bros with crop tops, etc.

Here is my ask box.

Jack Abbot/Michael "Robby" Robinavitch | The Pitt | Explicit | 3.4k words

Jack squints at the guy’s pre-printed name tag, the edges of the sticker starting to peel away from his shirt, and adds, “Want some shitty conference wine too, Michael?” and proffers the bottle. The guy takes the cigarette with practiced ease. He pulls a face, almost pouting around it, lips where Jack’s were a few moments ago, then says in a deeply relieved voice around a stream of smoke, “It's Robby, please, they just don’t let you change the name once you’ve signed up, and hell yeah.”

i'm not sure this is QUITE what you had in mind but this is where it took me!

"Oh, you don't need to be worry about that, you're good at it," Dennis says without thinking, and then instantly freezes.

They're in front of people, and he's just tried to give Trinity some words of encouragement for the prostate exam she needs to perform, because he knows, from experience, how good she is at nailing the prostate.

Different experience, sure, but still.

She gives him that glare — for fuck's sake, Huckleberry, he can hear in his mind — but no one else seems to have noticed at least, one of the few perks of how busy the ED always is.

Dennis is going to die.

He thought it was a great deal — he's finally earning, sure, but that doesn't mean he has a whole lot of disposable income yet, so the PTMC discount at the nearby gym seemed perfect, the chance to get in a workout every now and then and stop being such a 'twinky orphan farm boy' (thanks Trinity).

He hadn't thought about the fact that other people from work would also use the gym, and now he's face to face with Jack Abbot in sweaty workout gear, arms glistening with sweat, fucking muscles everywhere, those arms, nodding at him and casually saying, "Oh hey, Whitaker," like there's nothing indecent at all about the way his tank top clings to him or his sweaty shorts show… a lot.

"Hey!" Dennis says, far too loud, and he can feel himself blushing as a few people look over to see if he's talking to them.

"OH MY GOD," Victoria yells, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, swaying and grabbing Trinity's arm for balance, "YOU'RE SO DRUNK, SANTOS."

"Okay, Crash," Trinity says, grinning - and she is, she knows how pink her face is now, how she can't stop grinning, how she feels hot and loose and pleased with everything - but compared to Victoria, she's basically stone cold sober, but then that's the rule for a 21st birthday, isn't it?

If Victoria went home sober tonight, Trinity would consider herself a failure.

"But like, you look so HOT," Victoria speak-shouts, directly into Trinity's cleavage, "this is, like - I didn't want - okay, thank you, this is the BEST birthday, YOU'RE AWESOME WHY DIDN'T I WANT THIS."