lizzie the lobotomized

“I want to go home,” you murmured, pressing your face against the silk of his lapels.

Robby’s hands rested on your back. A steady anchor, both possessive and necessary to keep you upright.

Gloria sent you and Robby to a pharmaceutical gala that summoned nearly every medical attending in the North of the Country.

The moment you’d crossed the threshold, you had snatched a champagne flute from a passing tray and downed it in one fluid motion. You’d repeated the act for good measure before even approaching the crowd. Coming here had been a calculated decision: one car, a shared excuse to leave early—though Jack had conveniently used babysitting duties to bail entirely—and the primary goal of avoiding the unwanted attention that always seemed to find you.

For four years, pregnancy and infant care had been your shield, but that excuse had evaporated, and Gloria had been relentless in ensuring you and Robby were in attendance.

“It’s too early, honey,” Robby whispered against your hair. “Gloria needs to see us mingling.”

“No,” you pouted, tightening your grip on his jacket.

Before he could respond, your name was called from behind. You turned, pasting a practiced smile onto your face.

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” An elderly man navigated the crowd to reach you. He had been your first supervisor at the hospital, the man who had molded you into his protégé.

“Dr. Carlson!” You greeted him, your smile a bit too wide, a bit too tipsy, though he didn't seem to notice as he pulled you into a hug.

“How are you? How are the kids?” He asked, reaching out to shake Robby’s hand. “My wife and I, we always think of you two. We keep you in our prayers—such a beautiful marriage.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” you said, your tone softening with genuine warmth. “Yours as well.”

“She was my protégé in emergency medicine at St. Francis,” Dr. Carlson announced to his companions, his voice brimming with pride.

“You did a rotation in the ER?” Another physician from PTMC asked, his brow creasing with a look that bordered on patronizing. “I always assumed you were hanging around the ED just to see your husband.”

You let out a laugh—a dry, sharp sound that failed to mask the irritation simmering underneath.

“Yeah, it’s a common misconception,” you said, flashing a bright, razor-sharp smile. “Most people seem to think I picked up emergency medicine through osmosis—just by kissing my husband. But actually, I specialized in emergency gynecology.”

“I was just lucky to be there” Robby teased, his hand finding your waist.

After that, Robby’s hands did not leave your body for a single second. It was as if that one word—husband—had unlocked a dormant, visceral touch-hunger, and he was determined to make sure every person in that ballroom was painfully aware that you belonged to him.

He became a constant, solid weight at your side. Every time you turned to greet someone, his palm was already there, sliding from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb tracing slow, possessive circles against your skin. If someone lingered a moment too long in conversation, his arm would drift down to rest firmly over your hip, his grip tightening just enough to pull you flush against his side. It was a silent, territorial claim, a way of anchoring you to him through the sea of tuxedos and gowns.

“Robinavitch,” a familiar voice called out beside you. Robby guided you toward the sound.

“Dr. Sloan,” Robby grunted, his jaw tight.

Mark offered you a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. “A sight for sore eyes.”

You had met Mark back when you finished your residency in New York—a player through and through. He had broken your heart so thoroughly that you’d eventually fled to Pittsburgh to start over. It was a history Robby despised, and he’d never forget it.

“Mark,” you said, forcing a polite smile and extending your arms for a brief, friendly hug. “I heard you finally left the big city.”

“I did,” Mark said, his brows dancing on his forehead. “And I heard you were divorced?”

Robby’s reaction was instantaneous. He pulled you flush against his side, his hand settling firmly and hungrily on your hip. “You heard wrong.”

Mark’s gaze flickered down, lingering on the possessive grip of Robby’s hand. He smirked. “Good for you two, then.”

“Are you ever going to get married, Mark?” Robby asked, drawing you even closer until you were pressed entirely against him. “Or are you just too busy sleeping with your friends’ wives?”

Mark snorted, offering a singular, dry nod. “Too bad we aren’t that close, right, Robinavitch?”

You felt the muscles in Robby’s arm cord as he prepared to launch himself forward. You stepped into his space, using your own body to anchor him before he could move. Mark sent you a final, mocking wink before walking away.

Before you could compose yourself, Robby turned you to him, kissing you fiercely. One of his hands climbing to your jaw to keep you in place.

You pushed him softly, smiling at him with blushing cheeks. “Ready to go now?”

“Please.” He pecked your lips before guiding you outside.

JACK ABBOT had the lowest ERA in modern baseball history; having an immaculate game is now being likened to calling it an 'abbot'. Triple CY Young award winner, his terrifying aim and accuracy is attributed to his ability to paint the corners. His stats alone can scare any batter but when he's got Robby catching for him, it's accepted to believe the game is all theirs. He retires to be a pitching coach alongside Michael's team.

FRANK LANGDON is your classic all-american baseball golden boy. Cocky with the talents to prove it. Although he isn't hitting homers as often as Dennis, he milks it for all its worth when the ball goes high and out of the park. He's just as formidable playing defense as shortstop; quick feet and a quicker arm, double plays are easy for someone like him.

DENNIS WHITAKER has a gentle countenance that fools absolutely nobody when he steps into the batter box. Despite being from humble roots as a farm boy, that background gives his strength when he's swinging at fastballs like it's teeball. He slugs like no one else, it's no wonder that he'd been a first draft pick, pulled right into the majors without question. A golden rookie with a cannon of an arm when he's playing centerfield too. Just like Robby, players are advised to never run on Dennis. Any possible double will result in an out if a player pushes their luck.

MICHAEL "ROBBY" ROBINAVITCH — he'd crowd you against the wall when he sees you in his jersey, hanging off your frame. it isn't from the official store either, not in the size you wear — no, he recognizes that hint of a grass stain that's yet to come out near the chest. that jersey's his. something pushes him to undo the buttons, a low chuckle spilling from his lips to reveal nothing else beneath. "you're gonna be the death of me, sweetheart." he murmurs against your lips, gruff hand sliding down the softness of your stomach to slide his fingers into your waiting cunt. he'd fuck you later, impatience clinging to his every movement — right now, he just wants to see you fall apart on his fingers, in his fucking jersey.

JACK ABBOT believes he's blessed with the best views whenever he's on and off the field. the sunsets, the crowds ... but nothing could ever compare seeing you on your knees between his legs. the dugout's empty, the benches cleared and the stands abandoned — you had asked him to stay behind, told him you wanted to try something ever since he's given you his last name. and now he's staring right at it, embroidered in the back of the jersey you've stolen from his locker as you take his thick cock inch by inch. he groans, fights the urge to throw his head back. he helps you move your hair aside, his eyes flitting back and forth from how your pretty lips wrap around his cock to his name staring right at him on your back.

FRANK LANGDON could be easily mistaken as a narcissist, definitely egotistical with the way he loves toting off his own merch. he shows off every chance he gets and that doesn't stop when he started dating you. so you pander to his ego, wear his hoodies, wear shirts with his name splashed across it — but for him, nothing could ever beat you wearing his jersey. it sates that little hungry thing in his chest, amplifying the arousal that blooms as you ride him backwards, reverse cowgirl style. your cunt is swallowing him up and while he'd love to watch, love to see the way his cock sinks into your pretty pussy, there's something entrancing about the way his last name wrinkles and moves as you ride him. "that's it, pretty girl," he grunts as he sits up, pushes jersey just high enough to stroke your spine without disrupting the large 'LANGDON' painted across the back as his hands circle around to cup and grope your tits. "fuck yes—"

DENNIS WHITAKER is a bit more traditional than men his age. he can't lie, he loves missionary, likes to kiss you while he makes love to you. but all bets were off when he sees you in his jersey the night after he made his first start in an official major league game, the same night he had absolutely blasted the ball to left field. he had you against the wall first, devouring your mouth as he shoved your skirt and underwear off. you'd been ready to be carried away to bed, pinned down and fucked deep — but dennis didn't wait, just flipped you around and bent you right over. your eyes roll back, moaning around words that sounded vaguely like his name while his eyes darken at the sight of his last name on your back.

You got the documents from the Court’s Self-Help Center webpage, filling them out with your name, the date of your marriage, and your children’s information. Custody would be split 50/50, and you’d keep the house and car.

Reason to terminate the marriage: irreconcilable differences. You checked the box, printed it out, and signed it.

You left it in his document tray that morning, tucked inside a yellow envelope—just enough to keep it discreet, yet impossible to miss.

Then you went up to your floor and waited. You waited for Robby to come upstairs, to demand answers, to ask for another chance. As the hours dragged by, you occupied yourself by staring at your phone screen, drafting a mental list of terms and conditions for him to return home: therapy, a psychiatric evaluation, and absolute sobriety. But half an hour bled into noon, and by the time the clock hit 7:00 PM, your nerves were eating you alive from the inside out. Robby hadn’t called, he hadn’t come upstairs, and you hadn’t been paged down to the ED either.

So you went home, desperately hoping he would already be there, perhaps wanting to discuss it privately. Anxious tears rolled down your cheeks as you parked, both kids fast asleep in the back seat. You made them dinner in a haze and got them ready for bed. Your phone remained silent save for an irrelevant Instagram notification and the OB-GYN text group's usual chatter lighting up the screen.

It was past 11:00 PM when you finally called him, having heard nothing all night. You sat cross-legged on the bed that used to be your safe space, a sanctuary that now felt like a minefield.

“Hey.” His voice sounded deep on the other end of the line.

“I wanted to speak with you.”

“So speak,” he replied flatly.

“Did you see the documents I left for you?”

“I did.”

“And?”

He sighed. You guessed he was pissed. Your dumb, stupid, toxic plan hadn’t worked; he wasn’t calling to beg for your forgiveness—he was going to scream at you instead.

“It’s done,” he breathed.

Your heart stopped beating.

“What?”

“It’s done. I signed the papers and filed them today during my lunch break.”

You felt your dinner clawing its way back up your throat.

“You filed them?” Your mouth went dry, your voice sounding stiff and cardboard-thin.

“Yeah. You were right. There’s no way back after… you know.”

Both of you stayed on the line in dead silence, hot tears spilling freely down your cheeks and soaking into your lap.

“I was told since we filed jointly, we’ll get the order in a few days. Five tops.”

You could hear him swallowing hard on the other side of the line. You wanted to yell at him, to tell him he had completely misunderstood everything, that you just needed him to get his shit together. But you couldn’t. Your body had frozen solid, and every word in the English language had vanished from your head. So you settled for a cold, hollow, “Okay.”

He wished you a quiet goodnight before hanging up.

You remained frozen all night, feeling as though a piece of you had been violently ripped away. A whole section of your heart felt hollowed out. You wanted to scream, to smash everything in sight, to burn down the place you used to call home because it wasn't such anymore.

That night, both of you cried yourselves to sleep on opposite sides of town.