#safe word

The second your hands are unbound they take to covering your face; you feel like a kettle fit to burst any second, the pressure building up and up and up until you risk exploding. 

“Treasure, hey, hey hey. Talk to me.” 

The kettle starts to whistle. No, you keen. 

Barty continues. “Are you hurt? What do you need?” 

You flinch as his hand gently lands on your shoulder and feel horrid for it immediately. You’re not hurt, you don’t think. But you feel fundamentally wrong and abysmally guilty. 

“M’sorry.” 

“None of that, Poppet. Talk to us.” Evan chimes in. 

The only thing that manages to leave you is a sob. 

There’s a shift in the room. You’re not sure what it is because your eyes are squeezed shut with your hands held over them, but you can feel it. 

You’re cold. No, you’re not cold, but you are shaking. Trembling, really. 

The room feels brighter, did someone turn the lights on? Can one feel a room being brighter? 

A blanket is spread over your form and gently tucked into your sides. 

“Tres, please; what hurts?”

You shake your head no.

“No, you can’t tell me? Or no, nothing hurts?” Barty asks; you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him speak this softly…well…ever. 

You shake your head again. 

“Can you take my hand, Y/N? Can you do that for me?” 

Still feeling painfully guilty for what you’ve done to the night, you’re desperate to comply; willing to do anything to right this wrong, to be good again. You shift so only one hand covers your eyes and the other reaches out; Barty’s hand immediately envelopes yours. 

“Thank you, baby.” He rushes out; breathless in his gratitude. “Can you squeeze my hand for me?”

You do. He brings your hand up to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles; you squeeze his hand again in hopes of receiving another, but he’s already moving on. 

“Can you squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no?”

You squeeze once as a breathy sob slips from your lips; completely unaware you’d still been holding your breath. 

“Good job, tres. That’s great. You’re doing so good f’me.” He murmurs into a space between your knuckles; September, thirty days for September – that’s the space from which his breath fans across the back of your hand. “Does anything hurt?”

You squeeze his hand twice – no. You can feel him deflate in relief beside you as he takes your one hand in both of his. 

“Okay. Okay, thank you, beautiful.”

You choke out a sob at his thanks. “M’sorry.” 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for; you did everything right.”

“I was bad.” You argue.

“When? I can’t think of a single moment you were bad.” 

You pull your hand away finally and look up at Barty, his form a blurry blob through the tears and your panic. You can make out, though, that whatever he sees has his face crumbling in sorrow. 

And you were the one to put that face there. That’s what’s bad. 

“He’s gonna hate me.” You whisper dejectedly; Barty’s head tilts at you.

“Who is going to hate you?” 

“Ev-” you hiccup, teetering precariously into the realm of hyperventilating. “Evan. Evan’s gonna hate me, he’s-”

“He absolutely does not hate you.” Barty insists, but you’re shaking your head no at him. 

“He left. He- he’s… he’s gone. He left because he’s mad at me. I was bad.” 

“You were not bad.” Barty insists, bending at the waist to press his forehead to yours. “And he did not leave. He’s running you a bath, treasure; he’s making sure you’re okay.”

“I don’t deserve a bath.” You hiss, and you can tell you’re beginning to sound petulant even to your own ears. 

“I think that’s really up to me.” Evan sounds from the door as he returns to the room, now clad in only a pair of sweats as he brings a damp flannel and a glass of water over to the bed. 

“M’so sorry, Ev. I-”

“I don’t want any apologies, Y/N.” He says plainly though not unkindly. “There’s no need to apologize. You did everything right.”

“But-”

“What are our safe words for, hm?” He cuts you off, using the flannel to wipe your forehead; your eyes blink shut and take a few seconds too long to open back up again. 

“To be safe…”

“Mhm, and to check in.” He agrees. “And Bee and I should’ve done a better job checking in, shouldn’t we? If we had, you might not have had to use it.” 

You’re not sure how to respond so you don’t, allowing him to trail the flannel back and forth across your hairline as you watch his eyes. 

“Does anything hurt, Y/N?” He asks softly, and you realize he’s using your name intentionally; pet names and scenes give way to intimacy and concern. The pressure inside the kettle moves closer to a simmer as he and Barty carefully lower the heat. 

“No.” You whisper in response; his jaw loosens in what you recognize as relief. Your eyes flit to Barty who’s watching you closely; he smiles encouragingly when your eyes meet his.

“Did anything hurt?”

You think about it; you’re not entirely sure what the breaking point was that had you shouting ‘red’. You only know that it had become too much and you thought your chest might have burst if you’d held on for even a second longer.

Your brain’s foggy but you try to do a quick catalogue of your body and come to a decision. “...No, no I…I don’t think anything hurt.”

Barty hums in confirmation as he leans over to press a kiss to your damp head. 

“Just too much?” He asks as Evan’s hand lands on your blanket covered knee. 

“She was done, hm?” Evan agrees, you nod.

“D’you feel okay for a bath, Poppet?” Evan asks then as he moves across the room to grab a luxuriously fluffy robe and holds it open for you. “You can give us shite for all the ways we fucked up tonight, hm?”

“Give us hell, Treasure.” Barty agrees as he helps you up off the bed and into Evan’s robe. 

“I don’t wanna give you hell…” You admit quietly; someone’s hand at the small of your back – warm even through the thick material of the robe – as they lead you in the direction of the bathroom. 

“Our sweet girl through-and-through, hm?” Evan murmurs into your hair; his hand now straying from your lower back over to your hip in order to pull you closer to him. 

“That’s okay, Tres,” Barty grins as he ushers the two of you into the – now steamy – bathroom with a beautifully prepared tub, “you can punish us tomorrow, hm?” 

The once red-hot burner that your kettle sat upon has run cold, the once boiling water now warm enough to bathe in, the pressure once inside you now released through encouragement and mollification. 

Sometimes red’s not bad.

Sometimes red is safe.

✨ ＴＲＩＧＧＥＲ ＷＡＲＮＩＮＧＳ ✨

♡ Explicit SMUT ♡ Consensual dom!Reader & sub!Michael dynamics ♡ Strong body-image themes ♡ Body worship focusing on age, softness, & self-esteem ♡ Mirror-focused intimacy ♡ Light pain-play in a consensual context ♡ Praise kink + possessive affection ♡ Mild humiliation kink related to self-deprecating comments ♡ Unprotected PIV (Plz be responsible) ♡ Aftercare & heavy emotions (whiplash potential)

♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡ I’m getting too old for this

Chaos has officially become the hospital’s default setting tonight.

Somewhere down the hall, someone is yelling about the last functioning glucometer. A monitor keeps beeping in a way that feels personal. And for reasons unknown to science, there is still glitter on the nurses’ station countertop from someone’s “morale-boosting” decorations gone wrong.

And then there’s Michael.

You find your fifty-year-old boyfriend kneeling on the floor of Trauma 2 beside a spilled supply tray like a man confronting his own mortality.

He’s frozen mid-cleanup, one hand on the ground, the other braced on his thigh, wearing the expression of a man negotiating with God about whether he’s getting back up or not.

You lean against the doorframe. “Whatcha doing down there, handsome?”

Without looking up, he exhales. “Reconsidering every life choice that brought me to this moment.”

You grin. “Including dating me?”

“That one can stay,” he mutters, trying to shift his weight. His knee cracks loud enough that you wince for him. “But these knees? These traitors? They’re on thin fucking ice.”

You stroll over and crouch beside him, picking up a runaway syringe. “You act like you’re eighty.”

“I feel eighty.” He attempts a second rise. Nothing happens. He sags back down with dramatic resignation. “Actually, I think eighty-year-olds might be offended by the comparison.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. Happens to the best of—”

“Don’t,” he warns lightly. “Don’t you age-shame me in my moment of struggle.”

You’re laughing now. “You crawled under here five minutes ago.”

“Yes,” he says, dead serious. “And five minutes ago, I was younger.”

You’re in love with this idiot.

“Come on, old man,” you say, offering your hand. “Let’s get you vertical.”

He gives you a narrowed look, the kind that’s more fond than annoyed. “You know, when we first started dating, you didn’t call me old.”

“When we first started dating, you didn’t make noises when you stood up.”

He grumbles, but he takes your hand. You brace, and he rises with a full orchestral medley of cracks, pops, and groans that could rival a haunted house soundtrack.

He finally stands. Barely. He touches his knee like it betrayed national secrets.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he mutters.

You kiss his cheek. “You say that every shift.”

“And one of these days,” he says, pointing at you with a half-smile, “you’re going to come in here and find me fossilized on the floor.”

“I’ll dust you off and keep you,” you promise.

“That’s very romantic.”

“It is.”

He leans in for another kiss, mumbling, “God help me, I’m dating a gremlin.”

“And I’m dating a dinosaur.”

His eyes widen in mock offense. “Take that back.”

“No.”

“Then I’m retiring and leaving you my patient load.”

“Nice try,” you say, sliding your arms around his waist. “You’d never leave me.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters into your hair, “you’re right.”

You grin against his chest, letting the moment pass, because this is only his first self-deprecating comment tonight.

And you know damn well there’s more coming.

♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡ “These hands aren’t what they used to be”

There are quiet moments in the hospital so rare they should be protected by federal law, but somehow you and Michael have landed in one.

You’re in an empty exam room, finishing paperwork side-by-side. He’s leaning against the counter, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, pen cap in his mouth as he double-checks a chart.

And then he freezes.

Not dramatically. Not alarmingly.

Just… stares down at his hands.

You glance over. “What’s that face?”

He tilts his head, inspecting himself like he’s a specimen under a microscope. “These hands,” he says, sighing like a widowed Victorian heroine. “They’re starting to look… old.”

You blink. “…Michael.”

“No, look,” he insists, holding them up like he’s displaying evidence in court. “The veins. They didn’t used to be this—visible.”

You stare. You stare very hard.

Because his hands look like:

strong

capable

the kind of hands that have saved hundreds of people

Kind that you want wrapped around your throat

But sure. “Old.”

“Maybe I should start using hand cream,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “Or something with retinol—”

You cut him off with a noise that sits somewhere between a laugh and an exhale. “Oh my God. Are you serious right now?”

“Yes,” he says, dead earnest. “They’re… aging.”

You step right into his space, take his wrists, and slowly lower his hands.

Then: “Michael,” you say, in the tone one uses for people who are being deeply stupid. “Your hands look fine.”

“They look like tree roots.”

“They look like a wet dream”

He blinks. “…What?”

You gesture at him. “Do you have ANY idea how many nurses and paramedics have asked me if your hands are as steady as they look?”

He blushes. “They said that?”

“They said a LOT more than that.”

He closes his eyes like he’s bracing himself. “I don’t want to know.”

“You don’t,” you agree. “But for the record…” You pick up his right hand, fingertips lightly brushing the prominent veins he apparently thinks are his downfall. “These?” You kiss the back of his knuckles. “These are hot.”

His breath catches.

You repeat it plainly, in case his fifty-year-old ass didn’t hear you the first time:

“Michael Robbinavitch, you are so freaking sexy.”

His ears turn red.

“Baby—”

“No, don’t ‘baby’ me,” you say, poking his chest. “You’re standing here complaining about your hands when I’m over here actively trying not to climb you like a tree.”

He stares at you.

You stare back.

The silence becomes heavily charged.

“…Has anyone ever told you you’re ridiculous?” he murmurs.

“Daily,” you say. “But I’m correct.”

He finally laughs that warm, quiet rumble you feel more than hear and tugs you in by the waist.

“Maybe my hands aren’t so bad,” he says, voice low against your temple.

“No,” you say, kissing him once, “they’re perfect.”

You feel him smile.

And he lets it go. For now.

♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡ Bar lighting is not your friend

It’s a rare night off , like rare rare, and the four of you somehow managed to land at a booth in some dive bar near the hospital. 

Dana has a margarita the size of her head. Jack has a beer and a grievance about literally everything that happened on the unit today. You’re sipping something fruity. Michael’s got a whiskey he’s nursing like it’s a patient.

Everyone’s a little loose, a little warm, a little relieved to not be wearing scrubs.

You lean across the table. “Okay everybody, smile. I want a picture.”

Dana throws peace signs. Jack looks like someone threatened his life. Michael gives a polite, confused half-smile like he’s posing for a passport photo.

Click.

You glance down at your phone to check it, and the moment you do, Michael leans over your shoulder.

Not subtly. Not quietly.

He squints. Then… freezes.

You see the exact instant his soul leaves his body.

“My beard,” he mutters.

“Hm?” you ask.

He zooms in on the picture like it’s a crime scene. “It’s… it’s getting greyer.”

Jack snorts. “Congratulations, man. That’s called being alive.”

Dana claps her hands. “Distinguished! Salt-and-pepper! Daddy-coded!”

Michael ignores them like they’re static and keeps staring at his chin like it betrayed him.

He rubs his jaw. “I didn’t realize it was that noticeable…”

You blink at him. “Baby. It’s two strands.”

“Two that I can see,” he corrects, distressed. “Who knows how many are hiding in there.”

You laugh, sliding your phone away. “Oh my God, stop. You look great.”

“I look like I’m about to start giving lectures about 401(k)s.”

Dana raises her glass. “Honestly? Hot.”

Jack points at Michael. “It suits you. You look like you carry mints and good advice.”

Michael grimaces. “I’m not supposed to ‘suit’ grey hair. I’m supposed to have… I don’t know. Youth.”

You stare at him, incredulous.

“Sir,” you say flatly. “You’re fifty.”

He gestures helplessly. “Exactly!”

Dana wheezes.

But you’re watching him more closely now, the way he smooths his hand over his beard, like he’s cataloging every new silver strand, the faint line of worry between his brows. It’s not dramatic. Not unhinged. Just that quiet, familiar self-deprecating hum he slips into without thinking.

You nudge his knee under the table. “You’re handsome. Grey, black, purple — it wouldn’t matter.”

He shakes his head with a soft laugh. “You’re biased.”

“Yes,” you agree easily, wrapping your fingers around his forearm. “But that doesn’t make me wrong.”

Jack groans. “Gross.”

Dana throws a fry at him. “Let them flirt, Jesus.”

Michael finally looks at you,the worry easing into a small, shy smile like he’s letting himself believe you for a second.

“For the record,” Dana says, sipping her margarita, “you look like the hot, wise mentor character from every medical drama ever.”

Jack nods. “If anyone sees that picture, they’re gonna assume you two met because he saved your life and then fell in love.”

You roll your eyes. “We work together.”

“Exactly,” Dana says.

Michael chuckles, but his hand drifts back to his beard, fingers grazing the silver again.

Quiet. Thoughtful. Still insecure you can feel it humming under his skin.

But you let it go.

For now.

♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡ The Great Pudge

Handoff is always loud.

Monitors beeping, phones ringing, nurses swapping charts, Dana verbally assaulting the coffee machine because it “LOOKED at her wrong.” Jack is half-asleep in a rolling chair, spinning lazily like a bored toddler.

You’re on your way toward them, already fishing your keys from your bag. Michael promised he’d walk you home after shift, your favorite ritual.

You’re smiling to yourself when you hear your name.

You slow down.

Dana: “Where’s your girl? She usually drags you out of here by now.”

Michael’s voice floats out, tired and warm. “She’s grabbing her stuff. I’m waiting for her.”

Jack: “Because you’re whipped.”

Michael: “…Yes,proudly”

Dana: “Uh-huh. Anyway, did you hear about—”

You approach the corner just in time to hear Michael’s long exhale, the one he does when he’s annoyed at himself.

Then:

“I look terrible today.”

Dana snorts. “No you don’t. You look like the same exhausted giant we’ve all accepted as our father figure.”

Michael grumbles. “My scrubs are tighter.”

Jack lifts a brow. “Dude, you’ve been lifting again.”

“No, it’s not muscle,” Michael insists. “It’s—” He pats his stomach. “This. The pudge. I’m becoming a fat bastard.”

You stop dead.

Dana: “Michael. OH MY GOD.”

Jack: “That’s not—what? You’re not even—what are you talking about?”

Michael: “This uniform is not forgiving. I used to have abs.”

Dana: “WHEN? In the Bush administration?”

Michael ignores her. “I swear, when I bend over, I feel it. It’s like I’m melting.”

Jack is wheezing. “You are not melting.”

Michael sighs again, this time soft, self-deprecating, almost embarrassed.

“I’m fifty years old. My metabolism has filed a restraining order. Everything I eat goes right here.” Pat. Pat. Paaat.

Dana: “Shut the hell up.”

Jack: “You’re not fat. You’re sturdy.”

Dana: “Built like a Slavic god.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Michael rubs a hand over his face. “I’m just saying… she’s young. And pretty. And fit. And I’m over here shaped like a dad who got lost on his way to Little League practice.”

Dana scowls. “She clearly doesn’t care.”

Michael laughs weakly. “She should.”

And something in your chest pulls tight, sharp enough to steal your breath.

Because you’ve listened to him make jokes. You’ve listened to him brush off compliments. You’ve listened to him downplay himself again and again.

But this? This is different.

This is him thinking he’s unworthy of you.

You step into the doorway just as Jack opens his mouth to defend you both.

“Oh,” you say lightly, “so this is what we’re talking about tonight?”

Michael jumps like he touched a live wire.

His eyes snap up wide, guilty, pink spreading across his cheekbones like he’s been caught committing a felony.

“Sweetheart—” he starts.

You lift a hand. “No, no. Please. Continue telling them how you’re apparently a ‘fat bastard.’”

Dana buries her face in her hands.

Jack mouths run at Michael.

Michael, poor sweet man, tries to recover with the grace of a newborn giraffe.

“I — I didn’t mean— I wasn’t— It was a joke—”

“Uh-huh,” you say, stepping closer, very calm. Too calm. “Funny.”

His throat bobs.

Dana whispers to Jack, “He’s so dead.”

You stop right in front of Michael close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to see the tired uncertainty in his eyes and you speak in a tone meant for him alone:

“We’re walking home,” you say. “Right now.”

Michael freezes. “Is… that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“We’ll find out,” you reply, grabbing his hand and guiding him toward the exit.

Dana winces. Jack salutes. Michael is sweating.

He has no idea this is the moment everything shifts.

♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡♡ — ✦ — ♡ — ✦ — ♡ Reader’s POV

You don’t even let the door finish closing.

Michael opens his mouth, “Sweetheart—”

You spin, finger in his face. “Don’t.”

He shuts up so fast his teeth click.

You prowl forward until his back hits the wall. He’s still in his scrubs and cargos, beard trimmed just enough to make you want to sit on it.

“An old fat bastard,” you repeat, voice dripping acid. “That’s what you called the man I’m obsessed with. With your whole fucking chest.”

He swallows hard. “It was a joke—”

“Insult my boyfriend again,” you cut in, “and see how funny I think it is.”

His breath hitches. You can see his pulse hammering in his throat.

“Four times today,” you cut in. “ FOUR. That’s how many edges you’ve earned.”

His breath stutters.

You press closer, close enough that he can feel every furious inch of you.

“You think I don’t notice you?” Your voice drops to a whisper that somehow feels louder than a scream. “Think I don’t see the way your scrubs stretch across your shoulders? The way your forearms flex when you’re starting an IV? That salt-and-pepper beard that makes me want to sit on your face in the call room?”

Michael makes a broken sound.

“You think your stomach pudge bothers me?” You laugh, dark and disbelieving, and slide your hands under his shirt, palms dragging up warm skin and soft give. “Michael, I want to bite it. I want to ride you and feel it against my clit while you try not to come too fast.”

You grab his wrist and drag him to the bedroom.

There’s a low, wide ottoman at the foot of the bed that faces the full-length mirror perfectly. You shove him down onto it. He sits, knees gratefully apart, and watches you with huge, glassy eyes.

“Strip the top half only,” you order. “Jeans stay on until I say. Your knees will thank me later.”

He yanks the jacket and undershirt off so fast he takes his glasses with them. The second his chest is bare you’re on him, straddling his lap, palms sliding over warm skin and soft belly and silvering chest hair.

“Look,” you whisper, forcing his chin toward the mirror. “Look at what I’m obsessed with.”

Michael’s reflection is wrecked already: flushed throat, swollen lips, pupils blown. You peel your own shirt off, bra following, and press his big hands to your waist.

“Feel how wet I am just from yelling at you?” You grind once against the bulge in his jeans and he groans. “That’s what your body does to me, Michael. This stomach you hate?” You slide down to your knees between his spread thighs, mouth dragging over the soft give of his belly. “I want to fucking live here.”

You kiss it, open-mouthed and filthy, tongue tracing every inch of the pudge he’s insecure about. You bite, gentle then harder, leaving little red crescents. You rub your cheek against the trail of hair that disappears under his waistband like a cat in heat.

“Jesus fuck,” he rasps.

You stand, shove your leggings and panties down in one motion, and climb back into his lap, this time facing the mirror, your back to his chest.

“Watch,” you command, and sink down until your bare pussy is pressed flush to the soft, warm swell of his belly.

You roll your hips slowly, dragging your slick folds over his skin, clit catching on the trail of hair. The noise he makes is inhuman.

“Look how pretty you are under me,” you breathe, eyes locked on the mirror. “Look how good you feel.”

You ride his stomach like that until you’re dripping down his sides, until he’s clawing at your hips, begging in broken fragments.

Then you slide lower, pop the button on his jeans, and take him out. He’s thick, flushed, leaking so much the head is glossy.

“Four edges,” you remind him, voice sugar-rough. “One for every lie.”

You stroke him once, slow, thumb swiping the tip. His head falls back.

“Eyes on the mirror, Michael.”

He forces them open.

First edge: slow, worshipful strokes while you mouth at his belly again, telling him between kisses how perfect he is, how you dream about the way he fills out his scrubs, how you get wet every time he leans over a patient chart and his stomach presses against the counter.

He’s shaking by the time you stop.

Second edge: faster, meaner, spitting in your palm and twisting on every upstroke while you bite his nipple and growl, “This body you called fat? I want to fucking suffocate in it.”

Third edge: you sink to your knees, take him down your throat until your nose is buried in that soft belly you love, humming so the vibration makes him sob, then pull off right as his balls draw up.

Fourth edge: you climb back into his lap, line him up, and sink down just the head, clenching, rocking, never letting him have more while you ride the ridge of his crown and whisper, “Say it. Say you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever seen,” he chokes out, tears streaking into his beard.

“Good boy.”

You slam down to the hilt.

He screams.

You ride him hard and filthy, hands braced on his shoulders, forcing his head toward the mirror so he watches himself disappear into you again and again, watches your slick coat his belly and thighs, watches his own face contort with pleasure.

You come twice just from the sight, grinding your clit against him on every down-stroke, marking his stomach with your release.

When he’s babbling apologies and praise and your name in no particular order, you finally let him.

“Come in me, Michael. Fill me up with that gorgeous cock and watch how beautiful you look doing it.”

He does, with a broken sob, hips jerking, arms locked around your waist like he’ll die if he lets go.

You’re not done.

You push him flat on the ottoman, climb up, and sit on his face, knees carefully outside his bad ones, and ride his tongue until you come again, flooding his beard.

After, you collapse beside him, dragging him half on top of you because you know his knees are screaming.

You wipe his eyes, clean his face with a warm cloth, kiss every tear track, massage his belly slow and reverent.

“Hey,” you whisper, cupping his scruffy cheek. “You with me?”

He nods, blissed-out and boneless.

“I meant every word,” you say softly. “You are devastatingly handsome. Every single inch. And if you ever call yourself anything less again, I’m edging you for a week. Clear?”

He laughs, watery and wrecked. “Crystal.”

You grin, nuzzle his neck. “Also… I’m ovulating. So maybe I was ninety percent horny rage and ten percent regular rage.”

Michael snorts so hard he wheezes. “That explains… everything.”

You laugh with him, pull the blanket up over both of you, and curl into his side, fingers tracing idle patterns over the stomach he just watched you worship.

“I love you,” he whispers into your hair. “Exactly as I am?”

“Exactly as you are,” you answer, kissing the closest bite mark. “And don’t you ever fucking forget it.”