually keeps the crowd moving. He plays the part perfectly, laughing at jokes, keeping the peace, and flirting where necessary.
He may also be looking for someone to hook up with.
He argues that itâs only natural. First week of the semester, youâve got to start how you intend to go on. And Jack intends to have fun. Unattached, zero strings fun.
When Chloe walks in, it feels a little like a sign.
A Communications major, theyâve been hooking up on-and-off since sophomore year. She catches his eye, gives him a slow, familiar smile, and begins to make her way through the crowds.
Normally, Jack would meet her halfway. Tonight, though, he just isn't feeling it.
The thought of going through the usual routine - the standard small talk, the familiar rhythm - suddenly feels entirely unappealing. He gives her a friendly, casual wave instead of a come-hither look, deliberately stepping into a conversation with a group of hockey freshmen to break her line of sight. He needs something different tonight. He just doesn't know what it is yet.
Heâs lamenting his lack of options, when one literally falls into his lap. Thereâs a slight commotion that heâs not paying attention to, before youâre pushed, stumbling slightly before hitting the side of his legs and losing your balance entirely.
If Jack is expecting some kind of slowing of time, prolonged eye contact and shy smiles, he doesnât get any of it. Instead, you toss him a brief apology, before youâre back on your feet to yell at the guy who pushed you. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â
Normally, Jack makes it a rule to not get involved with fraternity drama. One of the more sober brothers can deal with it. But something about you has him getting to his feet, arms crossed as he situates himself between you and your assailant. He glances at the guy, vaguely recognises him as someone whoâs caused trouble before.
Doesnât tend to understand the word no.
âIs there a problem here?â
âI told him I wasnât interested, and he fucking shoved me!â
Thatâs all Jack needs to hear. For all the issues that Sigma Chi may have, they certainly donât allow creeps on their premises. All it takes is one rumour of the frat not shutting it down properly, and they can kiss their squeaky-clean reputation goodbye. âRight, youâre done,â He starts, a hand on the guyâs chest as he waves for security by the front door.
âWhat?â When the guy speaks, his voice is slurred, his cheeks flushed. Heâs totally wasted, to the point where itâs a miracle heâs even standing upright. âS-She came on tâme.â
âIâm positive thatâs not true,â Jack replies, taking one look at him. Unkempt hair, noticeable body odour, and a shitty attitude. You could definitely do better. âWhatâs your name?â
âWhy dâya w-want tâknow?â
âWeâre offering you an award,â Jack replies dryly. âBecause Iâm banning you from the house, dumbass.â
The guy goes to reply, tries to make a half-hearted swing at Jack, when security take an arm each, and begin to haul him out backwards.
âCheck his ID, and give me his name at the end of the night!â Jack calls after him, before turning his attention back to you.
You donât look scared, or distressed, or even annoyed. Instead, you look almost amused by the entire situation.
âJack,â He offers you his hand, and you tell him your own name. He tries it out, likes the way it sounds on his tongue. âYou want a drink?â
Youâre nodding, and heâs leading you through to the kitchen to grab a beer. Your nose scrunches a little as you take it. âWhat - you donât like beer?â
Which is how, for the first time in his college career, Jack finds himself mixing up a margarita in the middle of a frat party. Youâd insisted youâd be fine with some vodka and coke, but he finds himself wanting to impress you.
âSo⊠was your inspiration Manson-Family-Chic?â He asks, raising an eyebrow while you snort, into your cup. He doesnât know why heâs ragging on you, given youâre one of the only people here who looks like they couldâve fallen out of the sixties. The neckline of your dress is high, leaving everything to the imagination, but the hem falls high on your thighs, to the point where one wrong move would have everything on display.
Most other guests took the hippie theme to mean lingerie with some over-sized glasses and a peace-sign necklace.
He likes that you took it seriously.
The way he checks you out is far from subtle, hazel eyes trailing down your form, all the way down to your white go-go boots.
âDo you know what the Manson Family were wearing on a day-to-day basis? Because it certainly wasnât vintage Biba.â
Somebody bumps into you from behind, and Jack takes the opportunity to hook an arm around your waist and pull you into him for the second time that night. Now chest-to-chest, youâre looking up at him through darkly-lined eyes, and he suddenly doesnât know what to say.
âDoes the white knight thing normally work for you?â
He lets out a laugh, low and genuine. âItâs never hurt.â
Over the next few minutes, Jack learns more about you than he knows about some of his own teammates. Youâre on the pre-law track, but because you were such an âannoying overachieverâ in high school, your plan is to chill for the rest of college. You also play bass and sing back-up in a band, but were supremely embarrassed by any kind of suggestion that you might sing for him sometime.
âSo⊠youâre what - some kind of rockstar?â He asks, obviously out to charm, and you snort.
âDefinitely not as sexy as that. Bassists donât normally get that much love.â
âI donât know, sounds pretty sexy to me,â His head is dipped, his nose almost touching yours. âHot girl, guitar⊠pretty sure I had wet dreams exactly like that in high school.â
You laugh before you can help it, the sound getting swallowed by the music and the noise of the party around you.
âOh my God,â you mutter, shaking your head.
âToo much?â
You glance up at him, trying to decide your answer, when the music shifts, and the opening chords of Layla waft through the frat house. He watches your face visibly light up, and bites back a smile.
âClapton fan?â he asks.
âLet me guess - youâre in charge of the music tonight.â
âUnfortunately, the rest of the team think that the nineties counts as retro. Do you dance?â
âYou asking?â
âMaybe,â He shrugs.
You narrow your eyes playfully. âYou any good?â
âAbsolutely not.â
âPerfect.â
Before he can react, you grab his wrist and tug him toward the centre of the room.
Jack doesnât miss a beat. He uses your grip on his wrist to pull you flush against him, completely eliminating the space between you. His large, calloused palm settles firmly against the small of your back, guiding you into a breathless rhythm.
You look up, completely caught in his orbit as he spins you out and pulls you right back against his chest. At this distance, the rest of the frat house completely blurs out. Jack dips his head, lips brushing your neck in the briefest kiss.
Layla, you've got me on my knees.
The lyrics echo in his head, and for the first time in his life, they don't feel like hyperbole. If Clapton hadn't written it fifty years ago, Jack is pretty sure someone would have to write it about you tonight.
Begging darling please, Layla
He catches Chloeâs eye as his hands drop to your waist, and he immediately glances away.
They're not dating. They have zero obligations to one another.
So why does she look so pissed?
Darling, won't you ease my worried mind?
The guitar solo is screaming through the speakers, matching the frantic, heavy rhythm in Jack's chest. He looks down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes, and realises he is completely text-book losing his mind. A freshman bumps hard into his shoulder, but he barely registers it. He is entirely done with this crowded room, done sharing the way you move and the sweet smell of your perfume with a hundred drunk strangers.
Pulling you into him, he lowers his head until his lips brush the warm skin just below your ear. âCome upstairs with me,â he murmurs, his voice tight with an impatience he doesn't even bother trying to hide.
He doesn't offer a lame excuse. He just pulls back to look down at you, waiting.
Instead of answering, you slide your hand up his neck, tilt your chin, and press your lips directly to his.
Jack lets out a quiet, defeated breath against you, his hands instantly sliding up your back to anchor you against him. The kiss is intoxicating, tasting like the drink on your breath and the heat of the room, completely shattering his usual composure.
When you finally break apart, both of you breathing a little harder, you finally slide your hand down into his open palm and squeeze it gently. âLead the way, hockey boy.â
*****
You catch the back of his neck and pull him into you, allowing him to walk you backwards until the back of your legs hit the bed.
Jack's been known to rip some clothing in his time, but he takes surprising care with your dress. As soon as itâs draped over the back of his chair, the rest of your clothes go in a frenzied rush. The dancing was the foreplay, and neither of you can stand a single second more of not being as close as possible.
There's a layer of sweat covering Jack's skin, glittering under the light from the lamp on his bedside, and you allow yourself a second to admire his abs.
He catches you looking, and a familiar, cocky smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He follows you down onto the mattress, his weight a warm, welcome pressure that drives every remaining thought of the noisy fraternity house right out of your head. His hands are surprisingly gentle as they frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair while his mouth finds yours again.
âYou up for this?â He breathes, and you find yourself oddly charmed. He checked on you twice on the way up here - and while, sure, itâs the bare minimum, itâs not something youâre hugely used to.
âI wouldnât have let you bring me up here if I wasnât,â You mumble back, between kisses, anticipation in your chest tripling as he reaches for a condom.
You're not usually one to be bossed around, but there's something intoxicating about the way Jack manhandles you. A few small giggles escape as he flips you onto your front, pulling your ass back to meet his hips.
âSomething funny?â
âI guess that depends on your performance.â
âYouâre a tough critic. Noted.â
With that, heâs sinking in, and your fingers grip helplessly at his sheets as you try and ground yourself. âShit.â
Youâd rather die than tell him, but heâs big. Thicker and longer than your ex.
âDoing okay down there?â You can hear the smirk in his voice, and realise he knows exactly what youâre thinking.
âJust fine.â
He starts to move, movements slow at first as his hands settle at your hips, gripping tightly. The stretch soon gives way to pleasure, and youâre more than a little embarrassed when you whimper.
You donât whimper.
Not at all.
Except tonight, it seems.
Must be the alcohol.
âJ-Jack, oh my god-â
An arm loops around your front, pulling you upwards until your back is pressed to his chest. With it, the angle changes, and you can feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.
âGood girl,â is groaned right into your ear, and you think you might be seeing stars.
Maybe hockey players do know what they're doing.
You're suddenly very glad for the blaring music downstairs drowning out the sound of skin slapping, and the way Jack is moaning behind you. If you weren't close before, his hand dropping between your legs to circle at your clit throws you over the edge.
You tilt your head upwards, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss as he works you through the orgasm.
Normally, this would be it. A brief kiss pressed to your shoulder, before your ex curled up in bed and left you hanging.
Jack, however, appears to have exactly the stamina you'd expect from a varsity jock, and youâre on your back before you can even orient yourself. His face is buried in the crook of your neck as his thrusts resume.
Nails digging in to the meat of his back, your mind is totally cleared of anything that isnât Jackâs name. You donât even know his surname.
You wouldn't have pegged him for an eye contact guy, but as his movements become more erratic, heâs pulling back to hold your jaw, keeping your gaze fixed on him.
âF-Fuck, I think Iâm gonna-â With a final groan, he climaxes, dropping his head to rest against yours while his hips start to slow. âHoly shit.â
âYeah,â You breathe. âHoly shit.â
âYou okay?â
You nod quickly, lip between your teeth. The last thing you want to do is give him an even bigger head than he already has, but it slips out before you can stop it. âIâve never cum that quickly before.â
âWhat can I say? Iâm a pro,â He replies, a lazy grin on his face as he presses one last kiss to your temple before he pulls out, and gets to his feet to reach for the trash can.
Condom discarded, he pads back over to the bed, his shoulders so broad that he takes up half the space.
âAre you one of those guys that can't have girls stay over?â You ask, chest still heaving a little as you try and regain your senses.
âM'not gonna kick you out at-â He checks his phone. â3am. What kind of a monster do you think I am?â
âWell, you are on the hockey team,â You start, trailing off in a fit of giggles when Jack digs his fingers into your side, tickling mercilessly. âHey!â
âI've got practice in the morning, though. So I'll be out at like six.â
You understand what he's getting at. Jack is not in the relationship business.
You don't have a problem with that. You wanted some variety in your life, and you got it. âS'okay. It was good sex. No point in trying to make it something it isn't.â
âYou're my kind of girl, princess. You ever thought about coming to the hockey games?â
You snort, shooting him a glance. âAre you trying to recruit me to the Puck Bunny leagues? Yeah, I think I'll pass on that one, thanks.â
âOh, come on,â Jack groans, throwing a heavy arm over his eyes, though a smug little smirk still tugs at his lips. âItâs peak entertainment.â
âAnd youâll have CTE by the time youâre twenty-five.â
âTechnically, Iâm more likely to lose teeth. If weâre talking statistics.â
You scrunch up your nose. âGross.â
âBesides,â He continues. âThis is my last year playing. Iâm going to med school next year.â
âReally?â You gape, turning onto your side to get a better look at him. Heâd told you earlier he was a biology major, but you hadnât given it much thought. Youâd figured he was probably just trying to avoid as many essays as possible.
âYou donât have to sound so surprised,â He grumbles.
âIâm just keeping your feet on the ground, hockey boy. Someoneâs gotta do it. Good for you, though - I thought hockey players lost all their braincells from the fights.â
âGoing to sleep now,â Jack singsongs, shoving lightly at your shoulder, and you laugh again.
You slide down into the mattress, turning your back to him and pulling the blanket tight around your shoulders. You expect him to stay on his side, but after a minute, the mattress shifts. Jack moves closer, his chest pressing against your back, his large frame bracketing yours to block out the chill of the room. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you. His arm slides carefully around your waist, holding you still, and despite the biting comments, you let yourself sink backward into his warmth as you both drift off.
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âKnow I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.â
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual âparents berating their kids for their decisionsâ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. iâm normal and can be trusted with noah kahanâs discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
âYour familyâs in town?â
Youâre at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where heâs getting them is one of the worldâs strangest unsolved mysteries.Â
You canât see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.Â
âYeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how itâs such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.â
âDinner circuit?â
You wave a hand. âItâs actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that theyâre here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time theyâre at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.â
âYikes,â The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, âAnd the whole successful doctor thing doesnât work on them? It got my parents off my back.â
You shake your head. âIâm the only doctor in the family, but they thought I shouldâve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.â
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. âThereâs money in emergency medicine. Eventually.âÂ
âThereâs money in all medicine eventually,â You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. âIâm sure if I'd picked general surgery they wouldâve found a problem with that too.â
âSo your fucked, basically.â
Your eyes slip shut again. âYep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way wonât get my mom off my back.â
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. âBest of luck with that. Youâre the only intern the night shift has got, so weâd rather you donât off yourself via poisoned wine.âÂ
âI wouldnât do poison. Iâd choke on bread so theyâd have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.â
âJesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but thatâs brutal.â
You shrug. âNot as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.â
He gapes. âWhat reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?â
âI told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.â
âThatâsâŠâ Shen trails off, flabbergasted, ââŠWow. Now I'm worried youâre going to kill one of them.â
âWay too much effort. They arenât worth the jail time.â
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. âWell, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please donât call me. I canât afford to be implicated.â
âYou saying I canât hide a body myself?â
âIâm saying I canât hide a body.â
âWhoâs hiding bodies?â Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.Â
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. âSheâs killing her parents later today.âÂ
You roll your eyes. âIâm not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and donât bring up any trigger topics, Iâll be fine.â
Jack snorts. âYouâre describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.â
âDr. Intern?â Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out youâre the only PGY1 on the night shift, âThereâs a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says sheâs your mom.â
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. âItâs six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.â
Someone behind you says âHoly shit,â but youâre already gone. As youâre speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that youâd only had a chance to skim andâ fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.Â
âMom?âÂ
âThere you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that thereâs nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldnât let me. Something about a security issue?â
âItâs not safe. Weâve had incidents in the pastââ
She waves a hand, dismissing you. âIâm your mother. Honestly, I wouldnât have had to come down here if youâd just respond to my texts.âÂ
âIâve told you mom, Iâm really busy here and I donât get very much time to look at my phoneââ
âYour brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,â She sighs, then continues on, âDid you get time off this week for dinner?â
You frown. âI thought we were having lunch.â
âWell, I figured since weâre all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effortââ
âItâs fine, mom,â You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, âI can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?â
âItâs this Friday and Saturday.â
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.Â
âCan I help you, maâam?âÂ
Jack.Â
Jack fucking Abbot.Â
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.Â
âIâm trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Donât tell me youâre security.â
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says âDOCTORâ on it, so your momâs just being bitchy. Figures.Â
Jackâs hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.Â
âIâm Dr. Abbot,â He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, âIâm an attending here at the ED.â
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.Â
âYou work with my daughter?â
âYes maâam. Sheâs the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.â
Your lips twitch at his words. Heâs joking. Testing your motherâ youâre the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, sheâll pick up on his joke.Â
She doesnât. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.Â
âWell thatâs good to hear. Weâre very proud of her.â
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.Â
âIf youâll excuse us, I need her working on patients.â
âOh yes, of course,â Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. âI didnât realize she was so important and busy here.â
You would if youâd ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.Â
Jackâs thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.Â
âIâll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?â
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.Â
âNo rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.â
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your momâs turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.Â
The second the doors close behind you and youâre enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.Â
âI,â You start, âAm so sorry. I never thought sheâd show up here, I got the flight times mixed upââ
âHey,â Jackâs voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, âNone of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.â
âI know. I know. Still, Iâm sorry. She can be⊠difficult.â
He snorts. âUnderstatement of the year. But seriously. Donât worry about it. If I didnât want to get involved with her, I wouldnât have swooped in there.â
You huff a laugh. âMy hero. Iâm pretty sure if youâd introduced yourself as my boyfriend she wouldâve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.â
âAre those desired outcomes?â
âMostly.â
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. âMight be worth a shot, then.â
Itâs a very well kept secret that youâve harbored an embarrassing, âthink about him while youâre falling asleep at nightâ crush on Jack.Â
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
âYeah, right,â You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jackâs gaze is too intense, âCould even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.â
âYou could.â
âWipe out my entire family?â
âTake me to dinner with you.â
Jackâs body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. Thereâs no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like heâs serious.Â
âAre you joking?â
He canât really be serious. Heâs probably just fucking with you. He wouldnât actuallyâ
âNo.â
You run a hand over your hair. âYeah, sure, laugh it up, hahaââ
âIâll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.â
What. The. Fuck.Â
âNo.â You gape, incredulous.Â
âNo?â He raises an eyebrow.Â
âNo, I meanâ fuck. Dr. Abbotââ
âJack.âÂ
You purse your lips. âJack. You canât just⊠pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.â
âWhy not?â
âWhy not?â You sputter, âFor one, we hardly know each otherââ
âYouâve been working here for three months. Weâre hardly strangers.â
âYouâre my boss, your way older than me, youâreââ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like âyouâre ridiculously fucking hot and I havenât washed my socks in monthsâ, âIt wouldnât even be believable. How would we even have met?â
âIn the ED, obviously.â
âHow long have we been together?â
âMonth and a half.â
âWhy are we even dating?â
âBecause youâre a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.â
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.Â
âHave you⊠thought about this?âÂ
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. âWould it work?â
âAre you rich?âÂ
Thereâs that devilish, pants dropping smile.Â
âIâm a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. Iâm comfortable.â
You worry your lip between your teeth. âI still canât⊠I appreciate the offer, but I canât subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.â
âBut you do?â
âTheyâre my family.âÂ
Jack doesnât respond, but he doesnât move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isnât coding somewhere.Â
You sigh. âWhy would you even offer, anyway?âÂ
âYou need help, and Iâm in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesnât involve people dying or getting shot at.â
âSo you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?â
âBeats drinking beer in the park.â
You canât say yes. Itâs crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.Â
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldnât be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.Â
âSo. Weâve been dating for a month and a half?â
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. âI asked you out, of course.â
âFlowers?â
âNaturally.â
âYou pay?âÂ
âFor every meal.â
âWhatâs my favorite color?â
âNavy blue. Mine?âÂ
You roll your eyes. âBlack. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?â
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.Â
âWill she really be that upset about it?â
âProbably not, but sheâll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but heâs easier to placate than my mom is.â
Jack hums thoughtfully. âWhenâs the lunch today?â
âTwelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.â
âHow about this,â He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, âLets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and Iâll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?â
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.Â
âDeal.â
â
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.Â
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, heâs as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.Â
Youâre standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just donât want to fucking go.Â
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.Â
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, heâs here and youâre not ready, god heâs going to be so upset you have to make him wait itâs so rudeâ
âHi!â You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. Itâs a thin line between the two, âIâm almost ready, Iâm so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I wonât take too long to finish up. Sorry.â
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old methodâ hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.Â
âWoah, easy girl. Nobodyâs mad at you. We have time, remember?â
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.Â
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. âI know, but that was so weâd have time to plan and itâs rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I canât get my makeup to look rightââ
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause heâs just standing in the hallway and youâre rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why canât your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
âFirst of all,â Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, âYou look beautiful.â
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what heâs doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?Â
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. Itâs your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.Â
âSecondly, we donât have to do this if you donât want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, Iâll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.â
You crack a wobbly smile. âNot even to Nurse Evans?â
âSheâd probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.âÂ
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. âI couldnât even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one thereâll be hell to pay.â
âYou could swap me with someone else?â
âDo you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?â
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.Â
âIâm sorry. Iâm not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.â
âI ainât judging, sweetheart,â Jack soothes, âBesides. Weâre ER doctors. Weâre all a little neurotic.â
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity youâre trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.Â
âIâll just. Finish up. Sorry again.â
âIâm gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorryâs. Youâre gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.â
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesnât critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.Â
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.Â
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. âDo you want a shot, Jack?â
âYouâre aware that Iâm fifty?â
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
âJust thought Iâd offer,â You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, âSometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.â
Heâs leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. âIt was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. Iâm more of a whiskey man, anyways.â
âIâll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.â
Jack raises an eyebrow. âYou act like weâre going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.â
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. âSorry. I just donât want you to be unprepared, because theyâre not always bad but when theyâre bad theyâre bad, you know? And I just donât want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just donâtââ
âDo you always ramble when youâre worried?â Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
âUm. No? I donât know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.â
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.Â
âWe got this, okay? Iâm not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, Iâll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and weâre being called in.â
âWonât my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?â
Jack shrugs. âItâs the city. Something horrible is always happening here.â
He holds the front door open for you when youâve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as youâre sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.Â
âYou smell good.âÂ
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.Â
âOh,â You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, âUhâ Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.â
âItâs nice. Suits you.âÂ
You manage to squeak out another awkward âThanksâ before hastily locking the door, hoping he canât tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.Â
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.Â
(âWhat should I say if she asks if weâve slept together?â
âDo you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?â
âFair point.â)
By the time you arrive, youâve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. Itâs one of the hottest things youâve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldnât be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.Â
At least, thatâs what he says.Â
âI want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. Iâll meet you there.â
You canât help but smile at his efforts. âAnd what will you be doing while Iâm sneaking out?â
âSinging your praises, of course.â
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you âIn case theyâre still watching,â) and loop your arm through Jackâs, you feel⊠almost capable.Â
The lunch is going to suck. Thatâs a given. But Jack assured you heâs seen worse (âProbably done worse, sweetheart,â) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid âand fucking huge, how are his biceps that bigâ under your arm, and his presence is steadying.Â
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried youâd be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but thereâs no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.Â
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.Â
Youâve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:Â
âYouâve got this, baby. And if you donât, I do.â
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.Â
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jackâs grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how⊠possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.Â
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. âHoney, weâve talked about you being on time to these things. You canât be late to important familyââ
You watch in real time as your motherâs gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.Â
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isnât going down too well.Â
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.Â
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.Â
âI believe weâve met before, but Iâll introduce myself again. Iâm Dr. Jack Abbot.â
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like youâve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she canât afford in the first place.Â
âYouâre my daughterâs plus one?â
Jack nods. âHer boyfriend, yes.â
Your brotherâs gape. Your dadâs glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.Â
âHoney,â Your mother says, gaze darting to you, âYou didnât sayââ
âI didnât want you to meet him at the hospital,â You tell her, hoping the lie doesnât come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, âThe lobby of the hospital isnât the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.â
Your mother purses her lips. âWhy the last minute addition? If youâd told me that he was coming before today, it wouldâve been easier to make the reservation.â
Jack is quicker to respond than you. âThatâs my fault, actually. I didnât think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.â
You have to try hard not to smile at Jackâs not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.Â
âYes, well. My daughter doesnât always stress the importance of these things.âÂ
Jackâs grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your motherâs gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. âIâm starving.â
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.Â
âHowâd I do?â
You elbow him in the side. âWeâll discuss your performance after this is over.â
âLooking forward to it.âÂ
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your moneyâs on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.Â
To his credit, Jack doesnât cause a scene, but he doesnât back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:Â
âDo you really wanna do this right now?â
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.Â
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you donât bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. Heâs never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew theyâd ask and appropriately prepared him for.Â
âSo. Dr. Abbotââ
âJust Jack is fine.â
ââHow long have the two of you been dating?â
âA month and a half.â
âWhyâd you start dating?â
You take a generous gulp of your wine.Â
âBecause your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.â
âDo you think sheâs pretty?â One of your brothers chimes in.Â
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. âIâd have to be blind and stupid if I didnât.â
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.Â
Thatâs going in the mental folder.Â
âHave you always wanted to be a doctor?â
âPretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.â
âWhyâd you leave?âÂ
âHonorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.â
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.Â
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the âgot a limb chopped offâ bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before weâre in the clear.Â
âMr. Abbotââ
âEither Doctor or Jack works.âÂ
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.Â
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. Youâve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.Â
But Jack isnât his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.Â
This no doubt infuriates your father. Heâs always hated it when he couldnât tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.Â
âJack,â Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, âYouâre a smart man, yeah? Havenât you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?âÂ
Yikes. Questioning Jackâs competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. Itâs really hot.Â
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.Â
âWar doesnât really lend to longevity. Iâve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.âÂ
For a moment, it doesnât feel fake. Thereâs raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.Â
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, heâs passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesnât bring up any argument-starting topics, doesnât rise to bait when itâs thrown his way.Â
Heâs perfect.Â
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesnât even look.Â
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your fatherâs attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. Itâs probably the third time sheâs actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since itâs positive, youâll let it slide.Â
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jackâs hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and youâre being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.Â
âWow,â You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. âI think thatâs the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. Youâre really good at this.â
Jack doesnât respond though. Doesnât make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and heâs staring straight ahead.Â
âJack?âÂ
âThey didnât even talk to you.â
You blink.Â
âWhat?â
âYour family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didnât even ask you any questions.â
You snort. âTrust me, itâs better that way.â
He hasnât started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He canât be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
âYou ordered a salad.â He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.Â
âSo? It wasnât too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I wouldâve looked at something cheaper, I donât know why salads are so expensiveââ
âPlease donât apologize for ordering a salad,â Jack says, voice pained, âEspecially because I know you hate salads.â
Oh.Â
âHow do you know that?â
âI overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.â
Your cheeks heat. âI never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.â
âYou hardly ate anything during lunch.â
âMy family tends to have that effect on my appetite.â
Jack does not look placated. He doesnât take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.Â
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
ââŠMel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?âÂ
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(Itâs not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
âOf course I remember.âÂ
There isnât much to say after that. Youâre not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error youâve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that youâre still present.Â
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesnât.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesnât look at your phone.Â
Jack just keeps looking at you.Â
Heâll look over, eyes darting over your face like heâs looking for something, and then heâll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.Â
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.Â
âYouâre so much more than them.âÂ
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.Â
âWhat?â
âYour family,â Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part âYour parents. I hated watching you⊠disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.âÂ
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.Â
âListen,â You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, âThank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shiftsââ
âNo.â
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.Â
An old habit.Â
Something flashes across his face âgone before you can decipher itâ and he noticeably forces himself calmer. Â
âI wouldnât be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.âÂ
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. âI really canât ask you toââ
âItâs a good thing youâre not asking me then.âÂ
âJackââ
âPlease.â
Youâre stunned silent at the rawness in his toneâ the pain.Â
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.Â
âI donât know how you do it,â He continues, jaw working, âI can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.â
You shrug uselessly. âIs there another option?âÂ
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes heâd followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you thatâs made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.Â
âIâll walk you to your door.âÂ
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. Thereâs no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.Â
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where youâre getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.Â
(As an ED resident, youâve seen child abuse cases. Youâve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes. Â
You know your family isnât great. But there arenât any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you havenât done something wrong, but you feel like you have because heâs upset so maybe you can make it better?Â
âYou have that look on your face.â
You frown. âWhat look?âÂ
âThe âIâm gonna apologize for something stupidâ look.â
âI wasnât going to.â
âYou were thinking about it,â Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, âHey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.âÂ
âItâs freaky when you do that.â
âDo what?â
âYou always know what Iâm thinking.â
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.Â
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: âWhy are you upset?âÂ
âBecause your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I canât.âÂ
âOh.âÂ
Itâs not that bad. It canât be that bad. Youâve seen bad. This isnât it. Itâs hard, but itâs not bad.Â
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.Â
Jack nods towards your door. âWe can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.â
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.Â
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your âquickly approachingâ shift, you linger.Â
âHow am I supposed to repay you for all of this?âÂ
The question thatâs been burning a hole in your pocket since he said Iâll do it.Â
He just shakes his head. Like itâs simple. Easy. âThis isnât something I want repayment for. Now go. Youâre no good to me as a zombie.âÂ
âIâll just have some of Shenâs Dunkin.â
âHe doesnât share that shit. Besides, heâs off tomorrow.â
âMaybe Iâllââ
âSleep,â He points at your door, âNow.âÂ
You smile at his insistence. Heâs sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.Â
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.Â
âGoodnight.â
He gives you a little smile of his own.Â
âGoodnight.â
â
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesnât talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, heâs going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he wonât be around to take care of you.Â
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.Â
âThis really isnât a good timeââ
âRobby,â Jack starts, âThey didnât even fucking talk to her.âÂ
âJesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.â
âThey justâŠâ Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, ââŠIgnored her. They talked over her, didnât ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.â
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robbyâs moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.Â
âShe fight back at all?â
âNo. Just⊠grinned and beared it. It was fuckinâ unsettling, man. Iâve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMTâs who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.âÂ
âChrist.â
âShe flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.â
âFuck. Do you thinkââ
âI donât know. Maybe when she was younger. They donât live in state, so if they are, sheâs safe.âÂ
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. âGod. I donât know what to do, Robby. It doesnât seem like sheâs got⊠anybody. She didnât even understand why I was upset. She doesnât get why that would be upsetting.âÂ
âSheâs friends with Mel and Santos, right?âÂ
âAnd Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. Iâve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. Sheâs just been doing everything on her own.â
Jack can picture Robby nodding. âWeâve done our fair share of that.â
âYeah, and look where that got us. I canât just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.âÂ
âThat bad?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.Â
âSheâs always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, weâre all fucked up, but watching it happenâŠâ
âItâs different.âÂ
âYou could say that,â Jack sighs, âShe soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.â
âYou lost me on that last one.âÂ
âIt doesnât⊠Sheâs not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.âÂ
âIs there a difference?â
âThere is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.â
âAre you sure you want to get involved?â
âBit late for that.â
âYou could pull back.â
âFuck no, I canât. Then Iâd be kicking the puppy.â
âShe is a grown woman.â
âWho happens to look like a kicked puppy.â
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.Â
âYou finally realize how ridiculous you sound?â
Jack grunts. âIâm not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.â
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. âThatâs an answer in it of itself, and you know that.âÂ
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.Â
âI donât know, Robby. Itâs justâŠâ
âWorse than you expected?â
âYeah.â
âCome on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?â
âFuck no.â
âExactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and heâs only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. Iâm not a betting man, but if I were, Iâd bet money that heâs moved onto his third during this conversation.âÂ
âI save lives too.â
âYou wonât save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.â
âI would never fall asleep behind the wheel.â
âThatâs what they all say.âÂ
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.Â
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he canât stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he wonât be able to let it go.
â
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jackâs car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.Â
Itâs jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if youâre being honest.Â
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, youâre convinced youâve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:Â
âDid you and Jack go on a date yesterday?âÂ
And:Â
âWhatâs Jack like on a date?âÂ
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you donât answer it or any of itâs variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
Youâre not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. Thatâs conveniently nowhere near him.Â
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, whoâs pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you sheâs there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and heâs never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.Â
(ââŠI like layering scents.â
âItâs nice. Suits you.â)
Itâs all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but itâs oddly difficult. Youâve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, itâs the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you wonât access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled âFor: Jack Abbotâ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.Â
But you canât. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, thereâs a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.Â
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.Â
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesnât require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack wouldâve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isnât the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So itâs something else.Â
Itâs how they treat you.Â
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, youâd also probably be upset too.Â
But this feels different. Jackâs reaction is different. Jack is different.Â
Itâs just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You donât even live in the same state anymore. Itâs not a big deal.Â
âWhy are you hiding from me in a supply closet?âÂ
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
âIâm not hiding from you.â
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. âThis is the third time youâve been here in two hours.â
âSo? I just want to be⊠on top of things. Iâm a productive person.âÂ
âYou are,â He amends, âBut all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.â
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. âThings are just⊠weird, okay? I donât know how youâre being so normal about all this?â
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.Â
You canât exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you canât quite bring yourself to agree eitherâ because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers youâve had in years isn't just nothing.Â
Itâs everything. And you, for one, canât just pretend that it didnât happen.Â
âHey,â He calls your name softly, âWhatâs on your mind? Whatâs bugging you?âÂ
âNothing.â
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so itâs just the two of you alone. âLiar.â
He doesnât probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like theyâre looking for an answer. An answer youâre too hesitant to give.Â
âIâm just worried.âÂ
âYou? Worried? No.âÂ
You cut him a glare, âThereâs a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.â
âSure,â Jack dips his head, âBut thatâs not what youâre really worried about.â
âAnd how do you know that?â
âBecause that doesnât address the fact that youâre avoiding me.â
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.Â
âWhy do you care?âÂ
The question thatâs been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just canât seem to get rid of. The puzzle you canât figure out; the tune you canât place.Â
Youâre a logic driven person. You like knowing how things worksâ why they work. Why things do the things they do.Â
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.Â
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.Â
âWhy do I care about what?â
âThis,â You gesture vaguely to the air, âMe. I donât buy that you just didnât have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People donât just⊠do that. Youâre really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, weâre just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just donât get why youâre so okay with being miserable just for my sake. Iâm not that important. These stupid lunches arenât that important.âÂ
Itâs a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man youâre harboring feelings for.Â
He doesnât respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isnât taking so much weight.Â
âYou are important. Youâre important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not âruining my week.â If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.â
âBut why?âÂ
âJesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didnât you?âÂ
You snort. âGuilty as charged.âÂ
Now itâs his turn to sigh.Â
âYou⊠seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.â
You frown. âIt is.âÂ
âIt isnât. At least it shouldnât be, but I donât think anyone ever told you that.âÂ
You scoff. âSo this is about my family.âÂ
He shrugs. âAmongst other things.â
âTheyâre not that bad.â
âThey are.âÂ
âOther people have it worse.â
âItâs not a competition.âÂ
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. âWhy is this such a big deal to you?âÂ
âBecause itâs a big deal to you.âÂ
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, youâre convinced theyâd all be looking at you.Â
Itâs Jack who speaks first though.Â
âI can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when itâs hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. Youâre selfless and kind and I donât think very many people give that back to you.âÂ
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you âsmile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, thereâs nothing to cry about.â It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you donât know what else to do. Thereâs no pre-written protocol for something like this.
âI still donât really get it.â You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. âWeâll work on it.âÂ
âWe will?âÂ
âSure,â He shrugs, âAlready started anyways.âÂ
âIf youâre sure.âÂ
âIâm sure,â He opens the door, âNow get back out there. And bring the gloves too.â
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where youâd left it and following him out.Â
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesnât hover, but doesnât pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesnât bother him.Â
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because itâs something heâs doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiverâ something that hit the nail right on the head.Â
âHey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.âÂ
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry youâre feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. Itâs great but itâs also difficult, because thereâs a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then thereâs the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that youâre completely capable of doing things yourself.Â
That probably wouldnât even work. Heâd just say something infuriating and sexy, like âI know, but I want to do this for you.âÂ
He would. He totally would.Â
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.Â
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
â
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in⊠years.Â
The lunches are fine, but the part youâve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. Heâll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.Â
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jackâs never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but youâre never allowed to order anything that isnât a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since youâre the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.Â
Itâs as frustrating as it is hot.Â
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty goodâ as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jackâs presence is⊠steadying, even when heâs not physically there. Heâs always present in some wayâ whether itâs little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you werenât previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what youâll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes heâs there in your head; in little things heâs told or taught you that you remember in the moment.Â
Itâs nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke withâ someone who hasnât looked down on you for the the way you turned out.Â
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.Â
At least, two peach bellinis in, thatâs what it feels like.Â
âHonestly,â Your mother puffs, âI donât understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.âÂ
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.Â
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.Â
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.Â
âI have the next three days off, mom. Weâll be able to do dinners instead.â
Your mother, however, only scoffs. âThatâs no good to anyone now. Weâve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."Â
âIâm a doctor, mom. It doesnât get more respectable than that.âÂ
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.Â
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.Â
âYou work in the emergency department, dear. Thatâs hardly stable, and stable is respectable,â Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, âNo offense, Jack.âÂ
He smiles thinly. âNone taken.âÂ
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.Â
So you keep drinking your belliniâs and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.Â
âHave you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?âÂ
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. Thatâs a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.Â
âI have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. Iâve moved on.âÂ
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. âYou could teach her a thing or two about moving on.âÂ
Your blood runs cold.Â
Jack sets his glass down. âAnd what do you mean by that?â
Itâs your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasnât enough.Â
âIâm surprised she hasnât told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. Sheâs had exactly one boyfriend before youâ what was his name honey?â
âChristopher,â You answer hollowly, stomach churning.Â
Your dad snaps his fingers. âThatâs it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a partyâ finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!â
Your family laughs, but Jack doesnât.Â
âWhereâs the funny part, in all this?â
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. âWhen she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.âÂ
Your dad nods in agreement. âWe had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.â
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.Â
âHe cheated on me with my best friend.âÂ
At that, your mother frowns. âThatâs not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didnât know you were still together.âÂ
âI wasnât distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.âÂ
Your brother rolls his eyes. âMed school was all you talked about. Itâs not like you were putting out.â
Your mother snaps her fingers once. âThat is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.âÂ
âCome on, mom. Itâs true. Everyone knowsââ
âSorry to interrupt,â Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, âBut the hospital just texted. Thereâs an emergency, and weâre needed, so we have to go.âÂ
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.Â
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and youâre sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) youâre both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.Â
By the time you get to the car, you realize that youâre about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.Â
âJack,â You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, âI think Iâm too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?âÂ
âThere is no emergency,â He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, âI made it up. I figured youâd be okay with ducking out of there.âÂ
âOh. That was nice of you.âÂ
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. âTold you I would handle things.â
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. âI hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where itâs okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didnât even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didnât fuck up my score.âÂ
âThatâs my girl.âÂ
âChristopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. Iâm so glad I donât live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause theyâre my family, but everything is just so much easier when theyâre not around.âÂ
âYouâre allowed to hate them, you know.âÂ
âI know,â You say, fiddling with a hangnail. âI know I probably should.âÂ
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. âI always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day theyâll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know itâs stupid.â
âItâs not stupid.âÂ
You frown. âItâs not? It kinda seems stupid. Youâd think by now I would know better.âÂ
âNo,â Jack eases the car out of the parking space, âWeâre biologically wired to love our families. Itâs the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain canât compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just⊠donât. Not in any of the right ways.âÂ
You blow air through your lips. âI think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.â
Shit, that sounds so whiny. âBut it turns out it wasnât so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and Iâm pretty sure Iâm friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. Sheâs cool.âÂ
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light youâre currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his faceâ a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. Itâs the only evidence that heâs not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isnât illuminated the same.Â
âAnd what about me?âÂ
Oh. Well. Thatâs a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. âI donât know what to think about you.âÂ
âOh really?âÂ
âMmm. Nope.âÂ
âHow come?âÂ
"You're soââ You gesture vaguely, âConfusing. I canât figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think Iâm wrong.âÂ
âYou think youâre wrong?â
âStill canât figure you out.âÂ
âAnd how can I show you that I mean it?âÂ
Thatâs. Hmm.
âI donât know. I think what youâre doing is working,â You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding youâre too tired to care, âIt helps that youâre really hot.âÂ
His lips twitch. âOh, does it now?âÂ
âMhm. Youâve got this whole⊠capable thing about you. Itâs hot. Competency is in.â
âIf you say so.âÂ
âI do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. Youâre soâŠâ
âCompetent?âÂ
âThatâs the word.â
If heâs at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didnât show it.Â
âYou should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.âÂ
âAre you like Bob the Builder?â
âIâm a doctor, so no.âÂ
âYouâre kind of like Bob the Builder.âÂ
âWhatever you say,â He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, âBefore I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didnât even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.â
âAre you gonna be mad at me if I say no?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âThen yes.âÂ
âYou sure? I wasnât lying.âÂ
âI know. But I like your cooking.â
You spend the drive to Jackâs continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. âFor any alcohol excursions.âÂ
Itâs freaky how prepared he is for every situation.Â
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when youâve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.Â
His gigantic apartment.Â
âWoah,â You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, âI didnât know they made apartments this size.âÂ
âIts not that big.âÂ
âI think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.âÂ
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and heâs immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when youâre sober.Â
âOne, itâs not that big, and two, thatâs what you get for renting a studio apartment.â
âLike you could afford better when you were an intern.âÂ
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. âIf you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.â
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
âOnly if you donât mind.âÂ
âI wouldn't have offered if I wasnât. Stay there.âÂ
Jackâs only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. âYou can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. Iâm gonna change too, and then Iâll heat up the food.âÂ
Jack shows you the bathroom (you donât bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, thatâs for when youâre significantly more drunk than you are now and when youâre not in his fancy-ass apartment.)Â
Because heâs a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, heâs already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and heâs a man. Theyâre an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.Â
âLooking at the sparkles.âÂ
âOookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?â
âYou made vodka pasta?âÂ
He shrugs. âYou said you liked it.âÂ
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. âThe pasta, please.âÂ
Suddenly exhausted now that youâre in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But youâre not going to fall asleep. Youâre not.Â
âDonât fall asleep. You need to eat something first.âÂ
âMâ not fallinâ asleep.âÂ
âMhm. Sure.âÂ
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
âWhatâreâyouâ making?â
âJust a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.âÂ
âOh. How come?âÂ
âBecause I donât want you to throw up.âÂ
âI promise I wonât throw up on your furniture. I donât usually throw up when Iâm hungover.âÂ
âYou drink often?âÂ
âNo,â Your head lulls to the side, âIâm too busy. Iâm actually not-so-secretly very boring. I donât really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.âÂ
âThought you went to that thing with King and Santos?âÂ
âYeah, but that was âcause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didnât want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.âÂ
âI see.âÂ
âYeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.â
âReally?âÂ
âYeah,â You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, âMakes me feel better when youâre around.âÂ
âIâll keep that in mind.âÂ
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.Â
âSorry I couldnât finish it,â You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, âI feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.âÂ
âIt wasnât that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. Iâll send it home with you.âÂ
âMhm.â You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.Â
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.Â
âCome on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, donât you?â
âNo,â You shake your head, âI wanna sleep right here. Itâs comfortable.â
âIt wonât be when you wake up.â
You whine, curling away from him.Â
He just puffs another little laugh. âYou can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You canât sleep on the kitchen island.â
âWhy not?â You finally lift your head, âAnd why is your bed an option?â
âOne,â He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, âBecause the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, Iâm not letting you sleep on the couch.â
âWhy? Is your couch uncomfortable?â
âNo,â He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, âItâs just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.â
âI like sleeping on couches.â
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, âIâm sure you do. But youâre still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.âÂ
You prop your head on your hand. âWho said Iâm even staying here tonight?â
Jack closes the fridge. âDo you want to? Because I donât care either way. We both have tomorrow off.â
âItâd be weird to wake up here.â
âWhy?â
âBecause youâre my boss.â
âAnd Iâm faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure weâre past coworkers.âÂ
âWhat would we even do in the morning?âÂ
âSleep.â
âI donât want to kick you out of your bed. Iâll sleep on the couch.âÂ
âYouâre my guestââÂ
âYouâre already doing so much for me,â You blurt, stomach clenching, âIâ You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?âÂ
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.Â
âOnly because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isnât uncomfortable. Iâll help you make it up.âÂ
Jackâs apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopherâs room at his parentâs house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucketâ âJust in case those belliniâs donât love you back.âÂ
The sight of it all is almost too much. Itâs just so much care. All of it. The fact that heâs helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasnât judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets andâ
âYou okay there?âÂ
âMhm,â You hum, âJust thinkinâ.âÂ
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jackâs middle and burying your face in his chest.Â
âThank you,â You say, voice muffled by the fabric, âFor doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.âÂ
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact âa line you were previously too scared to crossâ but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because youâre never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.Â
Jackâs hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.Â
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
âI will always,â He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, âLook out for you, baby. Iâm always gonna be right here.â
His arms tighten around you, drawing you inâ closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you canât help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.Â
âYou smell good.â You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.Â
âDo I?â
âYeah. Good. Like man.âÂ
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. âThank you sweetheart.âÂ
âWhy do you call me sweetheart?âÂ
âBecause youâre a sweetheart.âÂ
âI am?âÂ
âDonât play dumb now,â He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so youâre forced to look at him, âYou know you are.âÂ
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, âI donât know. I was just making sure.âÂ
âMhm.â He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jackâs eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.Â
Itâs possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.Â
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.Â
âOkay,â He huffs, taking a step back, âTime for bed. Get going.âÂ
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.Â
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.Â
He waits until youâve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to âWake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.â Itâs a very Jack thing to say.Â
Youâre out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.Â
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.Â
â
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you thatâs sheâs sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesnât want to unless youâre ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, itâs time for the next annual lunch circuit.Â
Youâre a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. âSo it can feel like a real family dinner.â While you know that there isnât any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way youâre cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.Â
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then heâd gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that youâre having dinner at his place.Â
âJack,â Youâd gaped at him, âItâs fine. My apartment isnât that small, and you donât have to help move the furniture if you donât want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really donât think you want to host my family.âÂ
âSweetheart, itâs just logic. Youâve seen my place.â
âOkay. No need to rub it in.âÂ
Heâd just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. âCome on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.âÂ
âDo you have a death wish?â You hiss, âThatâs asking for torture.âÂ
Jack had just shrugged. âWould having it at my place be easier for you?âÂ
â...Yes?âÂ
âThen weâll do it there. Youâre off in a bit, right?âÂ
Youâd nodded.Â
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. âThatâs my spare key. Iâll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. Iâll be home soon.âÂ
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.Â
The line between real and fake has become so blurred youâre not sure if it ever was there to begin with.Â
Heâs started calling you sweetheart more and more oftenâ sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie youâre selling. Is it still a lie if it doesnât feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you canât help but pace the length of Jackâs kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (âIâm not wearing slacks in my own home, and Iâm not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.â) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.Â
âTake your shoes off if youâre going to pace. Youâre gonna give yourself blisters.âÂ
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.Â
âThings have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think sheâs just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that sheâs upset about?â
Jack begins preparing the wine âyour mother only likes redâ for decanting. âI think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldnât be able to hide it.âÂ
âTrue. But what if?â
âIâm not going to help you spiral.âÂ
âWhy not?â You whine.Â
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. âShoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.âÂ
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.Â
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.Â
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.Â
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyoneâs flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.Â
Pretty soon itâs all just⊠over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesnât matter, and then itâs just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.Â
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
Youâve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom. Â
âWhy donât you go and change, huh?â
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. âBut I want to help you clean up.âÂ
âYou can,â He soothes, âAfter you change.â
âButââ
âHey,â He interrupts, âNo. Youâve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. Iâll wait for you.âÂ
Jack keeps his word. Heâs leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your ânow bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with youâ face.Â
He looks up when the door opens. âBetter?âÂ
âYeah. Thanks.âÂ
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesnât push for conversation.Â
Cleaning up doesnât take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesnât want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there arenât any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.Â
It canât just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
âSo,â You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, âThatâs it then.âÂ
âSo it is.âÂ
âGuess I owe you big time, huh?âÂ
âIâve already told you I donât care about that.âÂ
âRight,â You look down at your lap, âYeah. Sorry.âÂ
You lapse into silence.Â
Jack sighs. âSweetheartââ
âWas it fake to you?â You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, âWere youâ did you mean it?â
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.Â
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping thereâs answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, heâs grinning.Â
âWhat do you think?âÂ
âI donât know.âÂ
He dips his head once. âYes you do. Youâre a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.âÂ
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like youâre liable to somehow float away if you donât dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.Â
âWhat if Iâm wrong?âÂ
âYou wonât be.â
A scoff escapes your lips, âYou canât know for sure.âÂ
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.Â
âYou do.âÂ
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jackâs gaze on you.Â
âI thinkâŠâ You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, âI think you might like me.âÂ
âYou think,â He drawls, âI might.âÂ
âI donât want to be wrong!â You cry.Â
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.Â
âCome here.âÂ
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain youâd walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.Â
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
âSoo,â You start, still hesitant, âYou do like me.âÂ
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something youâre starting to recognize as fond. âYes.â
âMore than a little?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
âAnd you werenât faking anything. You were serious about theâ You know.âÂ
âUse your words.âÂ
âThe flirting.â You clarify, ears burning.Â
âAll correct,â He nods, âThough I would have said it differently.âÂ
You frown. âAnd how would you have put it?âÂ
âI would have said,â He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, âThat you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.âÂ
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.Â
You frown.Â
Wait.Â
âHave you known I liked you this whole time?âÂ
Jack snorts. âOverheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.â
Heâs known since the second week?
âOh my god.âÂ
âDonât worry, I didnât tell anyone. Except Robby. Heâs been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.â
âOh my god.â
âI thought it was cute,â He smoothes a hand over your hair, âYou were so much more nervous back then. Youâve come a long way.âÂ
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jackâs having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.Â
âCan you take a compliment?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. âWeâll try again later.âÂ
âAm Iâ Can I stay here tonight then?âÂ
âOf course,â he murmurs, âMy one condition is that youâre not sleeping on the couch.â
âFine,â You sigh, long and drawn out, âI suppose we can share.âÂ
âHow kind of you to share my bed with me.âÂ
âI have been told Iâm kind.âÂ
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.Â
Itâs just like your dream.Â
Only this time, itâs real. And Jack is kissing you back.Â
so full on tell me to die if this is too freaky or wtv ok? ok.
sub(ish) robby having to piss so bad and his gf telling him no because he pissed her off at somepoint during the day⊠maybe to kinda make it worse she starts turning on the faucet whenever heâs in the room⊠and maybe he wets himself! because a big beefy man losing control is hot!
anon câmere and lemme give you a big fat kiss on the lips for this!!!
smut. mdni.
subby!robby needs to pee, bad.
which is just too bad because youâre absolutely not going to let him go, given his little stunt earlier.
when heâd been at work and you sent him a very artsy nude picture of yourself, really it was some of your best work and old boy replied with a nice big thumbs up.
worst part was, it wasnât even an accident, he genuinely thought that a thumbs up was an adequate response to such an image.
and even worse, it wasnât the first time heâd replied in such a way, but he seemingly didnât learn his lesson the first time so this time you really made sure it stuck.
he came home later that evening and you pretended everything was fine, that you werenât secretly plotting your revenge.
you cooked him a dinner and made polite small talk, asking about his day and whatnotâhe really didnât suspect anything was up.
and then you settled down on the couch to watch a movie before bed, you didnât really have any specific punishment in mind, not until he asked you to pause the movie because he needed to go the bathroom, and then it hit you.
ânoâ you shrug with a smirk pulling at your lips.
âwhat do you mean no?â
âi mean no, michaelâ you fold your arms across your chest, raising your eyebrows at him, he knows you mean business when you give him that look.
âbut babe, please, i need to pee, i barely got a chance to go at workâ he pleads, giving you his best puppy dog eyes, it wonât workânot this time.
âthat doesnât sound like my problem, you gotta hold it, mikeyâ
âuntil when?â heâs already starting to get that whiny edge in his voice.
âuntil i say you can go, okay?â
âokayâ he sighs before he turns his attention back to the movie, an attempt to distract himself but heâs already bouncing his leg.
the rest of the movie goes by agonisingly slow for robby, by the end of it heâs so desperate he canât sit still, it probably didnât help that throughout you kept getting yourself nice tall glasses of ice cold water and drinking them purposefully slowly, clinking the ice around your glass to make sure he could hear.
as soon as the movies over heâs shooting up off the couch, standing bouncing in front of you, with big pleading eyes.
âcan i go now?â his legs are firmly crossed and heâs clutching his stomach.
âhave you done the dishes yet?â you quirk an eyebrow at him, you did feel slightly evil for this given you never even asked him to do the dishes in the first placeâŠbut how else was he going to learn his lesson?
âthe dishes?â
âyes mikey, the dishes, can you do them pleaseâ
he lets out a big sigh and hangs his head, that was the moment he realised this wasnât just some sexy dommy thing you were doingâthis was punishment, though he didnât know what for.
âand after that i can go to the bathroom?â
âmaybeâ
âplease baby, iâm going to piss myself if you donât let me go soonâ
âi said maybeâ
dutifully, he washes the dishes, trying to go as fast as he can without actually looking at the water which in turn makes a huge mess that he knows youâll make him clean up, prolonging the relief heâs so desperate for.
âiâve done the dishes can i please go to the bathroom now?â he asks as he appears in the doorway of the living room, his face all scrunched up, his thighs pressed together tight as he just about dances on the spot.
âin a minute, just come sit for a secondâ you smile and tap the cushion beside you.
he knows that smile, itâs that kind of evil smile thatâs almost completely devoid of any emotion at all, itâs the kind of menacing smile that someone sees before theyâre murdered.
robby shuffles over to the couch, barely moving his legs, heâs so tense from holding his bladder that he almost looks in pain.
âwh-whats up?â
âdo you have something you want to tell me, mikey?â
he looks at you confused, well you think itâs confusion, you canât really tell through the way his face is so tensed as he focuses on anything but the aching pain in his bladder.
clearly he doesnât know what youâre talking about so you pull out your phone, opening your messages and turning the phone to him.
his lips part and his face fallsânow he remembers.
âiâm sorry, babyâ
âand?â
âand youâre so gorgeous and sexy and beautiful and i love it when you send me pictures like that and i love you and iâm sorry, im stupid, it wonât happen again, i love you, please can i pee now?â he rushes through his half-assed apology, just throwing out any words that he thinks might grant him his release.
itâs not really good enough, but you figured heâs suffered enough.
for now.
and with a quick roll of your eyes, you say the words heâd been longing to hear for the last hour.
âokay, you can goâ
you expected him to jump up and bolt to the bathroom, but he didnât.
nope, you had barely even finished your sentence when you felt the couch cushion beneath you suddenly get warmerâŠand wetter.
his desperate brain heard the word goâŠand he just went, right there on the couch.
michael robinavitch pissed himself.
all you could do was sit there and watch, your eyes wide with shock as a dark patch grew in his pants, seeping into and staining the fabric of them.
robby closed his eyes and hung his head, his face flushing a deep shade of red, the likes of which youâd never seen before.
his bladder had been so full the flood of piss seemed endless, which only prolonged and deepened his embarrassment.
you felt awful, truly.
but alsoâŠwhy was was it kind of hot?
seeing a big guy like robby look so small and so ashamed, hearing the quiet whimpers escape his lips, they almost sounded like criesâit really did something for you.
âi-iâm sorryâ he canât even look at you as he says it, he canât look anywhere and not be reminded of what he just did, shame burns in his chest, he looks like heâs about to actually cry.
and thatâs your final straw, you need him, now.
you climb into his wet lap, your own pants getting warmer as his piss soaks into them.
âshh, itâs okay mikeyâ you coo as you wrap your arms around his neck and place a small kiss to his cheek, and his eyes flutter open as he feels you softly roll your hips into his lap.
he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him.
âare youâŠturned on?â he raises his eyebrows, obviously confused by how something he found so embarrassing could get you all worked up like that.
you bite your lip and nod, grinding harder against him, you can feel his cock stirring beneath you.
âohâ is all he can manage, he doesnât understand why but heâs not about to question it, not when he knows thereâs sex in his near futureâhe might be stupid, but he knows better than that.
âhow about we get you all cleaned up and then you can apologise to me properly, huh? how does that sound?â
âyeah, that sounds very goodâ
ok, i know i said i was going to post this tomorrow but i got excited!! idk if this is smut really but im gonna tag it anyway because i guess kink is inherently smutty, right?