liv’s library

You let your hands rest on your sides, revealing the obvious wet patch in your panties. You stand there, heart hammering in your chest, while Tim and Stephanie sit on the edge of the bed just watching you. The way their eyes drag over your body makes your skin burn but your hands stay obediently at your sides like Tim asked, and that only makes the wet spot on your panties more obvious. It’s soaked through, the fabric clinging to you.

“Fuck, look at her,” Stephanie says first, tilting her head as she bites her lower lip. She talks like you’re not even standing right there. “She’s dripping already. That little wet patch is so cute, I bet she’s aching.”

Tim leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glued between your legs. “She really is. So hot and messy for us. Don’t you wanna pull those panties to the side and see how shiny she is?”

Your face heats up even more, thighs pressing together without thinking. But they just keep going.

Stephanie laughs softly, reaching out to trace a finger along your hip without actually touching the spot you need. “Fuck yes, imagine her trying to stay quiet while I suck on her clit. Tim, you could hold her down for me.”

“Mmm, yeah,” Tim agrees, he looks up at your face for a second before his gaze drops back down. “I’d love to finger her while you kiss her. She’s already so wet I bet two fingers would slide right in. Maybe three.”

Stephanie hums in approval and finally stands up, circling behind you, her hands settle on your waist. “What can we do with her first… maybe she has to earn our attention first.”

You whimper, the words hitting you straight between the legs. Tim stands too, stepping close in front of you so you’re sandwiched again. He cups your chin gently, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Think she likes it when we talk about her like that,” he whispers, eyes dark. “Look how much wetter she’s getting.”

Stephanie presses a kiss to your shoulder, her hand sliding down to cup your ass. “Then let’s start playing with our pretty girl.”

Tim pulls you into a deep kiss while Stephanie gets rid of her own clothes, while Tim devours you, you really want to watch Stephanie undress. She has a gorgeous way of moving, she’s quickly just in her underwear, circling around Tim and you to get on the bed. She jumps to lay on the bed, making enough noise for you and Tim to end the kiss. 

“Tim, you’re overdressed again. Please,” Stephanie demands, clicking her tongue. Tim huffs a laugh like it’s a private joke between them, he quickly removes all his clothes and lays next to Stephanie. 

“You can get on the bed too, sweetheart,” Tim tells you, raising his hand for you to grab. 

His cock is long and pretty, pink at the tip and with a few veins going around the shaft, he’s not exactly girthy, but compensates it with the length. Stephanie already revealed her pretty pussy to your, her clit is bigger than you expected, throbbing and reddened, she’s a pink slightly deeper than Tim’s tip, and while he’s clean shaven, she has a full and curly bush that is asking you to bury your head between her legs. 

You swallow hard, eyes flicking between them as they lay there looking so perfect. Stephanie spreads her legs a little wider, showing off that pretty pussy with the curly bush, her clit already swollen and begging for attention. Tim’s cock twitches against his stomach, long and flushed.

Stephanie smirks at you, propping herself up on her elbows. “Here’s the deal, baby. You don’t get our hands or mouths on you until you make both of us cum. Think you can handle that?”

You nod quickly, already crawling onto the bed. The ache between your own legs only gets worse, but the thought of pleasing them first makes you even wetter. You settle between Stephanie’s thighs first, kissing her soft skin before you lean in and drag your tongue up her slit. She tastes warm and a little sweet, her bush tickling your nose as you bury your face deeper.

“Good girl,” Stephanie moans, one hand sliding into your hair. “Just like that. Fuck, you look so cute with your face in my pussy.”

At the same time you reach for Tim, wrapping your fingers around his length. He’s already leaking at the tip. You stroke him a few times before leaning over and taking him into your mouth, sucking gently on the head while your tongue swirls around it.

“Shit… oh my god,” Tim whines immediately, his hips jerking up. His voice cracks a little and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. “Your mouth feels so–so good… please don’t stop.”

Stephanie chuckles softly, guiding your head with her hand as you try to work both of them. “Suck him a little deeper, sweetheart. He loves that. And don’t forget to finger me, mhm, you’re doing so well for us.”

You moan around Tim’s cock, the vibration making him whimper again. He’s such a whiny mess already, one hand fisting the sheets while the other hovers like he wants to touch you. “I’m not gonna last… your tongue is too much. Steph, she’s sucking me so good.”

“Focus, baby,” Stephanie tells you, her voice breathy as she rocks her hips against your mouth. “Curl your fingers up a li… yes, nghh fuck. You’re such a quick learner.”

You do exactly what she says, sliding two fingers into her tight heat while you bob your head on Tim’s cock, taking him deeper each time. Tim keeps making these pretty little sounds, gasping and whining your name every few seconds. Stephanie’s grip in your hair tightens, praising you the whole time.

“Keep going, you’re gonna make me cum first if you keep hitting that spot. Look at our pretty girl working so hard for us.”

Your jaw starts to ache but you don’t care. You pull off Tim’s cock with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to the tip. He lets out a desperate whine at the loss, hips twitching like he’s trying not to beg out loud. Stephanie’s hand tightens in your hair, gently but firmly guiding you back between her thighs.

“Back to me, baby,” she says. “I want that pretty mouth on my pussy again, Tim can wait his turn.”

You bury your face back into her, licking and sucking on her swollen clit while your tongue dips inside her. She tastes even wetter now, her juices coating your chin. At the same time you reach over and wrap your hand around Tim’s cock, stroking him nice and steady, thumb rubbing over the head every time you twist your wrist.

“Fuck… yes,” Stephanie moans, rolling her hips against your mouth. “You’re s-so good with your tongue..”

Tim is falling apart next to her, his head is thrown back, pretty gasps and whimpers spilling out of him nonstop. “Your hand feels amazing… faster, hah please… I’m so close already.”

Stephanie laughs breathlessly, eyes half-lidded as she watches you work both of them. “Hear that? Our boy is such a whiny little mess for you, keep stroking him just like that while you eat me out. Make me cum first.”

You focus on her, sucking harder on her clit and curling your fingers back inside her. Stephanie’s thighs start to shake around your head, her grip in your hair turning almost desperate. Her moans get louder, breathier, until she suddenly arches off the bed with a broken cry.

“F-fuck, I’m cumming! Don’t stop, baby, right there!”

You keep licking her through it, tasting her as she pulses around your fingers. She rides your face until the last wave passes, then gently pushes your head away, chest heaving. Your hand never stopped moving on Tim. He’s watching you with glassy eyes, lips parted, looking completely wrecked. Stephanie reaches over and runs her fingers through his hair, smiling.

“Go on, sweetheart. Finish him off, he’s been so patient.”

You lean over and take him back into your mouth while your hand keeps pumping the base. That’s all it takes. Tim lets out the prettiest whine, hips stuttering as he cums hard down your throat. You swallow around him, milking every drop until he’s trembling and pushing at your shoulder, too sensitive.

Both of them are breathing hard, flushed and glowing as they look down at you. Stephanie cups your cheek, thumb wiping some of the mess from your chin.

“You did so good for us,” she praises softly. “Now it’s your turn, baby. Come here.”

a/n: if no one asks for a part two i'll make one

Your nursery colors were green and yellow. It was calming, and neutral but not gray. There were little dragonflies embroidered into the curtains, and flowers on the rug, and vintage children's book art hanging on the walls. Jack kept his nephew’s first ever hockey stick leaning against the bookshelf, barely two feet long, determined to get your little baby out on the ice as soon as possible.

You liked it in there. It was nice. You could sit in the cushy armchair with your feet up, breeze blowing in through the open window, making the dragonflies fly. It was a right side better than suffocating on your back in a sweltering bed under the weight of your baby. And sometimes, on hard days, you looked over into the empty crib and pictured a little red haired infant, fast asleep under the galaxy mobile.

Jack often found you asleep in there. Sometimes he found you awake, and you would say, “Oh, hun, now that you’re here, mind folding these hand me downs we got from Dana?”

But not anymore. The nursery was done, painted, dried, decorated, and stocked with anything you could need. The cot in your room was set up, along with a cart of midnight postpartum essentials, of which you got a list from every childbearing woman in your life. You had pounds of frozen meals ready in the freezer. You had decided on names. You had deep cleaned and decluttered the entire apartment from head to toe. You were absolutely ready.

In every way but the physical, of course. Every appointment you had, it was firm, undilated cervix, sitting high, and perfectly healthy. You were incredibly grateful the baby was healthy, but by week forty, you would have been almost as grateful to hear any note of progress.

But nada. Zip. No action.

You tried to stay positive, to remind yourself how lucky you were to be making it to term. Hadn’t you seen dozens of preemies in your line of work, who needed extensive, invasive care or worse, who didn't make it at all?

No matter how guilty it made you feel, though, you couldn’t quite help the annoyance that crept into your brain more and more with each day you spent still pregnant. You were truly becoming the stereotype of the angry pregnant lady, waddling around with a scowl, complaining about sweat, and not being able to see your toes.

“I hate this,” you said, two days after your due date. “The baby is healthy, the baby is ready, I’m certainly ready, so what’s the fucking hold up?”

You had had your forty week check up just that past Wednesday, where Jill was too happy to report that your cervix was wide, thick, and hard as a rock.

“I’m sorry,” said Dana, looking up from her charts. “Sometimes the baby just comes on their own damn schedule. You better get used to that.”

You grunted, pulling at your scrubs. Dana’s lips quirked in sympathy.

“Why don’t you head home?” she said. “There’s only an hour left in the shift, and you can start your maternity leave at forty weeks, can’t you? I’m sure Gloria couldn’t fault you for that if she got a look at you.”

“No way,” you said, slamming your computer keys harshly. “Jack’s taking twelve months off when the baby comes, only three of those are paid, and I need to save.”

“You’re fine,” Dana dismissed. “Jack has spent the last decade and a half making doctor money, taking overtime, and never taking a day off. He buys the same t-shirts and jeans every few years, toiletries, food, and that’s pretty much it. I know that guy’s got savings.”

“Yeah, I know, but I still —” you cut yourself off with a sharp gasp.

Your muscles were tightening, cramping more than you’d ever felt before. Dana took off her glasses.

“Woah,” you said, as the pain spread from the front to your back. “That’s new.”

“Braxton hicks?” asked Dana cautiously.

You shook your head.

“I don’t think so,” you breathed, rubbing your belly. “No, this is — worse.”

Dana rolled her chair right up next to yours, swiveling you to be knee to knee. She had an excited glint in her eye.

“Do you think, possibly, it could be…?”

You tried not to smile too wide. The pain was worse than it had ever been, but you could still talk through it.

“I don’t know, maybe,” you said. “D’you think?”

“Why not?” she said. “Start timing them!”

You pulled out your phone, fingers shaking slightly in excitement.

“Sixty-two seconds,” you said when it was done. “It lasted sixty-two seconds.”

“Good start,” said Dana, patting your knee. “Keep track of ’em, and who knows. The betting board might be cleared by this time tomorrow.”

It took everything in you not to squeal from pure excitement. You rested your phone open next to your computer, trying to focus back on work. Your eyes frequently flicked over to it, checking the time. It was five, ten, fifteen minutes before anything else happened. The same clenching pain, spreading from front to back, rolled over you.

“Another minute,” you said happily to Dana when that too had passed. “Sixty-four seconds, that time.”

“Want anything, kid?” she asked. “Heating pads, tylenol?”

“No thanks,” you said. “They’re not too bad yet.”

By the third contraction, Jack was walking through the door.

“Jack!” you said loudly, attempting to jump up, getting halfway through the motion, and sitting back down. “Jackie, a contraction!”

His face changed instantly from warm fondness, to worried shock. He picked up his pace, hurrying around the partition to kneel in front of you. His eyes were wide.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “How long?”

“One minute, with fifteen in between,” you said, showing him your phone. “What do we do? Should I go home now?”

He took your phone, thinking.

“Why don’t I give you a ride,” he said finally. “You can shower and eat, in case this is the real thing. How’s that sound?”

You thought it sounded good, starving and grimy as you were, so you gave everyone your excited goodbyes, loaded into his car, and went home. It took some convincing to get Jack to leave you. You had to remind him that he was scheduled to work in about fifteen minutes, and Robby wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t there for shift change, before he kissed you goodbye.

You almost relished in the ache as you started your shower, positioning your phone right outside the door. You were so desperate for this pregnancy to end, you could work through the pain. As you were rinsing conditioner from your hair, another contraction started to hit. But as you reached through the glass door to document it, you saw that the timer read twenty minutes and counting.

Twenty minutes. The contractions had gone from fifteen minutes apart, to twenty. That wasn’t that unusual, was it? Things could be irregular in the beginning, but it would even out, right? But as you heated up some pasta for dinner, the increments between episodes became longer and longer. When a whole hour had passed without one, you knew it had been a false start.

Your heart was sinking as you texted Jack.

Contractions slowed down :( I don’t think it’s happening

His bubble popped up almost immediately.

I’m sorry honey. Want me to bring you waffles from Rosie’s in the morning?

You smiled.

You know me too well

You went to bed that night disappointed, but determined. You were starting to second guess your assessment that the cramps weren’t braxton hicks, but whatever they were, it was a first. It meant progression.

The next day at work you did some home remedy research. Castor oil was a no go, for obvious reasons, but there were still plenty of non medicinal measures that couldn’t hurt to try.

“Spicy foods, curb walking, uphill sprints,” Javadi read over your shoulder as you showed the list to Robby. “Dates, raspberry leaf tea…”

“You don’t really think any of these work, do you?” said Robby skeptically.

You glared at him.

“Until you have to start wearing adult diapers because you pee a little every time you bend down, kindly keep your opinions to yourself, Michael,” you said, and Javadi tried to stifle her snort. “That just cost you lunch. I require one extra hot jalfrezi with chicken.”

He didn’t dare argue, just snapped his mouth shut and went to make the order with his tail between his legs.

After your eye watering meal, one bite of which had Robby red as a tomato and wheezing into a straight mug of creamer, you decided to take a trip outside. You took Victoria with you, partly because the possibility of falling down and not being able to get back up was high, but also because the terror in her eyes every time you wobbled was slightly amusing.

You walked along the curb in the ambulance bay for as long as you could justify being away from the hub. By the end of it, you were panting, exhausted, and didn’t feel any closer to labor. You huffed and puffed your way slowly back inside, Javadi trailing awkwardly behind you.

“Any luck?” asked Dana.

You could only shake your sweaty head.

“Not yet,” you said, texting Jack, “but you never know.”

Please get dates!!!

A few hours later, when he was awake, he responded.

The fruit?

You rolled your eyes.

Obviously the fruit

He sent you back a thumbs up.

No one was convinced at the efficacy of your little tricks, but they all wished you luck as you waddled out to Jack’s truck. You could tell, as you updated him, that Jack had doubts of his own, but he was smart enough to stay silent while you munched on your dates.

“They’ll work,” you said. “They have to.”

Sure enough, later that night as you bounced on your yoga ball, you felt a now familiar sensation at the base of your belly.

“Fucking finally!” you said to no one in particular, perhaps Romeo where he lay snoozing on the couch.

You called Jack, and he answered on the second ring.

“What’s up?”

“Tell Robby he’s an idiot,” you said smugly. “Guess what I’m having right now?”

“A contraction?” he said. “Really?”

“Really,” you said. “It’s only the first one, but I just wanted to let you know to keep your phone close.”

But it seemed you sounded the alarms a bit too soon. The same contractions, now two minutes long, still fifteen apart, kept you up until one in the morning. They were helped by some nasty heartburn, no doubt from your ambitious spice level at lunch, but soon enough, they began to subside.

You groaned as you texted Jack.

Don’t say anything to Robby, the contractions have stopped >:(

He’s still an idiot though

At the very least, you had the day off. The last thing anyone needed was you, forty weeks pregnant, and running on five hours of sleep. By the time you woke up, Jack was beside you, snuffling snores.

The third night you felt contractions coming on, you were hardly as excited. You had Jack time them, but, as you expected, they fizzled out around midnight.

Each night, around seven or eight, contractions would start. Then, like clockwork, between the hours of twelve and one, they stopped. You wanted to pop a pill and go to bed, not bothered tracking something that was surely temporary, but Jack insisted.

“You never know when it could be the real deal!”

But it wasn’t the real deal, night after night. You were a zombie at work, snappy and grouchy, so much so that by the time you were forty weeks and five days, you were kicked out.

“You’re gonna regret this, Dana,” you growled as Jack pulled you towards the parking lot. “You’re gonna rue the day!”

With your newfound freedom away from the hospital, you kept up with your activities. Though, not the spicy food. That you’d learned your lesson from. Your days were filled with curb walking, dates, and teas. At least two hours a day you sat on your ball and pumped. You had even had sex every night, though it was hardly sexy. You couldn’t really move, so Jack had to prop up your hips with two pillows. It was helped, however, by Jack himself. You’d never seen the man so insatiable as when you were pregnant.

By the time you made it to your forty-one week appointment, you were itching for progress. You kept your fingers crossed tightly, hoping against hope as Jill performed her exam.

“You’re about one centimeter dilated,” said Jill apologetically.

You let out a helpless cry. Jack rubbed your shoulders.

“It’s still an improvement,” he reminded you.

“And you’ve softened a bit,” said Jill. “Most importantly, you’ve still got a good amount of amniotic fluid, so baby’s okay. I would like to do an NST, just because you’re past due. I’d also just like to offer you induction. It is typically recommended at this point—”

“No thank you,” you said firmly. “I’ve only heard horror stories, uterine ruptures, infection, hemorrhage —”

“I know you know how unlikely those things are, so I won’t tell you,” said Jill gently. “I figured you would say that, but how do you feel about a membrane sweep?”

“Great, amazing, do it now,” you said, and she chuckled.

The membrane sweep was certainly uncomfortable, but not exactly painful. Once it was over, you were strapped in for an NST and Jill tried to reassure you.

“It’ll probably be any day now,” she said. “Hopefully things will progress quickly from here, but if they don’t there are things you can do to help.”

“Curb walking? Spicy foods? Sex? Dates? Yeah, we’ve done them all,” you sighed. “Just tell me — how do I tell the difference between prodromal contractions and real contractions?”

Jill looked regretful.

“Oftentimes, you can’t,” she said. “You just have to keep monitoring, and wait for them to get closer together.”

All in all, it was a blue sort of afternoon. Even a big cookie from your favorite bakery wasn’t able to cheer you up. Upon returning home, you draped yourself over Jack on the couch. He practiced his braiding on you while you watched Law & Order, snacking on dates. You were beginning to become sick of them.

As planned, contractions started rolling in around nine. At first, they were average, easily breathed through. Then, they started to pick up. Not in duration, but in severity. Jack pulled your new braids away from your face as you hunched in on yourself, tense and unfortunately moist.

“Honey?” he asked. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Bad,” you gasped. “Worse.”

“Okay,” he said, stroking your forehead. “Do you want to sit on your ball?”

You managed a nod, so he helped transfer you over to the blue ball. You started moaning, rolling your hips in great circles while he clutched your hands from his seat on the coffee table. As the clock struck half past one, he dared to speak.

“You know, if it’s this bad,” he said quietly, “maybe —”

“Don’t say it,” you snarled. “Don’t even think it.”

You were past the point of foolish hope. Without at five hours of clear, worsening contractions that reached five minutes apart, you weren’t even considering it a possibility. It wasn’t feasible to prepare every single time.

You were proven right, at nearly three in the morning, when the contractions once again quieted down. You could tell that Jack was struggling. The pain in his eyes was hard to ignore as he watched you curl in on yourself in agony. Hopeless, was the word, and it wasn’t helped by his being a doctor.

“Seven days,” he whispered into your hair as you drifted in and out of sleep. “Can’t be more than seven days.”

It definitely felt like more. You were becoming nocturnal, kept awake by contractions that never led anywhere, and sleeping it off well into the afternoon. It was like being back on night shift, but instead of patients, you got debilitating cramps and sweating.

It appeared that the membrane sweep really hadn’t helped, at the next appointment only three days later. You were still only one measly centimeter dilated. You cried all the way home out of pure exhaustion.

Jack did everything he could to try and help. He drew warm baths, gave food rubs, always had the kettle ready for a hot water belt. But even food was becoming uninteresting to you, with nausea and fatigue plaguing you most of your waking hours.

You tried to stay positive when you started losing the mucus plug, even more so when it appeared bloody. You called Jack into the bathroom and shoved your dirty underwear in his face.

“The bloody show?” you said.

“I think so,” he replied.

It was exciting. You tried to let it be exciting. But some part of you must have known deep down that it wasn’t the time quite yet, and the days crept on. Jack finally decided to start his sabbatical when parting in the evening coincided with your cramps. He couldn’t stand to leave you folded over the kitchen table, swaying side to side in a futile attempt to work through the pain.

He had you drinking protein shakes and walking in circles around the apartment, just to get the bare minimum out of the way so you could spend the rest of the time sleeping. You were more like a zombie than a person at that point. You would wake, but you were never alert. You went through the motions, the routines, but without Jack, you wouldn’t have been any more active than a garden snail.

“Jill, you gotta give me something,” you said at your next appointment, just one day before the forty-two week mark.

You looked horrible. Bags under your bloodshot eyes, unwashed hair, barely able to stay upright for exhaustion. Jack wasn’t great either, mostly from pure stress at watching you being put through the wringer. He looked at Jill imploringly. She sighed sympathetically.

“Unfortunately, I believe the only thing I can offer at this point is Pitocin,” she said. “In fact, I think I need to highly recommend it.”

You leaned back against Jack. He swept your hair back and rubbed your shoulders.

“Do you think you’d be open to that now?” he said in a hushed tone.

You huffed weakly.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I — I don’t like it, but I can’t spend another day like this, I really can’t.”

Jack buried his nose in the crown of your head, trying not to lose it.

“How about this,” said Jill delicately. “We make an appointment for tomorrow evening, give you guys the whole day, and if nothing happens, you come in. You’re almost three centimeters, you have made progress this past week, which means the drip probably won’t do anything drastic. We need to speed you along. How does that sound?”

You weren’t ecstatic, but you agreed. You knew it would be dangerous for both you and the baby to stay stagnant for much longer. Still, it wasn’t exactly what you imagined as you ate your last meal in the afternoon the next day. You expected to wake excitedly in the night, and rush to the hospital. That period of “I think this is it” extending into “this is really happening right now.” All elements of surprise were zapped out of your trip to the ward. You weren’t excited, more morose, as you stared gloomily out of the window.

Jack was clearly excited, under the surface. He gripped your leg tightly on the drive, other hand tapping anxiously on the steering wheel. He tried not to show it, though, for you.

“I know this isn’t what you had in mind,” he said as he pulled you out of the car. “But just remember, we’re meeting our baby soon. Right? And then all the pain can be over.”

You took a heavy breath. He loaded up with all the bags. That was at least one good thing about having a planned birth; you could prepare.

“I don’t know,” you said in a glum voice, taking glum steps towards the glum side entrance. “I know he has to come out at some point, but it doesn’t feel real. I think I’ve stopped allowing myself to accept it, after all the false starts.”

You had gone right back to referring to the baby as “he” the past few weeks. Jack didn’t want to talk too much about it, just settled in resolutely to being a boy dad. You had stopped believing in another possibility as well, but it didn’t really bum you out the way it did him.

Jack pressed a kiss to your plump cheek.

“I know,” he said. “But try to believe it, baby. He’ll be in your arms before you know it.”

You grumbled while he let you through the familiar door.

“He better come out fat.”

Jack smiled.

“Yeah? How come?”

“Because he’s gotten so much extra time!” you exclaimed. “He better have been using that to get me some chunky baby rolls.”

Jack just chuckled as the two of you made your slow, painful way through the entrance to the ER. You figured you’d be better to cut through to the staff elevator rather than go in through the civilian entrance up on the OB floor, and you might as well say a quick hello-goodbye to the sorry plebs stuck working.

Indeed, you received quite the strong reaction from the hub as you toddled up.

“Look who it is!” said Dana, immediately encircling you in her arms. “Mom and Dad!”

You snorted as the others gathered round, fussing.

“Look how big you are!

“Can you believe today’s the day?”

“Think pink! Baby Princess is almost here!”

Princess squished your belly carefully, looking intense. After a while, she nodded smugly.

“That’s at least an eight-pounder,” she said happily. “Just like I predicted!”

“Well I should think so,” you said. “Two extra weeks of stealing my nutrients should do that.”

Robby stepped forward, looking exhausted, but he offered you a polite cheek kiss anyways.

“Looking stunning as always, Nurse Abbot,” he said, with a hint of jest in his tone. “The glow is overpowering!”

You fixed him with an unamused stare, and at least a week’s worth of sleep gunk in the corners of your eyes.

“Do you want something from me, Robinavitch?”

“Of course not,” he chided.

“What’s your bet?” you asked suspiciously. “Are you counting on me holding out for another three days or something?”

“Oh, no, no one expected you to go this long,” he said. “However, if the baby comes out with your hair, nine pounds, and a boy, I’ll be very happy.”

You rolled your eyes, and Jack started ushering you away from the mob.

“Goodbye Robby, I hope you lose!” you called behind you.

“Good luck!” said Dana.

“You can do it!” said Mel.

“Bring us a baby girl!” said Princess.

You could only wave halfheartedly as the elevator doors closed.

It was easy to be playfully annoyed at Robby downstairs, or sassy in the car, but the second you stepped into your reserved room, your delivery room, the panic took over. There was a large bed, and a convertible chair for Jack to sleep on, just like you pictured. But they wasted no time in hooking you up to a CEFM, and within the hour, a nurse had shoved a suppository up your vagina. You didn’t feel much like laughing at anything.

“And that’s —”

“Dinoprostone,” the nurse answered your boyfriend, while you tried to adjust. “0.3 milligrams. We’ll start the Pitocin in an hour or two.”

You let out a sigh as she left, pulling at your gown. You weren’t happy. Sitting there, sans underwear, on a Chux pad, waiting with anticipation for what would probably be the most painful, agonizing experience of your life, you felt the walls closing in a bit.

You glanced at the clock above the door. It was almost eight o’clock. Robby and Dana were probably just leaving, and Shen and Samira would be taking over. You soured at the thought that they’d probably be cozy in bed again before you had your baby. Hell, the way things had been going so far, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were barely five centimeters by that point.

“You wanna watch a movie, honey?” Jack asked quietly, watching your sullen face.

You rolled your head to the side so you could see his, though it looked much sweeter. You stroked a hand over his scruff.

“Yeah,” you said forlornly. “Miss Congeniality?”

He nodded diligently and extracted his laptop from one of the bags, setting it up in record time. To both of your surprise, you promptly opened your arms for him to join you on the bed. He did so, moving carefully so as to not upset your gown, or your monitor, or you. You weren’t at the point where you were cursing him or hated the sight of his face. In fact, you quite liked him at that moment. Better to take advantage of it before things progressed and he got the luteal phase side of you. 

“I love you,” you said.

He sounded a little taken aback in his reply.

“I love you too, baby.”

You fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt.

“I just needed to remind us both, before I start hating you,” you explained.

“Of course,” he said.

You sat in the quiet for a while, half watching the movie you knew like the back of your hand. Within a few minutes, Jack’s gentle touch and steady breaths coaxed your eyes closed. On the brink of sleep, only one thing nowadays could really bring you back. 

“Contraction,” you mumbled, as Gracie threw Matthews into a headlock.

“Do you want to move?” he asked.

“No,” you breathed, letting the now familiar discomfort wash over you. “Just stay.”

“Okay,” he said, pecking your forehead. “I’m right here. You know who else is here for you?”

“Who?”

“Benjamin Bratt,” he said. “Benjamin won’t let you down.”

You hummed, a hint of a smile on your lips as you forced your eyes open. Benjamin Bratt was your lifelong celebrity crush, and your friends had wasted no time pointing out some similarities between him and the father of your child when you’d revealed it.

“Of course he won’t,” you said, stroking a finger down his face on the screen.

As the usual contractions passed, you couldn’t help but feel a bit foolishly disappointed. Some small illogical part of you hoped that the prostaglandins would be enough of a push for your body to ramp it up on its own; but the pains were no different than they had been all week.

At a quarter to ten, Jill came in and checked you.

“Just about three centimeters dilated,” she said, to your agitation, “but about ninety percent effaced, so, progress.”

You huffed. Even your TV husband couldn’t distract you from the fact that you weren’t getting anywhere, no matter the positive spin Jill tried to pull. She didn’t seem to want to mention that you were also “just about three centimeters” the last time she saw you, over twenty-four hours previous.

“So now you start the drip?” you asked, and Jack squeezed your hand.

“Yes, now we start,” she said, while a nurse prepared the bag to hang. “Just a low dose, and then if nothing happens, we can gradually increase it. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” you said, through gritted teeth.

She provided you with a peanut ball to put between your legs and then you were left in wait. Jack rubbed your back and instructed your deep breathing, while you tried to focus on the screen and not the pain.

To your brief respite, the pitocin didn’t intensify the contractions the way you expected them to. After an hour of absolutely zero action, Jill upped the dosage. Still, while they grew closer together, they felt no different. You could breathe through them quite well, and even talk if you felt determined. Maybe you had a high threshold, maybe you were desensitized after all the sleepless nights, maybe it was a bit of both, but what ended up nagging you the most was the hunger.

“Jackie,” you whispered between contractions, around midnight.

“What, baby?” he whispered back, though you were alone in the dark room.

“Can you go get me a soft pretzel?”

He stopped sponging your sweaty forehead, eyes narrowed in amusement.

“A soft pretzel?”

You nodded innocently.

“With plenty yellow mustard, please.”

He rang the washcloth out over the basin, looking half humorous, half distressed.

“Honey, I don’t think —”

“And a hotdog!” you interjected, eyes going wide. “Just get one of every condiment, actually. And I’m picturing a soft serve in a hat. Chocolate vanilla swirl. Okay?”

He wiped his damp hands off on a clean towel and cradled your face.

“Sweetheart, I will get you all of that and more,” he said earnestly, “just as soon as this baby’s outta you.”

“Oh, okay,” you sniffed. “So you don’t love me anymore. I get it.”

It was such a ridiculous notion, he couldn’t help laughing. You tried to smile back, but your face was suddenly crumpled in discomfort as another contraction hit you. Jack checked his watch, then the monitor.

“Five minutes,” he said desperately. “They’re getting closer together, honey. We’re moving.”

“They’re fine,” you hissed. “They’re only, like, double the pain of a bad period. It’s no big deal.”

Jack sent you a look you couldn’t see.

“Your periods get this bad?” he asked in horror. “Even half this bad? How do you get anything done?”

You couldn’t answer, just shook your head, as if to say what are you gonna do?

There wasn’t much, but damn it if Jack wasn’t going to try. 

“You wanna try some massages?” he asked. “Some from lamaze class?”

You shook your head again.

“Okay… how about the birthing comb Perlah gave you?”

You didn’t immediately dismiss it, so he quickly dug into the bag and pulled it out. You opened your hand and he lined the teeth up with the crease of your palm. You squeezed hard. He watched you closely.

“Woah,” you said, eyes blinking open. “That’s — really cool actually.”

“It’s helping?” he asked.

“Yeah, a little,” you said.

You took some deep breaths, massaging the bamboo tines into your tissue. Jack allowed himself some breaths as well, seeing the line between your brows soften a bit. He’d never dare complain after the weeks you’d had, but his brain felt a bit like a wrung out sponge. He could deal with sleep deprivation, he almost thrived on sleep deprivation, but seeing you, in agony, so exhausted you could barely eat a full meal? That was wearing down on him.

“Wait, what time is it?” you said suddenly. “Is it past midnight?”

Jack glanced at his wrist again.

“Closer to one,” he said, “why?”

Your lips turned down a bit.

“Nothing,” you sighed. “It’s just that… Ronan is a Scorpio.”

Jack glanced at his phone with befuddlement.

“Is that bad?” he asked. “Wait, aren’t I a Scorpio?”

“Yes,” you said. “Which is fine, it’s great, but now you’re both Scorpios. Scorpio men.”

He waited for you to explain, but you didn’t, so he just gave you a confused apology kiss.

When the contractions got to be three minutes apart, Jill came in to have a look.

“How are we holding up?” she asked, snapping on gloves, while Jack helped you place your feet in the stirrups. “Contractions manageable?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” you deadpanned. “I’m loving how they’re basically back to back now. Real fun.”

“Well,” she said, looking sorry, “you’re still only almost five centimeters, and we’d like you to be closer to seven.”

You guffawed.

“Of course I am,” you croaked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Not even five, almost five, for fuck’s sake.”

“We are moving, hun, just slowly,” she said, patting your knee. “We’re going to break the waters now, though, and things should pick up after that.”

You nodded flatly, unconvinced, at that point, that anything could possibly speed things up. It was mildly uncomfortable as Jill stuck the amnihook up to your sore cervix, but a second later, you felt a small pop and a sudden gush of fluid. You craned your head up to peer over your bump.

“Is that it?” you asked. “It’s broken?”

“That was it,” said Jill, handing the soiled hook and pads off to a nurse. “Now, you’ll probably continue to leak as the baby moves, so we’ll keep this Chux here under you, and don’t be surprised if things pick up quick. Most times mothers start pushing within hours of the amniotomy.”

“Bet I’m an exception to the rule,” you muttered darkly.

However, despite your pessimistic attitude, things did pick up. Quickly, and painfully. In comparison, the early labor felt like child’s play once you had experienced the stabbing sensation that trapped you now. You watched the sunrise from the window, bent at a ninety degree angle with your arms on the sill. You were no longer cracking jokes; you let out rhythmic moans, while Jack squeezed your hips together.

“Let it out,” he said quietly. “You’re doing so good. So, so good, baby.”

You still clutched the comb in your hands, but any effect it had had earlier was now lost. You were slick with sweat and shaking. As the contraction leveled out, you took great, heaving breaths.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” you breathed, and Jack jumped up.

He guided you back to the bed so your weak knees could collapse, and held a bag up to your mouth. You spit into it, that familiar metallic taste flooding your tongue as you prepared. It was mostly bile that came up as you retched, with no food left in your rumbling stomach. When you were done, you sat back on your bum and braced your arms in front of you.

“I’m never… doing… this again,” you panted. 

“Okay, love,” said Jack, adjusting your hair where he had tied it back the first time you’d vomited. “You never have to.”

Did he want more kids? Yes. But more importantly, he wanted you happy and safe. If you said you were done, you were done. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he would be up to seeing you in this much pain again. He kissed your warm cheek.

“I need the epidural,” you said. “Can we get that?”

Jack had never moved faster in his life. Once Jill was free, and you were back in position, she checked you.

“Seven centimeters,” she said. “Very good.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Thank you universe.”

Jack all but crushed your hand between his.

“She was wondering about the epidural —”

“Certainly,” said Jill. “We can absolutely get anesthesiology in here, but I should remind you, it could very possibly slow down your progression. Is that a trade you’d be willing to make?”

They both looked at you. You felt about ready to cry. You were finally getting somewhere, would an epidural be setting you up for another twelve hours?

But in the end, you knew, you wouldn’t be able to get through birth without a couple hours of good sleep under your belt. So, you agreed to see the doctor.

It was definitely the right choice, you thought, once the drugs kicked in. Feeling the numbness spread through you was like going to sleep after a double, or sinking into a hot bath in winter time. The relief was palpable.

“Oh my god,” you moaned. “Oh my god, I had forgotten what it was like to not have contractions.”

Jack was relieved too, watching you munch on ice chips, eyes closed.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, stroking your forehead between your eyes. “You need rest.”

“So do you,” you said. “Hey — have you taken your leg off at all since we’ve been here?”

He thought. He had been far too preoccupied with you to notice the dull ache radiating up his right knee. He shrugged, but you were already back to your sass, however sluggishly.

“It’s almost been twenty-four hours, Jack Abbot,” you reprimanded. “Take it off and get in bed.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said lovingly.

He had to admit, it was a relief in its own right, removing the leg and the socks. He hadn’t even realized how much it had been bothering him, but you had always been on top of those things, the things he let fall to the back burner. Just like how he reminded you to eat on stressful days, or prepared hot water bottles when you were on your period. You looked out for each other.

Pulling his other shoe off, he carefully crawled into bed next to you, engulfing you in his arms. You weren’t sure how long you slept. All you knew was that upon waking, Jill was between your legs for a check.

As she covered you back up with the blanket, she could barely contain her smile.

“Ten centimeters. Are you ready to have a baby?”

♡♡♡

You’d thought, somehow, foolishly, that the pushing would be easy compared to the weeks of torture. Especially with the epidural keeping you almost completely numb, how could it be worse?

But now you were approaching your third hour of pushing, and they still couldn’t even see the baby’s head. The pain was barely an afterthought, but every upper muscle in your body was tense and tight from repeated use, and you were running out of energy.

You had Jack holding up one leg, a nurse holding the other, and a third person out of sight was wiping your forehead. You had had to ask, or scream at, someone to remove the ticking clock from above the door. Your eyes kept drifting towards it, and your heart filled with more and more despair as the minutes slid by.

“C’mon, honey, one more push,” Jack was chanting next to you, holding your thigh flush against your chest. “One more, you can do it!”

You fell back against him with a harsh cry as the contraction subsided. Perspiration was dripping down your flushed face, and you were panting like you’d just finished a sprint. 

“I can’t,” you gasped. “I can’t do this any more. It’s not working.”

“The baby is moving,” said Jill from the other side of your bump. “They’re taking their time, but you’re doing really, really well, okay? Keep going, we should be seeing a head soon.”

“Did you hear that?” said Jack soothingly. “It’ll be over soon. You’re so close.”

You felt so close to slipping into sleep, and yet possibly less comfortable than you ever had been before. You felt your eyes beginning to sting. Maybe it was a good sign; throughout everything, you still hadn’t shed a tear. Could the cracks in your exterior mean this was almost at an end? Or were you really ready to give up?

“Here comes the next contraction,” said Jill. “Ready?”

“Big breath,” said Nurse Marta. “Chin to chest — good…”

You bared down with all your might, and the pressure was building.

“Hard, hard hard hard!” said Jill. “Good job, mom! I can just barely glimpse the head.”

Jack pressed a flurry of kisses to your knee, and if your eyes were open you would have seen his already beginning to tear.

“Oh my god,” you muttered as that contraction too passed.

“Can I see?” he asked cautiously. “The head, can I try to see?”

“We lost sight when she relaxed,” said Jill, eyes glued to the monitor. “But on the next contraction, we should begin to crown.”

“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Okay, one more, and we find out who wins, Robby or Princess, right?”

“Better be Princess,” you grumbled.

You ran a limp hand over Jack’s curls.

“You’ll catch him, right?” you said. “When he comes out?”

“Yeah, baby, of course, I’ll be right there,” he said. “I promise. I mean, I love Jill, but —”

You almost laughed, or got as close to it as you possibly could with how winded you were. Jill spoke up, smirking slightly herself.

“Okay, about twenty seconds to the next contraction,” she said. “And I need you to really push hard, okay? Hard as you can.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Alright,” she chuckled, “ready? Go.”

You pushed, and pushed, and pushed. All the blood rushed to your head, and your grip in Jack’s hair only tightened, accidentally bumping his chin against your knee, but he didn’t say anything. It was kind of funny — you were usually in a very different place when you did that.

“You’re so good, you’re so so good, honey,” Jack muttered quickly, unable to keep himself from peering over to watch. “Good, good, you’re so strong, you” — his breath stuttered — “I see the head! Oh, it’s red, the hair — Ronan —”

You let out a strangled sort of sound, half laugh, half cry.

“We’re crowning, I’m gonna need you to stop pushing,” said Jill. “Okay, stop pushing, and breathe, alright? Pant, deep and fast —”

You began to feel a bit lightheaded as you followed her instructions.

“Okay, now push again — good — and relax.”

You groaned, arms shaking and jumping all over the place. Hesitantly, you removed a hand from Jack’s hair.

“Can I feel?”

“Of course,” said Jill. She took your trembling hand and guided it down. “Feel the hair?”

That was it. That was the little push those tears needed to begin leaking from your eyes. It was the most bizarre feeling, not being able to sense touch against your own legs, but knowing that the head you felt was part of you this second. And the next, it would be separate. A whole little human.

“There’s a lot, huh?” said Jack in a wavery voice.

“Jack, if you want to catch, now’s the time,” said Jill, holding out a packet of sterile gloves. “You ready?”

He snapped them on in record time, though was reluctant to leave your immediate side.

“I’m right here,” he said, both for you and for him. “I’m still here next to you.”

“I know,” you said, taking up the hand of the nurse that replaced him.

“Push, mama, push,” Jill chanted from over Jack’s shoulder, watching carefully as he cradled the emerging head.

“You’re doing amazing!” said Jack, fully crying now. “Keep going!”

You did. By the end of the minute, the head was all the way out.

“I see him, I see him!” said Jack frantically. “He’s coming! One more push, just one!”

“Tell me what’s happening, okay?” you asked. “I wanna know.”

“Okay, honey.”

Your nurses pushed you up. It was time for the final contraction. Or, what would hopefully be the final contraction.

“Push!”

You put all your remaining strength behind that last push, tears now joined in the sweat running down your cheeks.

“Here come the shoulders,” said Jack. “Good job! Okay, great job, honey, they’re coming — okay, one, and — c’mon, Ronan, you can do it — c’mon — okay, yes! Yes, yes, yes, so good, okay, and the little arms, and the belly, and —”

There was a sudden release of pressure, and almost immediately, a sharp, strong cry rent the air. You were sobbing in earnest now, but still Jack held onto your baby while they wailed. You couldn’t see them, but you could see his face, transfixed, unmoving. You didn’t like the look. Worry began to creep in.

“What?” you asked wetly. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

“It’s” — Jack’s breath caught in his throat — “it’s a girl! It’s a baby girl.” 

Your anxiety cleared, and you sighed in relief, a full body shudder as he gingerly lifted the little baby, your daughter, to your chest. Your eyes were as wide as his were, staring in awe at the little creature on your bosom.

“Hi,” you whispered, while Jill rubbed her vigorously with a cloth. “Hi, baby. You’re here.”

Jack, now gloveless, and hysterical, wrapped his arms around the both of you. Her whole tiny head was covered in sticky but unmistakable dark red hair. And it seemed Santos was right — she did have her dad’s nose. His everything, really.

“Isadora,” Jack said reverently through his tears. “You’re perfect.”

“You got your girl,” you said to Jack, eyes not parting from your Izzy for one second.

“Everyone’s gonna freak,” he said, stroking her head.

It wasn’t until later, with the cord clamped and cut, the placenta delivered, and the postpartum room moved into, you realized.

“Wait,” you said, watching Isadora curl sleepily into her father’s bare chest. “I just remembered something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, turning smug. “Princess got everything right. Robby lost.”

Jack began to match your smile.

“Way to go, Izzy,” he said. “First hour on earth, and you’re already beating Uncle Robby’s ass, huh? Atta girl. Just wait til you play him at hockey. He sucks.”

Your eyes, which had never fully dried, were beginning to tear up again. You knew it was to be expected with your hormones out of whack, but he was just holding her, for christ’s sake.

“C’mere,” you said lazily, beckoning him towards your bed. “You wanna call him up? Gloat in his face? I kinda do.”

“Nah,” said Jack calmly, settling in at your side. “I think for now it should just be me and my girls.”

You were sent home the next day, with an appointment for Izzy in the books and relatively minimal soreness, considering. Izzy was quickly proving herself to be a good eater, and a good sleeper.

“There we go, honey,” Jack cooed at her, setting her down in your arms. “All fed, all burped, all changed.”

He perched on the arm of your nursing chair. For once, it was exactly as you pictured. The breeze through the open window making the dragonflies fly, Jack by your side, and a little red haired baby resting in the green and yellow nursery.

---

You must have done something evil in a past life because your landlord had decided to sell his place with no notice, which left you and other roommates with two weeks to find a new place to live before he evicted all of you. You remember spending countless sleepless nights scouring the internet, meeting random people, seeing random apartments. 

That’s how you met Jack and Michael.

It was another roommate interview; they seemed nice, both in med school or something so they wouldn’t be home much, they said. Their apartment was scarily clean for two guys, but Jack assured you that he was a self proclaimed clean freak and it was always like this. Michael just said not to go into his room and you would be fine, which you didn’t really want to think about further. 

They used to have a third roommate, they explained, but he wasn’t really taking to residency all that well and moved back home. Although the way Michael told the story seemed casual, the implication was glaring. You could read between the lines. They needed someone to take over his lease, and fast.

Considering the fact that the last two girls you met said your chakras were misaligned and that they could fix that if you paid them, coupled with the fact that you were about three days out from being homeless, you decided to take a chance on Jack and Michael. How bad could living with two guys be? 

That was months ago. Now?

You wish you paid those girls to realign your chakras and moved into their apartment. Sure, the boys’ apartment was nice. It wasn’t living with boys that was the issue. They were telling the truth; Jack really always kept it clean and the pair of them were always at the hospital, so they were barely around.

It’s when they were around that was the issue. 

Or, more specifically, when Jack was around. Robby, as he told you to call him a few weeks into you living there, was nice enough. He was polite and funny, humor just dry enough to be endearing. He always had a few girls coming in and out when he wasn’t working or knocked out from his shift, but that was neither here nor there for you.

Jack, on the other hand, was driving you up the wall. Your niceties had fizzled out in exactly two weeks, ending when you got into an argument about something so small, you can’t even remember it now. 

And that was that. After that fight, you were always butting heads whenever you were together, always about the dumbest things. It’s reached the point where you two can barely be in a room together without getting into it. You know Robby had been trying to mediate over the past few months, but to no avail. Nowadays, he just tries his best to not pull his hair out.

Like today.

“How many times have I asked you to stop slamming doors?” Jack snaps as you exit your room. He’s seated next to Robby at the bar, who’s tucking into his bowl of cereal and looking like he's praying that no one drags him into this conversation. They're both still in their pyjamas, Jack’s curls still mussed from sleep. 

“Well, good morning to you too, Jack,” You sigh, not even looking in his direction as you make your way into the kitchen on the opposite side of the bar. Pulling open the fridge, you ponder making a smoothie just to see if it’ll piss him off some more. “Glad to see a full night of rest hasn't removed the stick from your ass.”

You can see Robby white knuckling his spoon out of the corner of your eye, but he remains silent. Jack scoffs, using his fork to angrily gesture in the direction of your bedroom.

“Last I remembered, there was only one of us here not working twelve hour shifts at a hospital. I’d like a little sleep before I have to listen to you talk all day.” He looks to his right, presumably to have Robby to back him up, but he’s already left his bowl in the sink and is slinking away from the conversation.

“Tsk, tsk, Doctor Abbot. Someone needs to work on their bedside manner,” Shaking your head at him, you can tell that he’s already annoyed, face twisted up as your words. You decide, yeah, the blender probably will piss Jack off, and start pulling out some fruit. “Don’t they teach you that in medical school?”

“I’ve got one of the highest patient satisfaction ratings of the department,” He shoots back, a barely concealed brag. Not that it mattered that much to you, but he was clearly proud of the fact anyways. “I just save it for people that actually listen to the words that come out of my mouth. You-”

It seems comical, the timing, really. You toss the last of the fruit into the blender and switch it on, effectively cutting him off and punctuating his point. You watch his eyes furrow and you were totally right, the blender absolutely does piss him off. You mime something about not being able to hear him, sorry! and he rolls his eyes, conceding. Jack always did, if it was before eleven in the morning. Still too tired from his shift to get under your skin properly, you assumed. He grabs his plate and his coffee mug in a huff, heading into Robby’s room, no doubt to complain about you behind your back.

You shut the blender off once he leaves, the loud whirring slowing to a stop. You remember a time that you imagined yourself getting along with both of them, falling into your place at the apartment like their missing puzzle piece. But there was just something about Jack that just pushed all your buttons. He was just a pain in the ass.

A really handsome, really annoying, cherub-faced pain in the ass.

—

Robby likes to think of himself as a patient man.

The emergency room teaches you that. Taking a step back. Pausing, being objective. Being able to make the decisions that need to be made.

And right now, a decision definitely needed to be made. Robby was living in a psychological warzone.

He remembers when he and Jack were deliberating on who to choose to take over their spare room. It was between you and some guy who looked like he ate cigarettes for every meal; Robby can’t even remember his name now. Jack had said that they should pick you — even said you were cute.

This was one of the few instances in the time that he had known Jack that he had regretted listening to him.

“And she just-” Jack’s got his plate teetering on his knee, coffee mug still in his hand as he gestures angrily for no reason in particular. You’ve really worked him up this morning and now Robby is dealing with the consequences.

“Geez, man,” Robby can’t help but snap, cutting him off. Lately it’s been endless, Jack’s complaining. It feels like he starts and ends every day listening to Jack bitch and moan about their roommate, and it’s driving him up the wall. “You ever think about cooling it a little? Maybe extending an olive branch or something?”

“An olive branch? For what? I didn’t do anything.” His comment has clearly caught Jack off guard, eyes falling to his plate as he pushes the remaining remnants of his breakfast around. 

“It’s not about you doing something. It’s about you two getting along,” Robby explains with a sigh. He knows that Jack knows better than this, but there was just something about the situation that made him see red. Something about you. “A little peace around here would be nice, you know?”

“You should tell her that.” Jack gives up pretending to eat and sets his plate aside. Robby can feel the anxious energy radiating off of him; his leg shaking the bed, the angry tap, tap, tap of his nails against the ceramic of his coffee mug. He reaches out and places a hand on his thigh to steady him. The shaking stops instantly.

“You gotta figure this shit out,” Robby says, attempting to toe the line between stern and empathetic. He thinks it might just be coming off as tired, though. “Whatever issue you guys have, you guys need to solve that shit.”

Jack stiffens under his touch when the words leave his mouth and Robby kicks himself. For some reason, he keeps forgetting just how stubborn his best friend is.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Jack replies flatly. That kills the conversation and he collects his things and leaves Robby’s room, leaving him alone in some well needed silence.

Robby decides needs a new approach.

He tries his best to stick it out for the next few days, waiting until his next off day rolls around. Jack, on the other hand, is working that day which presents the perfect opportunity for Robby to appeal to your better nature instead.

He’s leaning on the counter, watching you put your groceries in the fridge. Over the time that you’ve been living together, you and Robby have learned to grow comfortable in the silence in the apartment. You’ll sit together on the couch, reading a book while he studies without saying a word. It’s grounding for him, like a familiar blanket. At least, that’s when Jack isn’t around.

Robby is finally pulled out of his thoughts when he notices you staring at him, hand on your hip. You’ve got an eyebrow raised, like you just asked him a question that he took far too long to reply to.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Robby shakes his head, trying to focus on you once more. “I was, uh, zoned out.”

“I just said you’ve been looking at me all weird,” You reply, hand dropping from your hip. You approach him slowly, laying a hand on his arm. You seemed concerned, which was sweet. He’s always wondered where the part of you that got Jack all riled up went when he wasn’t around. “Are you okay?”

“No, not really,” He says with a sigh, taking a step back out of your space. He takes a deep breath, wondering how exactly to explain this to you. He doesn’t want to misstep like he did with Jack; then he’d really be screwed. “It’s about you and Jack.”

“What about us?” Your curiosity is piqued but Robby can see that you’ve stiffened just at the mention of his name.

“Look, I get that you and Jack hate each other or whatever,” He runs a hand through his hair, deciding that the best course of action was to just be honest. Whatever happens after that is out of his hands. “But the arguing is driving me insane. Would you be able to maybe take it down a notch when I’m around? And when I’m not, you can kill him for all I care.”

“I think you would definitely care if I murdered Jack,” You say with a scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. You two stand in silence for a moment. Tense, not the comfortable kind that Robby is used to. He can see your eyes flicking around as you think, taking in his words. And then your posture softens. “But you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Oh great,” He heaves a sigh of relief, taking a seat at the bar. You watch him, the curious look in your eye replaced with something that might even resemble sympathy. “I asked Jack the same thing and he nearly bit my head off.”

“You thought I would react worse than Jack?” You look at him sadly, hand splayed over your heart in mock hurt. “I’m wounded, Michael.”

He rolls his eyes and you’re back in the kitchen, bent over and rustling through the fridge. He watches you gather ingredients, pushing around and looking for the things that you need. He taps his finger on the counter, suspicious. 

“Is that really it?” He asks and you turn around, arms full. You shrug as you start placing things on the counter, gesturing for Robby to help you with a nod of your head. He quickly stands up, setting down whatever remained.

“I could make more of a scene, if you like,” You pull out the cutting board and knife from below the counter, shooting him a look from the corner of your eye. “But I thought I’d make you an ‘I’m-sorry-I-get-into-fights-with-your-best-friend’ dinner instead.”

Robby lights up at that. He and Jack always cook for themselves, but your food always looks a million times better than theirs. Probably because once they get home from their shifts they only have the energy to make boxed mac and cheese before falling asleep on the couch, bowls still in their laps. 

So yes, Robby will jump at the chance to eat some food that doesn’t come out of a box and doesn’t involve any powdered cheese.

You’re standing side by side when Jack walks in; Robby is chopping vegetables and you’re throwing everything together in a pot. Your shoulders are brushing —the kitchen you share is too small not to, especially at Robby’s size.

Robby glances up from the cutting board, ready to greet Jack, when he sees the look on his face. It’s twisted up in something… something Robby can’t really place. He’s frowning, eyes scanning the scene in front of him. Before he can open his mouth to say hello, Jack stomps off to his room, hand clutching the strap of his go-bag tightly. The door slams behind him and Robby finally looks in your direction. You’re looking equally as confused as he feels.

“What the hell is up with him?” You ask, going back to what you were doing before Jack’s abrupt arrival. He guesses that you were used to this kind of behaviour; Jack being all prickly towards you. Robby however, was not. He sneaks another glance at Jack’s closed door, brows furrowed.

“Bad shift, maybe?” He tries to supply. You just shrug in response.

He knows that it’s something else.

—

After that dinner the fighting only gets worse.

You’ve been making Robby a lot of I’m sorry dinners, which is a plus. But the hostile living situation is definitely a negative. 

He knows you’ve been trying to keep it down but it seems like you can’t even enter a room without Jack getting irritated with you these days. He’s tried to talk to him about it a grand total of once, and Jack snarls at him to ‘just leave it’ in a tone he’s never heard before, so he has.

But it’s driving Robby insane. He wants to eat a meal, sit on the couch, and study in peace. It’s reaching the point where he’s wondering if he’s going to have to physically separate you. The fights have been escalating; you two have been crowding each other’s space, all gnashing teeth and pointed jabs to the chest. 

Right now he’s laying in bed, listening to you two argue through the wall. He doesn’t even know what it’s about. In fact, he never really knows what they’re about. They always start off about something insignificant and then escalate into the grudges that you two are holding against each other. It seems like the fights never end, one of you always storming out before you ever come to a resolution.

Robby is sure that you could probably talk out your differences if you bothered to actually have a conversation about it without one of you stomping away. In fact, he’d put money on it.

He listens to a few more shouts and a particularly loud door slam and something in him finally breaks. 

He decides to put his money where his mouth is.

—

You’re enjoying a rare moment to yourself, curled up on the couch under a blanket with a book in hand when Robby’s voice rings through the living room. 

“The sink in the bathroom is doing that weird thing again.”

Motherfucker.

You tilt your head back with a groan, slamming your book shut. The sink in the bathroom had been crapping out on you guys for as long as you remember and for some reason, you were the only person who could jiggle the handle just right to get it working again.

“Can’t a girl get a moment to herself here?” You sigh, pulling off the blanket dramatically. Robby just shrugs, eyeing you as you put your book down. There’s something in his gaze you can’t place, a bit distant. It’s easy to assume it’s all the fighting with Jack. 

You promised to try to be nicer to him, but he just keeps goading you into petty arguments. It’s not hard to tell that it’s driving a wedge between the three of you. Tensions have been high in the apartment lately and you’ve noticed that Robby has elected to spend more time away, presumably with one of his many girlfriends.

Robby turns around wordlessly, not even checking to see if you’re following. It unnerves you a bit; he’s usually always down to rib with you and he never ignores you. Worrying your lip, you drop the nonchalant act and trail behind him in the direction of your bathroom. He pauses at the doorframe, waiting for you to catch up.

You approach him, wanting to ask if everything is okay, when he grabs you by the arm. It’s not rough and you wouldn’t expect it to be; Robby would never hurt you. However, his grip and the element of surprise are enough to allow him to haul you into the bathroom. You barely get a word out before the door shuts behind you.

You blink in shock, taking a moment to realize what exactly is happening to you.

Jack is standing in front of you, the same look of shock mirrored on his face. The sight of him has you whirling on your heels, grabbing the door handle. It doesn’t give —something is jamming the handle, effectively locking you in the bathroom. The bathroom you share, that’s about the size of a closet. Locked in with the guy that makes your blood boil.

For more reason than one.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” You hear Jack’s gruff voice from behind you but you deign to ignore it, choosing to bang against the door instead.

“Robby!” You shout, still rapping your fist against the door. You know that he can hear you; the walls and doors in this place are paper thin. Jack’s gaze is hot on your back and you can imagine his arms are crossed, ready to see what you’ll do next. “Let us out!”

“No,” You can hear his voice loud and clear through the wood. He must be standing right in front of the door on the other side, staring at the chipped white paint. His voice is serious, flat in a way you’ve never heard before. “You guys aren’t coming out until you’re best friends. I can’t deal with the bickering anymore. Either figure it out, or enjoy living in the bathroom together. Forever.”

Then you hear his footsteps, the sound of them peetering away. Which means you really are stuck in here for the time being.

You turn to face Jack with a deep sigh. You were right; his arms are crossed over his chest, looking as cool and collected as he always does before he starts pushing all your buttons. You two just look at each other for a moment, soaking everything in. He breaks the silence first. “How did he lure you in here?”

“He told me the sink was broken again.” You mutter, shifting uncomfortably in place and leaning your back against the door. The two of you stand at opposite ends of the bathroom, but the distance doesn’t feel nearly far enough.

You know that Robby is right. The two of you are constantly at each other’s throats for no reason. You run a hand over your face, annoyed that you’ve found yourself in a situation as dumb as this. As tragic as it is, you realize that this is probably the longest the two of you have gone without arguing in a long time.

“Robby is right. We need to stop.” Jack says, as if he can read your mind. You scoff at that, rolling your eyes. That’s rich coming from him. He’s the one constantly provoking you, pushing you until you’re the one who’s fuming when he walks into the room.

“You’re one to talk,” You reply, deciding to confront him. It’s what Robby wanted, right? For you to talk it out? You weren’t sure it would lead anywhere but it didn’t really seem like your third roommate was letting you out anytime soon. “Robby told me that he already asked you to stop and you chewed him out for it.”

“I did not chew him out,” Jack denies, shaking his head in disbelief. You can already feel anger bubbling up just from his dismissive tone. “You and Robby are best friends now, huh?”

“Yeah, that's kind of what happens when your third roommate is a gigantic asshole.” You spit back. So much for not arguing. It's getting hard to keep your annoyance under wraps, especially with the wounds of your last million fights still raw.

“Oh, please. I was his friend first, way before you came along,” Jack takes a step forward like he wants to pace but quickly realizes he doesn't have enough room without getting closer to you and pauses. He opts for rocking back on his heels instead. “It’s your fault we’re even in this situation in the first place.”

“My fault? Are you listening to yourself?” You laugh incredulously, dropping all pretenses that this could even be a normal conversation anymore. “You sound like a child. I’ve tried my best to be nice to you! How is this my fault?”

“Yeah, it’s your fucking fault!” This time he’s brave enough to take a step forward, probably more out of frustration than anything else. “You call that being nice? Getting into fights with me? Getting all friendly with Robby?”

“Is this what this is about?” You’ve caught him in a weird spot and he knows it, running a hand through his auburn curls. His brow furrows but you cut him off before he can shoot back a response. “Robby? Is that why you’ve been acting extra annoying since that night you saw us making dinner a few weeks ago?”

“It's not about him,” He grunts, jaw tensing. You can see that he’s holding back whatever he wants to say by his taut shoulders as he speaks. “It's about you.”

“About me? I don't understand what your problem with me is, or why you think this is my fault-”

“Oh my god, do you ever shut up?” Jack cuts you off, and the room goes dead silent. You two are close now, like both of you were taking subconscious steps towards each other as you fought. It was always like that —when you had these fights it always ended up with you crowding each other's spaces. This time was no exception. 

But the size of the bathroom makes it feel different. You can almost feel his breath from the quick rise and fall of his chest, pulse racing from the argument. Your breath matches his, coming out in short huffs. You’ve got each other all riled up and you can see something flash in his eyes.

Then it clicks.

“You want to fuck me, don't you?” You can see from his reaction that you’ve got it right on the nose. He takes a step back, the bluntness of your statement pulling him out of the stupor of anger he was in.

“What?” He recoils like the thought of it is physically repulsive. You try not to take too much offense from that, especially because you know that it’s all for show. The heat of the tension between you two has shattered and you give a smug smirk, teeth almost bared.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” You’re taunting him now, but after everything that he put you through it only seems fair. You can’t help but laugh out loud as you continue. “Little Jackie’s got a crush on me? That’s why he’s pushing me on the playground?” 

“Don’t call me that.” The timbre of his voice is low, egging you along. “You wish. I hate you.”

“Oh, yeah? How much?” You press. Jack’s gained more confidence and he’s back in your space. Even though you’re holding the cards, taunting him with a crush, you still feel like prey. He’s circling you like a shark without even moving. His eyes are on you as he backs you up against the door.

He still hasn’t answered your empty threat. You can feel his body heat even through your clothes and it makes your breath catch. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jack, and you see a whisper of a smile on his lips. Any proverbial cards you had in your hands just moments before have fluttered to the ground. Jack has caught you and you both notice, and the idea of that has Jack looking at you like the cat who got the cream.

You’re fully pressed against the door now, almost forehead to forehead. His hands hover between the two of you, like he’s unsure of if he’s actually allowed to touch you or not. You finally grow the courage to look up at him and meet his eyes, your noses brushing as you do. He takes that as permission and moves his hands towards you, resting loose at your waist.

It’s hard to breathe, much less think. You can smell Jack’s body wash from this distance and it has your brain short circuiting. He’s close enough to see every reaction and he drags a hand up your side slowly, fingertips skimming. 

It travels up the expanse of your body and pauses at your neck, his fingers tightening for a moment. His grip isn’t firm but it’s enough to make your eyes flutter. Jack rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest and his hand continues it’s journey upwards, thumb settling on your bottom lip. He swipes across it slowly and it makes your heart stutter.

Fuck it.

Your mouth parts slowly and you take his digit into your mouth, lips closing around it. Jack presses even closer to you, chest to chest. His eyes have been locked on yours the entire time and they stay that way, even as his other hand moves to slip into your sleep shorts.

He’s got his hand cupped over your panties but you know he can feel how wet you are, even through the fabric. He finally lets the smirk take over his face, pressing his thumb into your mouth further. His fingers trail across the dampness of your underwear, sickly slow.

“This all for me?” He asks, cocky, and it’s pretty annoying when the shoe is on the other foot. “You get wet when I tell you I hate you? When we fight?”

His fingers are still moving slowly, making your mind foggy. Or maybe that’s just your excuse for when you look up at him dumbly, nodding. He seems satisfied with that answer, dipping in past the lacy waistband of your panties. His breath hitches when gets a finger between your folds and feels that you’re absolutely dripping in anticipation. You’ve got half a mind to tease him about it, but he pushes a finger in and the thought suddenly vanishes from your mind. 

The finger on your lips moves down again, landing on your throat once more. He’s only a knuckle deep when he pauses, cocking his head. The hand around your neck gives a small squeeze, and your pussy flutters around nothing at the sensation. You let out a small moan, heat rushing up to your face in both arousal and embarrassment. “Think I didn’t notice, huh? How much you liked it?” 

Before you can answer he slides in the rest of the way, leaving you speechless. The pace he sets is slow and deep, making your knees buckle. You’re gripping onto his annoyingly thick arms and his breath is ghosting your face. You can tell he’s holding back, eyes flickering from your lips to the hand down your shorts.

You don’t wait for him to make up his mind. Surging upwards, you catch his lips in yours, pulling him close by his shirt. The moment breaks the dam —all the months of pent up frustration and fights seared into a bruising kiss. He wastes no time, licking desperately into your mouth as he works you open with his hand. You’re mewling, sliding your lips against his as you whimper, slick with spit.

He’s got his leg slotted between your thighs and you can feel how hard he is, even through the layer of his denim jeans. He groans quietly under his breath, grinding against you as he fucks you with his fingers. The noise is obscene —you’re so wet that the sound of it reverberates through the bathroom every time his digits enter you.

It’s embarrassing, really, the way that you’re basically riding his fingers. Your hips are chasing the sensation and he gives another groan at the sight. He’s still got his hand wrapped around your throat and his brow is furrowed with pleasure, obsessed with the way he has you just falling apart for him.

The look on his face is getting you close, like he’s pissed that he gave into you but he wants to take you apart so damn bad he just can’t resist. He tightens his grip and hits that spot inside you just right and you can’t help the strangled whine that leaves your mouth as you tighten around him, cumming on his hand way too loudly for you two to keep what you’re doing a secret.

He’a got his hand out of your shorts now and he’s moved them both to pull your tank top down, exposing your chest. His breathing picks up and runs his hands up your body, rough skin on your sensitive nipples as he grabs at you, rough. Jack leans in for another bruising kiss, but you only get a short moment to savour it before he's got you by the hair, twisting you around and bending you over the counter.

The force of it has everything on the counter rattle, the tall bottle of lotion you keep in the bathroom toppling over. You recover and stumble to push yourself to your elbows, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look absolutely fucked out, hair disheveled, lips pink and swollen, looking at yourself all glassy eyed. Then your eyes flick back to take a look at Jack, who’s rutting his bulge into the clothed heat of your cunt.

The sight almost makes you cum again on the spot. His lids are hooded, mouth hanging half open in pleasure as he moves against you. He’s still got a hand woven into your hair and his eyes flutter open in a way you can only describe as pretty as he takes in your state through the mirror. His grip disappears and he pulls off his shirt, the piece of clothing landing on the ridge of the bathtub behind you as he tosses it. You can’t even get out a quip before he’s yanking your shorts down, taking your panties down with them.

Even though he just had his fingers in you moments ago, you still feel embarrassed with how exposed you are for him. If he notices the way you get shy, he doesn’t comment, hands drifting to undo his belt buckle instead. You mewl as he steps out of his jeans, hard cock slapping against his stomach. You’re almost drooling to get your mouth around it and he laughs at the look on your face.

“Yeah? Are you sure you’re not the one that wants to fuck me? ‘Cause it seems like you’re a minute away from begging for it.” He pumps his length loosely with one hand, lips curled into a smirk as his fingertips of the other skid up the side of your thigh. The touch has your pussy fluttering, and you’re hoping that he can’t see the way your legs are shaking. You can see the glimmer of precome gathered at his tip and you lick your lips.

“Fuck you.” You say through gritted teeth, although it comes off much less intimidating as you would like since you’re bent over and at his mercy. He lets out another laugh at your expense, not bothering to say anything else while he lines himself up at your entrance. 

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” You’re already slick from his fingers, so he pushes in rough and fast, both of you groaning as he sheathes himself fully inside of you. It pushes you to your toes, punching a breath from your chest. You can tell that this is going to be quick and dirty, and you brace your hands on the counter in anticipation. 

You were right. He pulls out slowly and you shiver at the sensation, then he slams back into you so hard that you can’t help but yelp. You spare a glance up at his face and you can tell that he fucking loved that, so he keeps that pace, rough and slow.

“Fuck, Jack…” You sound strung out as you moan his name, hips bucking as you try to get him to speed up, go deeper, anything. You’ve already come to terms with the fact that you’ve definitely lost this argument but then one of his big hands presses into your back, pressing you against the counter and you can’t really bring yourself to care. The other grips your shoulder and it’s like he can read your mind.

Jack starts fucking into you without abandon, chasing his high. It’s rough and the slap of skin on skin bounces off the tile, which only serves to make you even more wet. You’re pretty sure you’re just mumbling nonsense now, too focused on how deep Jack is inside of you to put together a coherent sentence. Jack’s getting loud too, the hand on your back snaking down to grab at your hip, pulling you back into him as he thrusts.

“Would’ve done this a lot earlier if I knew how easily I could shut you up.” He manages to get out, in between low groans and short breaths. You want to defend yourself, you really do, but he pulls you back on him and plunges in particularly deep, making your eyes cross, and your voice dies in your throat. Jack’s fucking you brainless, that much you can’t deny. You’re whining as the heat in your stomach spreads, cunt tightening as Jack fucks into you even rougher.

You know he feels it when he lets out a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously close to your name, hips stuttering. Then you feel a tight yank on your scalp, forcing your head upwards. You can barely keep still as Jack continues to move, head bobbing even with his grip on your hair. 

“Look at me.” He says, gruff and deep, and you clench around him at the sound. It takes way too much effort to open your eyes, motions slow like molasses. You clearly take far too long for Jack’s liking, pulling harder on your hair as he repeats himself. Finally, your eyes flutter open, and you’re so close to the mirror that your breath fogs the glass. Your mouth is wide open in a silent moan, eyes almost crossed. Another rough tug reminds you what he asked for, and you drag your gaze up to meet Jack’s.

His hazel eyes are dark with lust, hair stamped to his forehead in sweat. A smirk spreads across his face when he notices that you’ve obeyed, finally looking at him. The way he has your hair in an iron grip has your back arching and his cock is hitting spots inside of you that you didn’t even know existed. You can tell that he’s approaching his high just as fast as you are; his thrusts are growing sloppy and you almost can’t hear your small mewls over all the noise he’s making.

“Look at me when you cum.” He growls as he notices your eyes drifting as your orgasm approaches. It’s not a question. It’s a demand. Your eyes snap back to his and he’s already looking at you, eyes watching your face contort in pleasure. Locking eyes, he slides a hand in between your legs to work your clit, already slick from just how turned on you are by the whole ordeal. He’s rubbing tight circles around it and everything comes crashing down.

You cum so hard around his cock that you can’t even tell if you kept the eye contact he asked for, your vision going white. You’re also pretty sure your knees give out, but Jack keeps you steady with a hand around your waist as he keeps his pace going. You whimper as he fucks you through your orgasm, nerves alight, when he pulls out with a loud groan. He gives a few rough pumps, made easy with your cum practically dripping off of his dick, and you have the pleasure of watching him come undone, coating your ass with ropes of cum.

Jack braces his hand on the counter, knuckles tightening with one last shudder of his body. You two stay that way for a moment, catching your breath. The silence is deafening as you try to think through the synchronised pants that you two share. You’re not sure how many minutes pass until he straightens up, grabbing a towel hanging off the back of the door. He begins to clean you off, gentle in a way that you didn’t expect from him, and you decide that this probably isn’t the best time to tell him that he’s using Robby’s towel.

Once he’s done, he tosses it into the laundry bin in the corner and pulls up his briefs and jeans. You turn around as he approaches you once more, worrying your lip. You’re trying to think of something to say when Jack bends down, pulling your shorts and panties back up to your waist. He fiddles with the waistband of your shorts for a second before moving onto your tank, tugging the straps back up your shoulders and covering your chest once more.

You two are close again, but this time it lacks any of the anger and heat that it did before. Jack’s still got a finger tangled in your tank top strap, leaning closer into your space, noses brushing once more. You think he opens his mouth to say something, but the door swings open and interrupts him before he can start.

Your head snaps over your shoulder. Your tired eyes widen at the sight of your attending sliding in beside you. Jack Abbot is still donned in his scrubs, you find, as he leans against the bar — black uniform, brown undershirt, and navy pants — like he dressed himself in the dark before he came into work. His freckled biceps strain against the short sleeves as he folds them across the polished wood. 

There are two glasses half-full of amber liquid before him. He lifts one in his right hand and eyes you over the top of it. “How long has it been?” he quips with narrowed eyes before taking a quick sip.

You blink away the shock of seeing him here, all casual, like he wasn’t just elbows deep in a trauma with you.

“About…” You lilt and glance at the clock behind the bar. “Half an hour ago, I think?”

His mouth curves with a slow, suspicious smile as his steady gaze refuses to waver. “What are you doing here all by yourself, huh? Gotta hot date I don’t know about?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and turn away, looking down at your untouched glass as you spin it in an anxious hand. “Yeah— If that’s what you wanna call watching Trinity and Mel butcher Alanis Morisette’s entire catalog…”

Your head tilts to your shoulder to flash him a lazy grin, which falters at the edge when you catch his unflinching stare. You clear your throat, remember that you’re talking to an attending, and stammer out, “Uh, what— What about you?”

Jack bounces a lazy shoulder and lifts the glass in his right hand. “This was the nearest place to get a good whiskey, so…” he trails off before taking another sip.

His eyes never leave yours as he peers at you from over the rim of the glass, studying you almost, analyzing you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

Your nose scrunches in protest of his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you wonder through a breathless chuckle.

“I don’t know…” he admits, quieter now. “It’s just the first time I’ve seen you out of your scrubs…”

His light eyes flicker over your form again — from your bare shoulders and exposed chest, to where your dress clings to your ass and stomach. 

“It’s different…” he hums. “A good different…”

Heat crawls up your neck. You turn away on instinct, finding it very suddenly difficult to meet his stare, as a disbelieving laugh slips from your mouth.

“What are you laughing at?” Jack presses with a chuckle of his own.

“Nothing,” you dismiss with a shake of your head. “I just… I think you might be a little tipsy there, Dr. Abbot…”

“This is only my second glass, I’ll have you know,” he argues, playfully offended. “What? You think I can’t handle my alcohol.”

He straightens slightly and takes a step closer. Still leaving several inches of space between you, though it takes a lot of strength from you not to slide off your bar stool entirely.

“No! I just—” You stumble over yourself as the words tangle on your tongue. “I just feel like you probably wouldn’t be talking to me like this otherwise.”

“I talk to you every day,” he scoffs.

“Well, yeah, but you don’t flirt with me every day.”

His brows raise as something short of amusement flickers across his face. “Oh. So you think I’m flirting with you?”

An awkward silence drops like a leaden weight upon you, like an anvil in one of those ancient cartoons. It knocks the breath out of you accordingly.

“…No,” you answer after a few long moments. “Of course not.”

Your grip tightens on your drink as you turn away from him again. You hardly think twice before bringing it impulsively to your mouth, downing two long sips of the watered-down gin and tonic. Your face screws at the bitter taste and at the burning sensation on your tongue, which turns into a dull sparkle when it settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Well, I was, so…” Jack quips, too casual for his own good. “I guess I’m gonna have to try a little harder now, aren’t I?”

His eyes cut to you, expecting you to laugh at him, or to stammer out another one of your painfully shy replies. You forget to respond entirely, though, too focused on the way the alcohol singes your tongue. (You spend a long moment debating whether or not it’s numb or swelling in your throat with a thousand-yard stare.)

Your silence is not reassuring.

“Unless—” Jack’s voice tightens slightly as he clears his throat. His charming resolve slips as he stammers, “Unless you don’t want me to. Obviously. Then I can just, you know, fuck off—”

“No, it’s not that!” you blurt. “It’s just…”

He leans in, just slightly. “Just what?”

You hesitate for a moment, calculating the words, though they seem to slip off your tingling tongue before you can stop them.

“I feel like I haven’t… learned how to be a real person yet, you know?” you confess with a sheepish, lopsided grin. “Like… People my age are supposed to go out for drinks, and sing karaoke with their friends, and flirt with cute guys—”

You don’t notice your slip-up, but Jack does, and he hides his smile behind his glass.

“But I think I’ve just been working so much that… That I don’t know how to do anything but work, you know?”

“Yeah…” he hums softly. “Trust me. I know the feeling—”

There’s a distant call of his name. A faint “Abbot,” half-swallowed by the thrumming music and surrounding conversation. Your head turns in the direction of the sound to find Dr. Al-Hashimi appearing from the crowd. Her fluffy brown curls are out of their usual clip, languishing now at her shoulders. Her lavender jacket is gone, too, to reveal her lean body beneath her slim scrub top.

You blink owlishly at her for a few moments, unused to the sight of her outside the white walls of the E.D.

“You were supposed to be bringing me a drink,” the woman quips drily, smiling as she reaches for the touched whiskey next to Abbot. “Not holding it hostage.”

“Shit…” Jack exhales. “I’m sorry. I-I got distracted…”

“Dr. Al,” you greet with a waver in your voice. “I… I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah, well…” she shrugs. “I heard this was the best place to get a glass of whiskey, so…”

You nod slowly, suddenly unsure of yourself — of what to do with your hands, your voice, with Jack. You swallow hard as your eyes flit wildly between the two attendings standing before you. You struggle to shake the feeling that you’ve interrupted something.

“I’ll, uh— I guess I’ll get out of your hair then…”

You muster an artificial smile and abandon your gin and tonic as you slide off the bar stool.

Jack calls your name, but it gets lost in the crowd that swallows you whole as you disappear out of sight.

You stomach through one and a half more songs that Mel and Trinity shout into the void of the private karaoke room. They take a quick break from “You Oughta Know” to sing a strikingly heartfelt rendition of “Head Over Feet” that very nearly brings a tear to your eye. 

It’s not their sloppy singing, exactly, but rather the reminder of how alone you feel just now — the only audience member on the pleather sofa, bathed in the strobing neon glow from the overhead lights, watching the fun from afar while your friends forge an unlikely bond. 

While Jack and Dr. Al laugh over drinks together— 

You rise abruptly and catch them between verses to tell them you’re heading out for the night. Their protests come wrapped in song.

“But we’re having so much fun!” Trinity whines in drunken slurs, then locks in when the chorus hits. “You’ve already won me over, in spite of me! So don’t be alarmed if I fall, head over feet—!”

The song follows you the entire way out of the bar, where the night air outside washes over you like fine silk. You catch yourself humming the tune as you shrug on the brown bomber jacket you borrowed from Trinity’s closet — just in case you felt the need to hide. You falter when your fingers brush something in the front pocket.

You reach in with a pensive twist to your features, surprised to find a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter shoved inside. You stare at it for several long moments and wonder briefly what it would feel like to smoke one. (You’re unable to shake the impulsive thought from your brain until you’ve done it.)

You pull one cig free and stick the orange filter between your lips. You flick the lighter three times before it finally strikes. You hold your free hand over the flame like they do in the movies and inhale when it finally lights.

You regret it instantly. 

Grey smoke billows from your mouth as you cough. You double over on the worn sidewalk like a total loser, eyes watering and chest burning as your lungs rebel against your very poor life choices.

“Those things kill, you know—?” Jack’s voice cuts in again.

(He has a way of finding you in the most embarrassing situations, it seems.)

You blink away the tears in your eyes and turn to find the older man standing just a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He watches you attentively, with something close to amusement twisting his scruffy face.

“I can tell—” you rasp as your coughing fit ebbs. “There’s no way this is enjoyable for people.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”

His sneakers scuff the cracked pavement as he saunters over to you, holding his hand out with a glittering look in his eye. “Can I?”

You don’t think twice before passing him the lit cigarette.

“By all means...”

Jack pinches the stick between his thumb and forefinger. He places his mouth around the filter, inhales once, holds the breath, and exhales through his nose a second or more later. 

You can’t seem to stop staring at the silver hair on his tilted chin; or the tendons in his corded neck; or the singular vein in his freckled forearm when he snuffs the cigarette out on the brick wall. He drops it into the receptacle there when he’s done.

“So…” He exhales the remaining smoke from his mouth, which leaves in grey wisps that hang in the air between you for a few lingering moments. “I guess you’re headed out now?”

“Yeah…” you sigh. “Guess so…”

He observes the empty sidewalk for a moment before wondering casually, “Want me to walk you home?”

“No, it’s okay,” you shrug. “You’re busy, and I… I only live, like, a block down the road, so—”

“So, then, it’ll be quick?” Jack presses with raised brows.

Your eyes narrow. “…You’re not gonna take no for an answer here, are you?”

Jack shakes his head, lips smoothing into a knowing grin. “Not this time, kid. No.”

The walk back to your place feels borderline suffocating, though you can’t exactly place why. The air is made of thick satin as the heat of the day washes away, leaving something silken and breathable in its wake, as the wind ripples in your dress. Everything smells very distinctly of summer — of dewy grass, and gunpowder from distant fireworks, and the faint sweetness of something that’s just been barbecued. 

You can hear the fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance, though you struggle to see them from the buildings overhead. You can feel each thundered boom in your chest, along with the heavy bass of a passing car playing music far too loud as it barrels by.

There’s something oddly peaceful about it. Intimate, even, as your shoulder brushes Jack’s broader one with each step. The silence is not particularly awkward, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should say something. You rack your brain for a conversation starter, and end up blurting out the one thing you didn’t want to say out loud— 

“So…” you lilt, tripping over the conversation like a loose wire. “You and Dr. Al…?”

“…Are very good coworkers, yeah,” Jack nods, silver curls turning gold beneath the amber streetlights. He catches your uncertain gaze and shrugs. “She had a tough first day, you know? Figured I’d treat her to a few drinks.”

“That’s nice…” you murmur with an averted gaze.

“It was nothing,” Jack assures you.

Your apartment building comes into view around the corner, painted a garish canary yellow with vivid orange doors, aptly named Sunset Tower. It used to be a motel, you assume from the layout, probably before you were born; and was renovated into an apartment complex likely not too long after you were born.

You don’t think twice before starting up the rusty staircase to your third-floor apartment — not until you notice the slight hitch in Jack’s step as he follows behind you, favoring his prosthetic limb more than he realizes. It must be hurting him, you figure, after being on it for hours at the PTMC. 

“Shit,” you huff. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

“Told me about what?” Jack scoffs despite his grimacing as he swings his leg another step. “I can handle a few stairs…”

“I can’t make it up on my own, if you—”

“Hey,” he snaps, a little harsher than he means to, as he glances in your direction. A far-off firework glimmers in your gaze, soft and sympathetic around the edges in a way that makes his chest ache. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me, alright?”

You continue the ascent despite your better judgment, despite the way Jack’s steps lose rhythm just beside you. You catch him stumbling in the corner of your eye when he steps up a beat too early. His prosthetic twists unnaturally, angering the already raging skin of his amputated knee. 

You’re at his side without blinking. Your hands reach for his arm, steady him with your fingers cradling his wrist and elbow. 

Jack nearly protests, but stops himself short.

You hold onto him the rest of the way up.

Your place is exactly how he imagined it would be — not that he’d been picturing what the inside of your apartment looked like, of course, because he’s not a total creep. He just finds a very apt representation of you wedged with the quaint walls of the old, old building. It’s cluttered but not messy; with numerous blankets and books and potted plants strewn about. There are half-used candles littered on just about every surface, filling the air with a sweet scent of musky-vanilla-raspberry.

The grass green couch pushed against the wall caves under his weight when you ease him down onto it. It smells like a mixture of your perfume and the side of the road you must’ve pulled it from when you moved in.

“Wow…” Jack hums, if only to conceal his wincing as he adjusts himself on the cushion. “Nice place…”

“No, it’s not,” you scoff an awkward laugh and stand to full height above him, adjusting the skirt of your dress from where it had ridden up. “Do you, uh— Need anything?” 

“No. I’m good.”

“‘Cause I have some first aid supplies if your prosthetic is bothering you—”

“Really. I’m good,” he echoes. “You don’t mind if I take it off, though, do you?”

“Of course not!” you blurt. “I’ll, um… I’ll go get you some water.”

You scurry the short distance to the kitchen. The hissing faucet pervades the silence as you fill two glasses at the sink, along with the soft clanking of the heavy prosthetic as Jack unscrews it from the limb. You find him massaging the scar when you return.

“Do you— Do you need me to call you an Uber, or…?”

Jack tilts his chin to smile up at you. A playful laugh tumbles from his mouth. “Wow… Trying to get rid of me already, huh?”

Your face floods with horror. “No! O-Of course not! I just— With your leg, I— I don’t want you to walk all the way home, you know?”

“I think I can make it, sweetheart,” he tells you, and only vaguely notices his slip-up. “I just needed a second… Thank you—” He nods in appreciation when you set the water down on the coffee table in front of him.

You keep several inches between you on the sunken couches as you sit gingerly at his side — very palpably tense, like you’re a stranger in your own home. You wring your clammy hands together in your lap as a long silence stretches thin between you.

“And I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to… kick you out. Or anything,” you add, softer now.

“I know, kid,” Jack assures.

“Good…” you breathe a sigh of relief. “‘Cause I— I don’t want you to leave… Wait, that sounded weird— I just meant that… I like your company. I’m not, like, trying to hold you hostage or whatever, I swear.”

Another awkward laugh spills from your mouth.

Jack’s lip quirks with a smile as he sits up straight again. “I wouldn’t mind it if you were, to be honest…” he hums, only halfway joking. “But unfortunately, I do have SWAT early in the morning, so… If you could free me around 6 a.m,  that’d be great.”

“Oh, right,” you scoff and bring your water to your mouth. “The side hustle where you get shot at for fun?”

“It’s good to have a hobby,” Jack shrugs and leans back against the sofa, throwing a strong arm around the back of it, as he studies you with narrowed eyes. “What do you do for fun, hm? Outside of work, I mean.”

You think for a long moment, spinning the glass between your fingers. “…I once watched Love Island for thirty-one straight hours. That was pretty fun.”

Jack snorts. “So what I’m hearing is, you don’t have any hobbies?”

“Work is my hobby.”

“So what do you do to… unwind?”

“…Have panic attacks in the supply closet at work,” you confess. “What about you?”

“Get shot at,” Jack quips in the same gritty tone.

“Well, at least you get to do something outside of the E.D…” you monotone with a far-off stare. “This is the first time in months I’ve been somewhere other than here and the PTMC. I mean, I have my groceries delivered now— I’m too boring to even go shopping...”

“What do you mean?” he scoffs. “You’re young— You should be going out every weekend.”

“Well, I don’t…” you huff mournfully and slouch back against the sofa. The thin sleeve of your velvet dress slips off your shoulder, giving Jack a brief glance of the top of your breast before you adjust it back over your collarbone again.

“What about dates?” he presses with his chin to his shoulder. “You don’t go on any of the apps?”

“Well, first of all, no one calls it the apps. And second of all, god no,” you laugh drily, then flash him a sheepish look from the corner of your eye. “What about you?”

“Nah…” Jack shakes his head. “I haven’t been on a date in about… Eight years—”

“Eight years?!” you blurt before he can properly get the words out, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Jesus. How does a guy like you go around without getting hit on for eight whole years?”

(You’re starting to think those three sips of gin from before are getting to you now.)

“Well, it’s a lot easier than you think,” the older man deadpans. ‘Cause it’s not like he was actively avoiding dates; he just wasn’t exactly seeking them out. 

He lost the urge to after his wife died, and then, when the urge to live came back around, he’d catch himself flirting every now and then, but never wanting to do much more than that. Then he blinked, and eight years had passed without him noticing.

Eight years with nothing but his own hand to get himself off — though, it only starts to seem pathetic when you look at it that way.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” you scoff. “The last time a guy showed even a modicum of interest in me was… in med school, probably.”

“Okay, well, that’s just not true,” Jack argues. “That vitrectomy patient from earlier definitely had a crush on you.”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint. “He was drunk. With half a bottle rocket stuck in his eye. That hardly counts.”

“Well, I’ve had… About a whiskey and a half,” Jack calculates. “Do I still count?”

The air thins in an instant, or maybe his words have just knocked it all straight out of your lungs.

Your skin burns red hot beneath the dress that feels suddenly way too tight, ‘cause you think he must be joking — that taking the piss out of your obvious crush on him is his idea of playing around.

“That’s not funny,” you tell him with a wavering smile.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” the man insists with a scoff. “I haven’t been funny since 1994.”

Another laugh sputters from your mouth. A real one this time — not the fake ones you’ve been giving him just to fill the silence, or to try to seem less nervous than you really are. It makes him smile wider than he probably realizes.

“There you go…” Jack hums with a proud nod.

“There I go, what?”

“You’re unwinding…”

You scoff, still grinning wide despite yourself. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he hums. “And you’re doing a great job so far— a solid B-minus.”

“B-minus?” you echo. “I’ve had a 4.0 GPA since I was in fourth grade.”

“Well…” Jack shrugs with a knowing grin. “Better step it up then, kid.”

Something inside you tips in that moment. It’s his teasing, maybe, or just the way he’s looking at you. Either way, you catch yourself leaning forward before your brain has properly thought it through. You close the distance between you in a flicker — brushing a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away just as fast.

You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you quip, “What does that get me?”

Jack blinks for a second, momentarily caught off guard. He fights the urge to lick his lips, to try and actually taste you. “Probably a couple HR violations?” he jokes after a few moments.

Your stomach drops. You find yourself praying that this old couch swallows you whole, or that the world would just end altogether, because even that would be a kinder fate than this.

“Oh. Shit. I-I thought that— I thought we were... Fuck, I totally misread this whole thing—”

You turn away entirely and drop your face in your hands, utterly mortified. 

His laughter doesn’t make it any better.

You feel the sofa caving beneath you as Jack shifts to your side. His hands are warm and softly calloused as they cradle your wrists in a firm and gentle grip, urging them downward so he can see your face again. He ducks his head to meet your wet eyes and flashes you a reassuring smile.

“You didn’t misread a damn thing,” he assures you with a shake of his head, voice lower and smoother than honey. “Of course, I want to kiss you— I always want to kiss you.”

The mournful twist in your features never wavers. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because it’d be wrong,” he shrugs. “I’m your attending. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking that I— that I pressured you into something.”

“Well… We both know you didn’t, right?” you argue softly, eyes glittering with hope as they dart back and forth between his. “And, I mean… It’s not like anyone else would have to know. We’re not getting married, we’re just… unwinding. Right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack hums, softer now, with something mischievous squinting his gaze. “Right...”

You’re not making it easy for him.

Jack’s trying not to cum in his pants before you’ve ever even touched him, and you’re making it damn near impossible. 

He drags you into his lap when you lean in to kiss him again — for real this time, licking sweetly into his mouth so he can taste you truly — and you knee him right in the thigh before you can straddle him properly. You pull away with a smack when he groans in pain against your mouth.

“Shit…” you pant with his spit still on your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Jack shakes his head until the words catch up to him. “It’s okay,” he assures through uneven breaths, knotting his fingers in your hair to pull you into him once more. He kisses you again, hard, like it’s muscle memory for him — from a life he hasn’t let himself live in a long, long time.

He cradles one hand over the crown of your head and the other just over your spine, where your dress dips down in the back. He keeps your warm weight pressed flush against him while the kiss turns languid and heavy, full of tongue and teeth and spit. You curl your fingers into his greying curls to keep him impossibly close all the while.

You feel his chest hitch with a startled breath beneath you when you grind down over his lap. Your velvet dress rises over your hips from the angle as you move down his thighs and up again — you can feel the ghost of his erection hardening beneath his scrubs with every pass. 

There’s a noticeable hesitance in the way you move. It’s not graceful or entirely practiced. It’s laced with a palpable uncertainty, rather, as you struggle to navigate the honeyed moment you’ve stumbled so suddenly into.

And Jack can hardly take it. ‘Cause hasn’t let himself want like this in years; he hasn’t let himself reach out for anything other than his grief or his work. For so long, his life has been defined by restraint and the careful art of not needing anything. And now you’re here, moving clumsily on top of him, completely undoing him.

It hits him all at once, how suddenly sensitive he is, after so long ignoring the touch of another. The friction, the pressure; the smell of you, the taste of you. It’s all too much. He knows he won’t last long if he keeps going this way, so he pulls back.

And he hates himself for it.

“Hey—” He clears his throat when the word comes out a little rough. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His glassy eyes dart back and forth between both of yours as he peers up at you through a layer of honey. “Hey, you… You have condoms, right?”

You blink back at him for a long moment, slightly dazed at the sight of your spit on his rosy mouth. You nod with a stuttered breath. “Uh, yeah. Yeah— I think— Somewhere…”

(There’s an unopened box collecting dust under the sink in the bathroom, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

He mourns your warmth when you slide off his lap, rushing off down the hall with your dress still caught around your hips. The sight of your plain cotton underwear cradling the curve of your ass makes his chest tighten as you disappear down the dim hallway. You toe off your shoes halfway down, and the sound of your padding footsteps echoes in the quiet.

“Jesus Christ…” Jack huffs and slouches further into the couch. 

He drags his hands down his face and tries to regulate his breathing, tries to think of anything other than the aching erection in his pants. He stares up at the ceiling and attempts to will his body into something resembling composure when you return.

Your dress has fallen back down over your hips, but the right sleeve is still slipping down your shoulder when you stand before him. You’re not sure what to do with the condom in your hand, so you toss it to him over the coffee table. Jack catches it against his chest.

“Take that dress off…” he tells you with a voice like honey. “I wanna see you.”

You try and fail to reach for the zipper, which Mel had helped you with at Trinity’s place before you left for the bar. So, instead, you worm your arms out of the sleeves and shove the fabric down your hips with trembling hands. It hits the floor around your bare feet with a dull thud, leaving you in a heart-patterned bra you’ve had since high school and a pair of plain pink panties.

You’re hardly a thing worth looking at, really, but Jack didn’t seem to get that memo.

He beckons you forward with heavy eyes. “C’mere…” he murmurs.

You take slow, tentative steps towards him.

His calloused hands are warm and slightly trembling when they curl around the backs of your thighs. He leans in to press his mouth to the silk bow in the middle of your underwear, and his mouth waters at the wet spot gathering in the center of the cotton.

His scruffy chin brushes your stomach when he turns to look up at you, lidded eyes glimmering with a desire you didn’t know you were capable of drawing out of a person.

“I wanna make you cum with my mouth,” Jack murmurs. “Can I?”

You nod wordlessly, and can’t shake the feeling that you’re dreaming when his pointer finger hooks through the hem of your panties. You feel a little cold when he slides the cotton to the side, only for him to press his warm mouth there a second later. 

Your knees threaten to buckle when his tongue slots through your silken folds, and Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He braces your ass in one wide hand while his other slips down to the bend of your knee, urging you to prop your foot on the couch beside him. Your moan swells throughout your empty apartment at the new angle, which allows him to lick at your sensitive clit with greater precision.

He forgets to take things slow with you, too busy trying to make up for this time. He drags an orgasm out of you like the world’s soon to end, and the last thing he wants to do on this earth is to taste you on his tongue. 

You cum on his mouth with your head tipped back and with your fingers knotted in his hair. He’s wearing your glittering slick down to his chin when he’s done with you.

You fall gracelessly into his lap when your legs turn to jell-o. You straddle his waist, ball his shirt into your fists, and bury your burning face into his neck — still whimpering as your high is slow to ebb. 

Jack cradles you against him the entire length of your comedown, running his warm hands up and down your spine. His scruff brushes the delicate skin of your shoulder when he presses a chaste kiss there.

“That wasn’t too much, was it?” he pants into your ear.

You shake your head until the words catch up to you. “No… No, it was— It was good…” you stammer through uneven breaths, and pull just far enough away to meet his eyes. “I wanna ride you now… Is that okay?”

And who is Jack to deny you of a damn thing?

You brace yourself on his shoulder with one hand and use your free one to line his bulbous tip at the entrance of your weeping pussy. His cock drools an embarrassing amount of pearly precum — he can feel it all underneath the condom — and he’s momentarily grateful that you can’t see any of it. 

You exhale a wavering, punched-out breath as you sink down over him and take a long moment to get used to the distant stinging sensation.

Jack’s grateful for that, too.

His jaw hardens to choke down the groan that rumbles in the bottom of his throat. He tilts his head against the back of the couch and squeezes his eyes shut to fight away the overwhelming desire to explode entirely. He holds you in place when you try to move again, with fingers that threaten to leave bruises on your thighs.

“You okay?” you pant, eyes darting wildly over the pained twist on his scruffy features.

Jack nods, jaw clenched tight. His words come out half-strangled. 

“Yeah, yeah. I just… I wasn’t lying about the whole eight-year thing.” He exhales a hard breath through his nose that’s supposed to be a laugh, though there isn’t really a smile to accompany it. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna cum too soon, you know? I wanna— make it good for you. That’s all.”

Your fingers brush over his temple and through his silver curls, in a touch so gentle it nearly makes him cum right then.

“It’s already good for me,” you assure him. “I want it to be good for you, too.”

You grind over him with the same hesitance from before, down his thighs and back again, slowly finding your rhythm. Jack’s hands grip hard at your hips, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He can just barely find the strength to keep his eyes open to watch you chase your orgasm on top of him.

His eyes flit from your blissed-out features to where his cock disappears inside of you. The thatch of curls above his cock glistens with your honey — he can feel it wetting the hem of his scrubs from where they’re shoved beneath his heavy balls. You’re bound to cum just as quickly as he is, no doubt. 

He can feel it in the way your pussy flutters around his twitching length — in the way your pacing falters slightly on top of him.

“Nuh-huh. Don’t run away from me,” Jack mutters in your ear as he shifts underneath you, slouching further to hit somewhere deep inside of you. He cradles your head with one hand and grips hard at your ass with another, helping you move on top of him. 

Your whine gets buried in his sweat-slick neck.

Jack smiles into your hair. “Yeah. There it is, honey. There you go…”

He feels a little proud of himself when he manages to hold off just long enough to feel you cumming around him, twitching against his chest and tugging hard at his silver curls. He follows right after — going rigid underneath you a second later as his cock jerks wildly within your fluttering confines.

His groan mixes with your whining as you milk him of his orgasm, in a sinful symphony that swells throughout your silent apartment.

Then the room goes quiet, with only the sound of your heavy breathing to fill it. You rise and fall with each of Jack’s panted breaths beneath you. Your limbs are loose and borderline boneless; tension ebbs from your body like an unwinding thread. You think you’d turn into a puddle on top of him without his hands smoothing up and down your back, molding you back together again.

It’s the only way Jack can stay anchored, really — with his hands on you, and with your weight settled on top of him. It’s foreign and familiar all the same: the strange absence of urgency he feels underneath you. The way his body, usually wound tight with panic, dissolves in time with yours. For the first time in eight years, he feels his heartbeat finally steady.

Until a far-off firework rattles the walls and sends the two of you jerking against each other.

The honeyed moment shatters in an instant. Jack holds you tighter when you flinch on top of him, laughing through a grumbling moan as you clench instinctively around his softening cock. 

“You okay?” Jack mumbles against you, before pressing a brief kiss to your temple.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you nod, half-breathless, as you pull away from him for the first time in several minutes. 

You blink away the haze of your dwindling orgasm while Jack swipes drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You lean instinctively into his palm and exhale a breathless laugh. 

“I just… I don’t know what normal people do in this situation…” you confess through uneven pants. “Like, I feel like we should… high-five or something.” 

Jack scoffs a tired breath but doesn’t say a word.

There’s a fleeting moment, then, where you worry you’re maybe being too much. Your stomach aches with it, too, because you think your stupid half-joke would’ve ruined the moment for anyone else. Anyone other than Jack. His hand slips from your back and lifts lazily for a high-five without a second thought. 

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and clap your palm against his.

Your breathless laughter fills the quiet apartment.

“We make a good team, don’t we, Doc?” Jack hums with heavy eyes.

“Well, you make a good teacher…” you answer sheepishly, pulling at a rogue thread in his scrub top. “You know, helping me unwind, or whatever…”

“Right, well…” Jack trails off, mouth curling into a sly half-smirk as his eyes narrow into thin slits. Your stomach pools with red-hot warmth once more at the look he gives you, then, and at the words that spill from his lips like honey. “I think I still got a few more lessons in the chamber, sweetheart…”

turns out all those whimpers and moans you'd heard from his… partners were award winning acting on their parts. if they ever needed a new job, porn would be more than happy to have them.

because now, with ghost’s body hovering over yours after a few too many drinks at the pub off base, all you can think is “christ, this shit is terrible”.

okay there's a modicum of effort there. it's not like he didn't try to prep you - if a few kitten licks of your clit and some fingering so bad you feel like you're fifteen and behind the bike sheds again could be counted as prep.

you hoped the penetrative sex would be better. his cock was beautiful - thick but not long enough to feel like it was spearing your diaphragm, curved in a way that meant the head of it dragged over the squishy spot on the front wall of your cunt that made your breath hitch - but no. he’s fucking you like a dog; erratic, rhythmless and sloppy.

you can't even bring yourself to fake a moan. you're just lying there almost limp, mind wandering to all the other things you could be doing with your time rather than suffering through less than mediocre sex.

when he snakes his hand between you to rub your clit - trying, at least - you finally snap.

“fucking hell simon, not like that. are you trying to friction burn my clit off, you complete prick?” you hiss at him, shoving your palms into his chest to get him to back off.

he looks shocked. like no one has ever called him out for his lack of sexual prowess before.

“wha’?” he sounds genuinely confused, “the fuck love? thought you were enjoyin’ yourself.”

he slides out of you with a slick pop, eyebrows knitted together in disbelief. you roll your eyes. “what gave you the idea i was enjoying myself, ghost? my utter silence?” it's dry, deadpan.

he looks halfway between dejected and pissed. like no one has ever even hinted that he's anything less than jaw dropping in the sack.

“well ge’ the fuck out of my bed then.” he snaps, defences immediately in place. you roll your eyes again at the fragile masculinity, completely unperturbed by the tension in his voice.

“nah.” you reply, eyes narrowing. “lie the fuck down. i'm gonna do you a fucking favour and show you where you're going wrong.”

so that's how you end up straddling him, hands on his broad chest as you grind down against him; not letting him slip inside yet.

“first of all? fucking ask what people like ghost.” you murmur, throwing your head back and whining as the ridge of his head catches your clit. “some of us like it rough. some soft. just…ask.” you grind against him again, his cock slipping through your now slick folds, “and for the love of christ don't ever just choke someone without asking. last guy who tried that with me ended up with a broken nose.”

ghost nods slightly, eyes flicking between your very serious face and the way you're simply using him to get yourself off.

“if you're eating someone out - get the fuck up in there. make out with their cunt. little flicks of your tongue are just… tickly.” you add thoughtfully, slipping a hand between you to guide his throbbing head to your entrance. “and if you're using your fingers? don't just fucking ram them up there, that shit is just painful. have a bit of technique to it - some people like a crook, some prefer more of an in and out. communicate ghost. and i know you can do that because you're pretty fucking clear over comms.”

he actually groans when you sink down onto him, head tipping back against the headboard; brown eyes fluttering shut.

you flick him in the forehead. hard.

his eyes slam back open, wide and vaguely shocked at your audacity.

“pay attention.” you snap out, as you take him all the way to the base, clit rubbing against the wiry blonde hairs on his pelvis as you move your hips in little circles. “look, i’ve got a rhythm, right?” you add, shifting from your knees to your toes. “i’m not just moving, i’m purposeful.”

you demonstrate with controlled bounces, dragging your walls up and down his length, chasing the pleasure he couldn't give you himself.

“righ’, righ’.” he mutters back, “so wha’ was i doin’?”

you level him with a look that would turn a lesser man to a crying pile on the floor. “you were fucking me like we were in a shitty porn film. no rhythm. no consideration. just… poking at my insides.”

ghost actually blushes slightly. he has the sense to look vaguely embarrassed under your glare.

“and don't get me wrong - there are people that like that. probably. but I'm not one of them.” you continue, unbothered. “so find a rhythm that works for both of you.”

you demonstrate again, a controlled movement that has you both gasping slightly; cunt clenching onto him for dear life as he drags through your walls.

you lean forward, changing the angle slightly, dropping your forehead to his and whining against his mouth. “see? that's what someone sounds like when they're actually having fun, simon. can you hear the difference?”

and ghost hates to admit it, but he can. he can hear the real pleasure in your noises in comparison to the breathy, high pitched whimpers he usually gets. “yeah. yeah. can ‘ear it love.”

“you try.” it's an order rather than a suggestion, body stilling on top of him. his hands find your waist, fingers digging into the flesh there as he bucks up once, tentatively - immediately reassured when you let out a low groan. so he does it again. and again. settling into a rhythm that has you both gasping.

“tha’ better?” and this time he doesn't sound disgruntled, he sounds almost hopeful.

“mm, much better simon.” you grin at him, catching his lower lip between your teeth just to hear the way his breath catches in his throat. “just keep doing that. same pace, same depth.”

so he does. he's good at following clear, specific instructions - not that you expected any different.

you keep your chest pressed against his, face tucked in his neck whilst he fucks up into you; letting the feeling wash over you now it's actually good.

“i need you to play with my clit if i'm gonna cum.” you murmur into his ear, dragging one of his hands between you. “use two fingers to spread the pressure. firm but not fast.” you demonstrate for a moment, hand guiding his until you're sure he's got it. and oh. turns out with guidance ghost can be good in bed. “oh - fuck - okay ghost, keep doing that.”

and he does. he moves exactly as you've told him to - deep, steady thrusts of his cock inside you as the pads of his fingers circle your clit.

“fuck - yer gettin’ tighter love. fuckin' squeezin’ the life outta me. am not gonna last. the fuck?” he manages to hiss out just as you tumble over the edge he's dragged you to with a low moan; forehead dropping to his again as you gasp into his mouth. it's a wave that starts at your cunt and travels up your thighs and stomach, rippling through your nervous system as you go rigid on top of him before just melting into a puddle of flesh shaped like a human being.

ghost tips over the edge right after, hips stuttering as he spills into your still fluttering cunt with a hiss of your name and a flick of his brown eyes into his skull.

there's nothing but trembling breaths for a moment, no sound other than the two of you coming down from a shared high.

when you're settled next to him, arm slung over his waist as he rests his chin on the top of your head he takes a deep breath, before asking almost hesitantly, “why was yer cunt doin’ that? squeezin' me?”

you sigh, glancing up at him. “congratulations simon, you've just given someone an orgasm. apparently for the first time.”

the expression on his face is priceless.

there's a beat of silence and then, “can… can we do tha’ again? for the… practice.”

"What do you w—" "You." Wally interjects you before you can even finish your question, his knees colliding with the hard wood of your patio, his hands resting on his denim covered thighs and he looks up at you, eyes teary.

"Everything sucks when you're not around. I can't even—please take me back. Please, I'm literally on my knees."

Wally looks at you with big, doe-y green eyes, lashes fluttering and gingery strands rustling in the wind, ears tinged pink from the cold and he swallows. You watch his Adam's apple bob with the action, jaw clenching when he notices you're not budging.

Simply looking down at him from below your lashes, your hands grasping the stems of the tulips, pink lips pursed and you look....

Indifferent.

And it... Stings, in all honesty but Wally knows you're not that mean. You're just hard to read. Sometimes.

"Come inside." You huff, letting out an exhausted breath. "You're gonna freeze."

Wally finds himself on the sofa he's occupied more than anything, a quilt wrapped around his broad shoulders and muscular, calloused hands grasping the mug in his hands, the scent of steaming tea wafting to his nose. And he watches from over the backrest of the sofa as you snip the stems of the flowers at a slant, dropping them into that pretty vase that's always been filled with random receipts and shit, instead of flowers.

Wally makes a mental note to never let that happen again.

He needs to buy flowers. More often than not.

And he swallows.

"Are you still mad at me?" Wally asks quietly, brows knitting into a little frown as he watches you occupy the seat across from him, your arms crossed over your chest and your eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Very." You hiss back, before slowly picking up another quilt, throwing it over your body and you glare at Wally as you tuck the edge of it underneath your chin.

And Wally's gaze lowers, watching his rippling reflection in the tea and he nods his head.

"I understand." He murmurs quietly. "I was... Immature. And childish. And I've been taking you for granted."

This is the most serious you've ever seen Wally.

Even during a literal crisis, Wally won't not show off those perfect dimples and that electric smile, his tongue always peeking out between his teeth, pointy canines on display whenever he meets your gaze.

But not right now.

Wally looks solemn. Lips tugged into a frown, brows knitted and a quivering bottom lip with big teary eyes that don't seem to focus on you.

"Let me make it up to you?" He whispers softly, hopefully, looking up at you through large lashes and before you can even answer, Wally's sliding down and resting against the surface of the couch.

His ass planted on the thick carpet and his head tipped back, resting on the surface of the seat. And you're gonna tell him to fuck off until he pleads softly.

"Please baby."

Your knees dig into the couch on either side of Wally's head, your shorts abandoned alongside your panties and your hands move to rest on the backrest of the sofa.

And warm hands move to rest on your hips, fingertips digging into the fat of your thighs before his tongue drags through your folds. And he lets out a shuddering breath.

"Missed y— dude, sit down." Wally huffs, before shifting his grasp and forcing you to sit down, his nose bumping against your clit and his tongue drags along your slit. A slow drag that makes your toes curl in your fuzzy socks and you rest your forehead against the backrest, brows twitching as his tongue slowly circles your clit.

Slowly.

Eating pussy has been the only thing that Wally does slow.

Tongue dragging through your sloppy, sensitive folds, gathering slick on the tip of his tongue before gently pushing it back into you, lashes flutter against his freckled cheeks and his hands paw at your hips with the type of reverent adoration only reserved for gods.

And biblically accurate fanart.

Wally whines, the sound sloppy and muffled as he moves his head, tongue flicking against your twitching clit and he mumbles.

"Baby, 'm so sorry. 'm sorry. 'm sorry, forgive me. Please touch me."

Lowering your hand, you give Wally what he's been dying to and you swear, the way he groans makes you think he grew a cock on his head.

Like a unicorn.

Your fingers sink into gingery strands, nails scraping against his scalp and you bite your bottom lip, soft whispery moans leaving your lips, your hips subtly rocking against Wally's face.

Calloused fingers dig into the fat of your ass, and Wally shifts beneath you, one of his hands leaving to palm himself through his jeans, lashes fluttering and a low whine echoes in the silence of your home.

Wind rustles the tree leaves, the soft trickle of rain drowns out the chatter of people passing by on the street and the occasional hum of traffic roaring to life distracts you from the fact that you went back on that promise to yourself so....

Quickly.

"You're my world." Wally murmurs. "Things were so bad without you. Everything's slow, and boring and— it was so long, baby."

Wally sucks on your clit, his tongue lapping against the bud and his soft lips wrapped around it, and you squeal, your body nearly locking up and your toes curl.

"Sh— shit. Fuck, Wally, you're gonna make me come." You breathe out, shuddering and heavy breaths leaving your lungs that seem suddenly to small to take in all the air you need.

Your hips buck and twitch, hand fisted in Wally's hair and he groans.

"Ride my face, beautiful. Ride my nose 'til it breaks."

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, a muffled whine leaving your lips and your lashes flutter as your eyes squeeze shut, thighs pressing at Wally's head but he keeps licking.

Lapping at your slit and drawing it out until you stop shaking and breathing heavy.

"Shit, you're so warm..." Wally breathes out, lashes fluttering against freckled cheeks as his arms wrap around your waist, his T-shirt straining against his bulging biceps and his face nuzzles against the valley between your breasts.

Before looking up at you, and Wally leans back against the backrest, shifting his hips the tiniest bit and his hands move to rest on your hips, fingers digging into the fat.

And with the first roll of your hips, sloppy pussy lips swallowing his cock greedily, your ass flush against the peeled fabric of his jeans and his precum oozing tip nudging against your cervix, Wally's far gone.

Eyes glazing over, plump lips pressing kisses along your chest and your neck, enjoying the low cut of the sweater you're wearing and he whines, muffling his sounds into the cozy fabric.

"Fuck— 'm sorry, I'll be better." He mumbles, his words enunciated by breathy moans and the wet slap of skin against skin, your nails digging into the muscles of his shoulders.

You're tight. Warm. Wet.

Everything that makes Wally's brain the equivalent of Pablo Picasso's unintelligible paintings, and the colours of his thoughts become muddy when you grind against him, the warmth of you enveloping his aching cock.

"I'll—... I'll be better. I'll be more mature— I— just keep riding me. Please, mommy."

Wally's pleas and whimpers aren't nearly as sweet as hearing him call you 'mommy', and an orgasmic chill travels down your arching spine and you moan.

Your walls flutter nervously, pussy slobbering enough to form a creamy ring at his base, precum and your wetness mixing into a debauched emulsion and making the pretty pearly colour that he can barely tear his eyes away from.

And Wally blunt nails dig into your ass, his head tipping back against the sofa, his hips lifting ever so slightly to meet your slow thrusts.

And you swear you can hear his heartbeat turn into a hummingbird's when one of your hands move to find purchase on the side of his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone and his expression softens.

The furrow of his brows relax, the tension leaves his shoulders and he leans into your touch, head tipping to meet yours as you lean in for a kiss.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with his saliva that for some reason, always tastes like those sour candies that you've had to pry from his hands on more than one occasion.

And Wally's hands grip your hips tighter, before he begins to control your pace.

Slamming you onto his cock with a brutal force, tip smearing precum all over the plug of your cervix, reaching deeper than you thought anything could.

"Keep this pace, please."

Wally begs quietly and you comply, because after all, how could you refuse a walking talking vibrator?

And your breath hitches when his thumb finds purchase on your clit, and he moves it until it's a blurry digit, vibrations making your toes curl and your speech slur.

Your eyes roll back in your head as you abruptly come to face with your orgasm.

Only this time, you're squirting around his cock, oversensitive and overstimulated and you're not even moving yourself anymore.

With one sock covered foot moving to rest on the edge of your coffee table (thank God it's bolted down), Wally's hips move and you swear, his ass doesn't touch the couch cushion with the way he's pistoning into you.

Pummeling your poor pussy into oblivion while teasing your clit with skilled fingers and he presses his lips against your pulse when you fall against his chest, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt.

"I've got the ring in holding." Wally whispers, his words barely reaching your ears with the way your blood is rushing, and you whine, nodding your head lazily as you try to find the ability to be shocked and enamoured by what Wally's saying.

"They just need to check if the size is right."

He adds, his voice so soft and gentle despite the fact that you're squirming like a bitch in heat and in the literal blink of an eye, Wally's got you on your stomach, stripped and bare aside from your socks.

"I took you for granted...." He murmurs.

A pillow wedged beneath your hips, and you feel the way his hot breath brushes against your back, one foot up on the couch, moving to rest beside your waist while his hands find your hips. His other leg is kneeling, on the other side of you, and Wally slides into your sopping cunt with ease.

Your back arches like a cat's and you're sure you might actually die when one hand moves to rest at the curve of your spine and his other hand has two fingers wedged against the soft tissue of your cheek.

"Let me show you how sorry I am."

“Get off me,” you shouted.

“What? I thought you wanted this?”

Percy’s voice was low, almost taunting as he pressed Riptide closer to your throat. You felt the cold celestial bronze kiss your skin, a sharp sting blooming just beneath your collarbone.

He had you pinned against the wooden wall of the training grounds during a rematch that you had insisted on, his weight solid and unyielding. Every inch of him boxed you in. Heat, muscle, the faint scent of salt and sweat. You tried to shift, but he only leaned harder, his forearm braced beside your head.

Tiny beads of blood welled up where the edge of his sword grazed you. Percy’s gaze flicked down, jaw tightening, but he didn’t move the sword.

“Still think you can take me?” he said, voice rough.

You glared up at him, jaw set. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

He scoffed, leaning in a little closer. “Maybe.”

There it was. That infuriating grin, that spark that always came before you lost control. It twisted something in your chest, you couldn’t tell if he was trying to provoke you or figure you out. With Percy, it always seemed to be both.

“Gods, you’re such a jackass,” you hissed.

“You’re the one who keeps coming back for more,” he murmured, sea-green eyes locked on yours.

He chuckled, but his eyes were sharp. Then, with a sudden movement, he leaned in close, too close. Your breath caught, and for a second, you swore you could feel his lips almost brush yours.

You froze, heart hammering. The heat in the air between you was almost unbearable, and for a split second, you genuinely thought he might kiss you.

Then he pulled back just slightly, smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Infuriated, you drove the hilt of your own blade into his side, hard enough to make him stumble back.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snapped, voice rising. “Do you even hear yourself?”

Percy said nothing, just glared, breathing ragged.

“I’ve tried to be your friend,” you went on, anger breaking into something rawer. “But you keep doing this—this thing. You act like you can’t stand me, then you look at me like—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head, words tripping over the weight in your chest.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Percy spat, shaking his head.

It messed with your head, drove you insane. Everything about him did. You hated this stupid little dance you two had going on. The sparring, the banter, the way he’d glare at you one moment and linger a little too long the next. It made no sense, and you hated how much you kept letting it happen.

Even after the “friend plan” had fallen apart so spectacularly, you’d settled into this messy, impossible, horribly frustrating dynamic. It wasn’t perfect—but it was something. And for you, deep down, something with Percy was better than nothing. Despite his inanity, you were willing to tolerate anything, as long as it was in relation to him.

But this was becoming too much, even for you.

“Why do you keep doing this?!” you demanded, voice raw. “All this time I've been at camp, and you’re just incapable of being normal, why? Honestly just tell me—”

Percy’s gaze flicked away, a flash of guilt—or maybe denial—crossing his face. “Do you think I do this on purpose?” he said through gritted teeth, voice strained. “You think it’s that simple?!”

“You don’t even know what you want!” 

“I want you!” he shouted, the words ripping out before he could stop them.

“...What?”

Percy froze, chest rising and falling fast. For a moment, the bravado faltered, replaced by something jagged and unguarded. His jaw flexed like he wished he could physically shove the words back into his mouth, but it was too late. His eyes darted anywhere but you—ground, sword, sky—before finally snapping back to your face. He looked furious at himself.

You stood there, heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it. He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be. Neither of you said anything for a while. You just caught your breath before your senses came back to you. 

What an absolute piece of shit. 

You tried to register what he had said to you, that wasn’t real was it? It had to have been the mist—maybe Hazel was standing behind the bushes playing some cruel trick on you with Percy. 

You weren’t going to humor him any longer, he didn’t deserve it. Your sword slipped from your hand and hit the ground with a sharp clang. You stalked past him, muttering, “You’re unbelievable.”

Before you could go any farther, his hand shot out and caught your wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low.

Your steps halted. His grip wasn’t cruel, but more akin to desperation. Fingers tight around your skin, his pulse thudding under his thumb. When you turned, you found his expression cracked wide open.

Anger, regret, desire—all fighting for room on his face.

No one moved. You just stared at each other, breaths colliding, tension thrumming like a live wire.

Then, by some miraculous stroke of impulse, something in you snapped.

You yanked him closer by the collar and kissed him. Hard. Angry. It wasn’t sweet or soft, but rather pure frustration. Months of hunger and denial crashing together.

He stumbled back a step, but his hand stayed locked around your wrist. When he finally kissed you back, it wasn’t careful either. It was all teeth and breath and too much heat, like both of you were trying to win, even now.

For once, neither of you had the upper hand—but the fight for it was starting to progress, and quickly. Percy still had a strong hold over your hand, while his other had snuck to wrap around your waist. His fingers grabbed and teased the skin harshly, aching for more. 

Your hips were slotted against each other, desperately grinding and shifting over clothes, stumbling through the training grounds before you were somehow pressed against a stray table nestled in a clearing near the woods.

Percy broke the kiss just long enough to sweep everything off the table in one rough motion—water bottles and bits of armor clattering to the ground—before lifting you with ease to sit on the edge.

He caught your lips again almost instantly, the kiss deepening as he leaned closer, pushing you back until your spine met the cool surface of the table, his breath heavy against yours. 

Percy’s hands found your waist, your arms, your breasts, all at once. Roaming incessantly, desperately, and with an intense desire. He had slotted himself between your legs, and was periodically thrusting against you. He hadn’t bothered to hide his arousal, if anything, he was making a statement, an unspoken declaration of exactly what he eagerly anticipated to do to you.

it was only a matter of whether you'd let him.

Mark let's out a snort of laughter, perching up and resting his weight in his elbows, the edge of his sweater raising the tiniest bit and you catch a peek of a neat, dark little happy trail that disappears beneath the fabric of his clothing.

"I can guarantee an orgasm." Mark boasts. "I'll bet anything."

"If I don't cum, I want you to grow a full bush and then, wear cycling shorts for a week."

Your wager has Mark's lips pursing, chocolate pools moving towards the ceiling as he weighs his options. "Oddly specific but okay." Mark shrugs. "And if you cum, anytime I learn a sex trick, I get to try it on you. Unless you get into a relationship but," he snorts, "let's be realistic."

The insult has you flinging the magazine across the bedroom, hitting Mark in the face with the spine and he winces, although, you know it's more out of habit than from actual feeling.

"It's so weird." He mumbles. "I don't feel your abuse anymore."

Mark's grin is cocky.

"Oh, Marky," you coo, lifting yourself from his desk chair and you cradle his face in your hands, an action that's so familiarly condescending but Mark can't help but lean into your warm palms, "you're only unaffected by the physical abuse. I can still hurt you self-esteem."

Mark's eyes narrow at you. "Try it." There's a challenge in his voice that you just can't ignore. Especially when he's looking at you like that. Brown eyes trained intensely on you, black strands tousled ever so slightly from the long day he's had.

"You have feminine hands." And you swear, the way his expression falls is an aphrodisiac in of itself before you straighten up.

"It's easy to hurt your ego, Marky." You hum. "Heroes get a lot of hate if they do something wrong. But lucky for you, you have years of experience."

"Yeah," Mark hums, "no one's a bigger dick than you."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💛💙୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

"It's so weird that you're losing your virginity on your parents' anniversary." You hum quietly, carefully traveling along the sides of Mark's bedroom, attaching the LED light strips along the cornish.

"Don't make it weird." Mark grumbles, stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fuzzy robe as he towel dries his hair, messy strands poking in every direction and he watches you with amusement. "Their anniversary is like, the only time when they travel far enough that I can't hear them. So.... It's the only night I can do it."

"They probably don't want you to hear them fucking." You hum, almost absentmindedly and when Mark gags, you let out a laugh and your foot slips from the backrest of his desk chair, and you slip.

But instead of meeting the carpeted floor in an unceremonious crash, you instead crash into Mark's chest, his arms wrapped around your midsection and your knees tucked up. And he dips his head low, head tilted.

"You okay?"

And if your pussy didn't have a heartbeat before, it does now. The way he looks down at you, his expression so soft, brows creased in concern and his lips. So soft and inviting, the scent of mint lingering in the air and you nod your head.

"Mhm," you mutter quietly, "I'm okay."

Mark sets you on your feet, before examining where you had stuck the lights and he nods his head, a grin cocking at his lips.

"Yeah, this is a mood setter."

"Can I open my eyes now?" Mark grumbles, arms folded over his chest but his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones and you let out a hum.

"Go ahead." You mumble and he allows his eyes to open and drink in the sight of you.

Freshly showered, steam still rising from your skin and in his T-shirt. The faded Batman shirt ends just below your crotch, your ankle socks aren't even matching and your hair's tied into a bun that looks so half-assed.

You look nervous. Eyes lowered to the carpet and Mark reaches forward, large hands bracketing your hips and his thumbs brush over the trimming of your panties. And he pulls you to stand between his thighs, his head tips back and his chin comes up to rest on your sternum as he stares up at you.

"We don't have—" "I want to." You interrupt him, your hands raising to rest on either side of his neck, thumbs brushing along his jawline. "I want to." You repeat quietly, looking down at Mark.

The plan is to lose your virginities before the gap year is over. Because you'd both much rather make a mistake with each other than with strangers.

"Move your hand."

Mark lets out a snicker of laughter, your thighs tossed over his and his tip notched at your entrance, and he can barely think.

Not when he knows how tightly you felt around his fingers, sucking him in with such a neediness, not when he saw the way your brows knitted into the prettiest little pinched expression when his tongue lapped against your clit just right.

"I looked at the logistics of it and it's not gonna fit."

You state, and those pretty brown eyes roll at your words, before Mark slaps your hand away, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he taps it against your clit. Just to watch the way your stomach caves in with an unsteady breath.

"It'll fit." Mark reassures. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

And you let out a laugh, your body slumped against the mattress and you snort.

"No you're n—nahh..."

Mark watches the way your head tips back when he pushes his tip past the ring of muscle, and he watches the way your eyes shut, brows knitting into a pinch.

"You little... Fuck.."

You breathe out, your expression a little pouty frown and Mark moves a strand of hair out of your face, leaning forward and as he presses a kiss to your forehead, he pushes another inch inside.

And as you gasp, his lips press against yours, and Mark swallows each moan and groan of pain, his forearm supporting his weight while his other hand grips your hip, thumb brushing over the protruding bone of your hip and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

"You're so warm..." Mark murmurs into the kiss, but he keeps his hips still, slotted between your thighs and he feels your gummy walls pulsing around him, trying to get used to the intrusion. And Mark lifts his head, kissing the apples of your cheeks.

"So I'm big, huh?"

He teases and watching as your pained expression gives way to an annoyed expression, eyes bored and brows furrowed.

"Just fuck me already."

You grumble.

And Mark pulls out, until just the rosy tip of his cock is poked into your sopping cunt, before he slowly pushes back into you.

The stretch burns, and you can feel the way your nails dig into your palms and you take a deep breath. His hips are pressed against yours, and you can feel that painful pinch behind your navel.

"Are you inside yet?" You question, peeking up at Mark through your lashes, enough to watch the way that dorkish grin spread across his face as he readjusts his position, leaning forward and shifting himself to rest more comfortably.

"Ha-ha, very funny." He rolls his eyes, his voice just a tad breathy and his hands move, thumbs moving your pussy lips out of the way, spreading them so he can see the pinkish flesh that swallows him whole.

"Mark!" You hiss, swatting away his hands, and covering your folds from his view. "What are you doing?"

"They do it in porn!" He defends, moving his hands to rest on your hips instead as his hips slowly begin to roll against you, the soft strands of his happy trail tickles your neglected and swollen clit, and you take a shaky breath.

"Those people are ass naked." You deadpan. "You've never even seen my feet."

With one hand, Mark shifts the covers and lets out a bark of laughter at the sight of your socks, still on your feet. And he reaches back for your ankle, lifting your leg and he places a soft kiss on the inside of your foot, causing your walls to flutter around him.

His kiss is warm through the cotton, a lingering show of affection as his hips thrust, cock nudging your insides to his shape. And he lowers your foot.

"Put your foot on my chest. I wanna try something." Mark hums quietly, resting your sock covered foot on his chest. And you let out a snort.

"My pussy isn't a skate park. You can't try things you've never done." You huff, but you comply, keeping your foot against his brawny chest, even as Mark shifts you into position, straddling your one thigh and resting your foot on his chest.

And when he moves, your foot slides off his chest, instead, resting beside him. And a snicker slips past your lips at the frustrated expression on his face.

"Please participate." Mark grumbles, moving your foot, and resting your leg over his shoulder, ignoring the way a laugh ruptures from your lips.

Kiss-swollen and pouty lips curling into a wicked grin.

"Bro said 'please par—'... Shit..."

Your eyes roll back in your head when the divot of Mark's tip presses against your cervix, pressing a sloppy, slick kiss against the plug as he grinds into you, leaning forward and pressing his lips against the curve of your jaw.

Mark isn't even fucking you anymore.

He's slowly rutting into you, pressing adorning kisses to the side of your face, sucking marks into the supple skin of your neck while he slowly fucks an orgasm out of you.

Kissing you deeply, his hand grasping the fat of your hip while the other massages the plumpness of your thigh, pressing a warm kiss against your calf before going back to swallowing your honeyed moans.

"... shit, you're gonna make me come..." You breathe out, your nails dragging lines down the expanse of his muscular and slightly damp back, the pain and pleasure mixing into a delicious concoction that has Mark burying his face into your neck.

Inhaling the scent of you.

"Mhm.... 's okay, baby, come for me..."

His voice is husky, a low timbre that makes your stomach knot and you whine when you feel that wave of ecstasy crash over you, waves breaking on the jagged rocks of your being and you're lashes flutter, tears brimming on your lower lashline because you're just so... Full.

Mark perches up, wiping the teardrops from your cheeks and he looks down at your hazy and flushed expression. His gaze lingering on your lips, wet and rosy, and before he even registers, your hand is on his face.

"Stop making such heavy eye contact." You whine. "You're gonna make me catch feelings."

And a laugh tumbles from his lips.

"You know, I have your entire future in my hands right now." Mark states quietly and when you hum, quietly mumbling a 'how do you mean', he simply presses a kiss against your pulse.

"I could fuck a baby into you right now." Mark breathes out.

"And you'd thank me for it."

The first time it happens, you tell yourself it’s nothing.

Because if you call it something, then it actually becomes something. And you don’t have time for that.

“Did you even read the chart?” Ogilvie scoffs, looking over your shoulder. “Because this note reads like a first-year’s lecture notes.”

You swallow.

“I–I did. I just—”

“Hmm.” he hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You stand there, heat creeping up your face.

You wait for him to elaborate. Correct you. Teach you. Literally anything useful.

Instead he just sighs, long and dramatic.

“You know” he starts, finally looking up at you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s actively looking for flaws “confidence is kind of a prerequisite for medicine. Patients don’t want someone who looks like they’re about to cry every time they’re asked a question.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not—”

“Are you sure? Because that face is…rough.”

He waves a hand. “Just try to keep up, yeah? We don’t have time to babysit.”

You murmur an apology and move away before he can see the tears building in the corner of your eyes.

You don’t tell anyone.

Because Ogilvie is…well, Ogilvie. Everyone knows he’s an asshole. You don’t want to be the med student who couldn’t handle a bit of constructive criticism. The one who needs special treatment. The sensitive one.

So you swallow it.

Dennis notices things though.

Not big things, just the small stuff.

Like how you stop asking questions.

How you hang behind instead of being hands on. How you cringe slightly at Ogilvie being mentioned.

“Hey, you good?” Dennis asks one shift, after you guys finish up with a patient. “You’ve been weird quiet lately.”

You shrug.

“Just tired.”

He smiles softly, sympathy bleeding out of his expression. “We’re all tired.”

“I’m just…extra tired.” You say with the best fake smile you can muster

He studies you for a second. Dennis does that sometimes, looks at you like he’s trying to solve you.

“…You sure?”

You nod.

“Promise.”

He lets it go. For now, at least.

But it keeps happening.

Ogilvie correcting you in front of others, but never in a teaching way. Always with a sigh, or a comment under his breath.

“Geez, did they lower admission standards or something?”

“Maybe emergency medicine just isn’t your strength.”

“Not everyone’s cut out for this.”

Each one lands like a punch. Tender. Bruising.

You start triple-checking everything. Staying late to write extra notes and study charts. Apologizing before you even speak.

Dennis notices that one especially.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asks one day as you hand him labs. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You blink at him.

“I uhh–”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know you’re allowed to be here without saying sorry, right?”

You laugh weakly.

“Tell that to my brain.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The worse part is when Ogilvie gets you alone.

Empty hallways. Break rooms.

“You’re really not improving” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Which is concerning.”

You stare at the floor as you try to focus on making your coffee.

“I’ve been trying—”

“I know.” he cuts in. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Your chest tightens.

“Can you tell me what I should do?”

He laughs. Actually laughs at you.

“Honestly? I don’t know. Some people just don’t have it.”

You feel stupid for how much that hurts.

You go home that night and cry in the shower so your roommate won’t hear.

You still don’t say anything.

Dennis hears it by accident.

He’s charting nearby, half-listening, when Ogilvie’s voice drifts down the hall.

“You’re too sensitive,” Ogilvie says. “That’s gonna get you killed in medicine.”

There’s a pause.

Your voice is small. Smaller than Dennis has ever heard it.

“I can handle feedback.”

Ogilvie scoffs.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to cry every time someone critiques you?”

Dennis’s fingers still on the keyboard.

Another pause.

“I’m sorry….” you say. “I’ll do better.”

Something cold settles in Dennis’s chest.

He stands, slow and deliberate, and steps into the doorway.

“Ogilvie.”

Ogilvie turns. “Oh. Hey.”

Dennis’s voice is calm. Too calm.

“What exactly are you giving them feedback on right now?”

Ogilvie shrugs. “Their performance.”

Dennis nods once.

“Ok. Because from where I’m standing it sounds like you’re just putting them down.”

You freeze.

“Dennis, it’s okay” you say quickly, panic spiking. “It’s not–”

Dennis glances at you. Just for a second. His expression softens.

He cuts you off, starting to lay into Ogilvie.

“You’re an MS4. Not an attending. Not a resident. If you have actual, constructive feedback, give it. Otherwise? You don’t get to comment on their personality.”

Ogilvie bristles. “I’m just being honest.”

Dennis nods.

“Ok. Then be honest without being cruel.”

The room is silent.

Dennis shifts slightly, planting his feet firmly on the floor, arms crossed.

“And just so we’re clear” he adds, voice low, “if I ever hear you talk like this again, I will report it.”

Ogilvie scoffs, but there’s worry there now.

“Whatever...”

He leaves.

Dennis lets out a breath slowly, like he’s been holding it in for days.

He turns to you.

“You okay?”

You shake your head. Tears spilling before you can stop them.

“I didn’t want to make it a thing…” you whisper. “I didn’t want people to think I couldn’t handle it.”

Dennis’s expression tightens. Not angry now, but something closer to heartbreak.

“Hey, hey” he says softly. “That wasn’t you being weak. That was him being a dick.”

You laugh shakily.

“He does it all the time.”

“…All the time?”

You nod.

He rubs a hand over his face, jaw clenched.

“Okay” he says. “You’re not doing this alone.”

You panic.

“Dennis, please. I don’t want–”

“I know.” he interrupts gently. “I’m not gonna blow it up. I promise.”

He meets your eyes.

“But you don’t deserve to feel like this. Ever.”

He hands you a tissue, awkward and gentle, like he’s afraid of startling you.

“You’re a good student” he says firmly. “Don’t let some cocky prick convince you otherwise, okay?”

Your chest aches at how sure his voice is.

You just nod. Trying desperately to believe his words, and not someone else’s.

After shift you and Dennis walk together like always. But neither of you stop or say anything when you guys walk past your apartment building.

By the time Dennis locks his apartment door, all thats left is exhaustion. The bone-deep kind.

You kick your shoes off without being told. You’ve been here before. You hover for only half a second, before sinking down into his couch like it’s your own.

“You didn’t say anything the whole walk.” he says.

You shrug. “Didn’t trust myself to.”

He nods like that even makes sense.

Dennis crouches in front of you so you have to look at him.

“You did good today” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“That” he says gently “is not true.”

You laugh humorlessly. “You don’t have to—”

“I know” he interrupts, still just as soft. “I want to.”

That does it.

Your shoulders slump like something inside you finally gave out.

“I hate that he made me feel so small…” you whisper. “I hate that I let it happen. I–I can’t even stand up for myself.”

Dennis’s jaw tightens. He’s upset, but not at you.

“He took advantage of the fact that you’re still learning.”

He reaches up, thumb brushing away a single tear, his other hand gently gripping at your hip, ground you in a sense.

“you’re allowed to need someone.” he adds, his tone almost sultry in a way. “Especially from someone who’s above you.”

The words feel feather soft, but they land heavily.

His words, his hands on you. Everything makes you wanna cry. Not because of him, but for him. Be exposed and vulnerable for him, so he can take care of you.

You swallow.

Dennis seems to notice something off in your demeanor, and immediately withdrawals his hands.

“Hey…” he says. “We–we don’t have to do anything tonight. I just didn’t want you being all by yourself tonight”

You look at him.

At the way he’s still crouched in front of you. At how careful he’s being. At the fact that he’s asking if this is something you want.

“I don’t want to be alone…” you mumble, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around his neck, as you bury your face into his shoulder.

And next thing you know, he’s gently pushing you down to lay on his bed.

He’s sitting next to you. Hovering above you. His hands warm as he rubs up and down your hips, like he’s checking in without actually saying anything.

“Tell me if you want me to stop” he says.

You shake your head.

“Use your words” he murmurs.

“Please don’t stop.” You practically whine.

That’s when his thumb tips your chin up.

“Good.” he says, quietly. “That’s what I needed to hear.”

The kiss isn’t frantic. It’s deep. Claiming in a way that doesn’t make you feel trapped. It makes you feel taken care of.

Dennis doesn’t rush either.

He takes his time

If feels like he’s puts you back together, slowly, pice by pice.

“You know how smart you are?” he murmurs against your mouth.

You exhale, shakily.

“Den–”

“Hey.” he says, voice a bit firmer now. “Let me.”

His hands run all over your body. His hands exploring. Memorizing. Tracing.

Every time you tense, Every time you relax, he feels it.

“That’s it” he murmurs. “That’s good, baby. You’re doing good. Can feel that your body trusts me.”

“It does…I do.”

His breath falters slightly.

“You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna be able to hide how much I want you anymore.”

“You don’t have to.” you whisper.

Dennis stills.

Then, quieter “You sure?”

You nod.

And that his green light.

His hands slides lower, slow pulling down your scrub pants and panties in one go.

He slides his fingers between your folds.

You’re dripping.

“Good lord…” he murmurs. “You’re so wet, and I haven’t even done anything.”

He smiles, dark, satisfied.

“You want me to take care of you.” he says quietly. “I can feel it. Is that right, baby?”

You nod, barely being able to not squirm.

“Words, please.”

“I want that” you whisper. A soft pout on your lips

That’s all it takes.

His middle and ringer easily slide into your aching heat. Your body responds immediately, betraying you in the best way.

You gasp, head tipping back into his pillows.

“That’s it.” He murmurs

He starts with two but quickly adds a third. His fingers are painfully slow in the way that makes you restless.

“Look at how well you’re opening up fer me already.”he murmurers. “You like this, hmm?”

Your fingers clutch at his shirt.

“Hey.” he says. “Don’t grab unless you mean it.”

“I mean it” you whisper.

“Ok” he says. “Because I’m gonna take you at your word.”

His pace quickens, a thumb coming up to rub tight circles on your clit. The whole time, he’s watching your eyes. Drinking in how fucked out she looks just by her fingers.

You whimper.

“Fuck” he mutters. “You sound perfect like this.”

You try to hide your face in the sheets.

He doesn’t let you.

“No, no.” he says firmly, grabbing your chin. “I wanna see you.”

Your eyes meet his.

“There you are” he murmurs. “So pretty, taking my fingers like a good girl.”

His head dips down to your neck as he begins bitting and sucking on your skin. Leaving a trail of purple bruises in his wake

“You have no idea” he says between kisses, voice rougher“how good you look like this. How good you feel under my hands.”

Your breath goes shallow.

“That’s it…” he sighs. “Let go for me. Come around my fingers, hon.”

Your thoughts are a blur, a mix of his voice and the obscenely wet sounds of your cunt as he pumps his fingers in and out of you.

It’s all too much for your brain, and just enough for the coil in your stomach to snap.

“That’s my girl” he says, satisfaction thick in his voice as he feels you soak his fingers.

“You did so fucking well.” He says. Gently removing his fingers, before licking them clean.

“You have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to take care of you?”

You shake your head.

“Yeah” he says. “That tracks.”

His hands travel to your face, as he lowers himself to lay next to you. You’re already leaning into his touch as soon as you feel his hands.

“I see how hard you work” he continues.

“You’re gorgeous. Thank you for letting me take care of you…” he murmurs.

His forehead pressed to yours.

You feel different. Seen. Held.